Beaten and Broken — Part 1. How I was forced to witness torture
By: Mark Farnsworth
Tags: Nicaragua, Police Brutality, Beyourself, Travel, Torture

Five small children appeared and chucked buckets of water in front of our vehicle.

“Why the hell are they doing that?” I asked my girlfriend, Jen. She didn’t answer, just stared out the window at nothingness. And it really was nothingness. There wasn’t a house or a paved road anywhere for miles, only the unmarked, barely visible dirt road we were on and the color beige everywhere else. I looked at the five Nicaraguan men sitting with us in the “collectivo” van. Seeing as my Spanish was virtually non-existent, I assumed I wouldn’t get an answer to my query anytime soon.

Semi-trailers roared by. Eventually, I noticed that a truck driver would stop to give the kids some coins. I realized that it was a vain effort to dominate the dust brewed up from the vehicles’ tires. Sometimes our own driver would slow down and give the children a few cordobas — the Nicaraguan currency. More often he gave them nothing.

I wondered how far those kids had to walk to get their water.. I sympathized with them but also caught myself thinking that their efforts were in vain and therefore probably undeserving of any real reward. My own thoughts surprised and frightened me. My unlucky and unfortunate experiences in Central America were making me bitter.

I tried to stop being a judgy First-Worlder and enjoy the scenery. Nicaragua’s beauty was undeniable. I stared off at the great deserted plain that led to three volcanoes at the horizon. I snapped a few quick pictures of the volcanoes and quickly pocketed my camera.

The van bounced violently as it hit potholes in the dirt road. Our feet were on top of our bags — I had insisted on bringing them in with us instead of storing them in the back, as a security measure — which forced us to sit slightly higher than everyone else in the van. Our heads struck the ceiling at every pothole. “This is first-class stuff,” I whispered to Jen. With her eyes half-closed, she nodded.

After about ten minutes, the dirt road ended and the collectivo turned into what was quite obviously a city. The metamorphosis from desolate plain to urban city was immediate and astonishing. We drove through shanty-towns and embassy districts until we arrived at our destination: the taxi depot. Little did I know, I would learn to recognize the embassy district all too well.

I paid the driver of the van 50 cordobas — about $1.40 American — and shook my head vigorously at the man offering to take our bags out for us. I took our bags out myself. The taxi depot was not impressive — a flat piece of asphalt with about fifty cars and vans and just as many drivers shouting out their destinations. We were immediately hounded by a swarm of taxi drivers asking us in accented English where we needed to go.

“We’re still figuring it out,” I said. “Please leave us alone.” They reluctantly backed off and solicited other potential passengers.

“So this is Managua so far,” I said. “I’m sure it will be better than Tegucigalpa, at least.” I wasn’t worried. I had high hopes for Nicaragua. I was in denial about going through a sort of “grass is greener on the other side” syndrome.

Jen and I took out our Lonely Planet map of Managua. Our hostel looked to be about five miles away.

“Want to just walk some of it?” I asked Jen. “I sort of want to stretch my legs and see what Managua has to offer before we put our bags away and relax.”

“Sure,” she said.

We were both sick of being stuck in so many chicken buses and vans, and walking for a little while would be a breath of fresh air. I only knew that the hostel was north, in the direction of the lake, but I didn’t know how to say the word north in Spanish. I stopped people on the street and asked, “Donde está el Lago de Managua?”[Where is Managua Lake?] I received several puzzled looks, and some people looked concerned and asked us why on earth we would want to go there. “The hostel,” I would say, shrugging. We had a rough idea of how to get to our hostel, so we headed north.

After a few minutes, I noticed that the neighborhood seemed to be getting grittier. Razor-wire enveloped school buildings, the side streets were glorified alleys, and many of the houses were made of cardboard and sheet metal. I was used to seeing this type of neighborhood in Central America and I was fairly desensitized to it, so I was still not particularly worried.

I took a look at Jen. She looked tired. “Want me to hold your handbag?” I asked her. “Aww,” she said, swooning. “What a gentleman!” I took her handbag and grinned from ear to ear. I thought it was going to be a pretty good day, despite the heat.

There was some traffic on the street but barely any pedestrians outside. The only other people were ahead of us, two men walking in the same direction we were walking in. One of them was tall, a giant by Central American standards; the other man was short and squat. The tall man wore a white shirt with black shoes and the short man wore a black shirt showcasing Taz from Looney Tunes and wore white shoes — I laughed out loud at how ridiculous they looked next to each other. The tall one looked at us and did a double-take, but I thought nothing of it. They turned left at the next corner and disappeared.

Jen turned to me. “Want to take a taxi?”

“No, it’s okay,” I replied. “Not right now. Maybe in five or ten minutes. I’m not in any hurry.” I smiled, looking at the horizon towards the lake.