The bus from Nicaragua to Honduras didn’t actually leave from Granada. It left from Managua, the capital of Nicaragua, headed for Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras. We had heard bad things about Managua (”it’s dangerous,” “there’s absolutely nothing to see,” “if you can in any way avoid it, you should”) and although we had heard these types of warnings about other capital cities, these seemed particularly universal and foreboding.

Unfortunately, the bus left Managua at 5am — too early for us to catch a bus from Granada to Managua the same day. Our options were to go to Managua and spend the night, or to take a $30 taxi from Granada to Managua that morning. We opted for the taxi.

We had to get up at 2:40am to get ready and meet our 3:00am taxi. We packed our bags, woke the night manager, and he let us outside onto the deserted street. There was no taxi waiting for us.

Lauren and I tried to stay calm. We quickly started calculating how late the cab could be before we wouldn’t make our bus. We debated out loud if the taxi was too late if we should stay here and fight the person we bought the taxi ride from or if we should try to make the bus and know that we were unlikely to get a refund if we missed it.

By 3:20, when the taxi finally drove up, we were pretty worked up. The driver slowly sauntered out and opened the trunk.

“Can we make it, because you’re a little late” Lauren said in Spanish, sounding only slightly annoyed.

No, no, the cabbie explained. Everything was fine. We crawled in the back and hoped that the ride wouldn’t take as long as we were told.

Fortunately, we pulled up to the bus station at the time we were supposed to arrive, an hour later. As we started to get out of the taxi, we were bombarded by people trying to pull our luggage out of the trunk. We had read that robberies were frequent outside this bus station and between that thought and being sleepy, I was about to start fighting. The taxi driver pushed the men away (who turned out to be porters looking for a tip) and Lauren and I carried our bags inside.

The 8-hour bus trip, for the most part, was uneventful. The border crossing cost more than we thought it would, but we didn’t have to wait in line while the officials processed our passports since the bus driver took all the passport in himself.

In the meantime, a man from the Nicaragua Tourist Board came up to us and asked us to participate in a survey. He asked us questions about how much we spent on food and housing and where we had gone. One of his questions was about what outdoor activities we had done since entering Nicaragua (hiking, swimming, kayaking, etc) and it took us a long time to convince him we had done absolutely nothing. Nada. Nada nada. (The full interaction coming soon to the Quotes page.)

We arrived in Tegucigalpa ahead of schedule. The roads were so dusty and small, at first Lauren and I thought we were not in the capital yet. But the people on board assured us that we were, in fact, where we intended to be.

We grabbed our packs and waved down a taxi. Lauren asked if he knew the hotel we wanted to stay at. He said he didn’t, but he assured us that he knew the cross streets. The fare was a little bit expensive, but we agreed to it, ready to be in a hotel.

The taxi driver drove 3 blocks and stopped. He wanted to see the map again.

Lauren was livid and said in her now-practiced past-tense Spanish, “you SAID you KNEW where it was!”

After much discussion, Lauren told him to get us to the general neighborhood. Once there, I called out street names while Lauren tried to find them on the map. The driver claimed that one of the streets that the hotel was near didn’t exist; at another time, he told us were were on a street that I knew was not right. After many wrong turns, we finally were very close to the hotel. But then he drove right past the street we wanted him to turn on. If we were in a metered taxi, I would have been suspicious and annoyed. But we had agreed on a flat rate. And I was afraid this guy was crazy. This whole time, despite the confusion, he was completely jovial.

Lauren and I finally spotted another hostel we read about in the Lonely Planet and told him to just drop us of there. He did so reluctantly, wanting to take us to the place he told us he would. But we insisted.

And that’s how we ended up at Red Hot Chili Peppers Hostel. It was one of the top recommended hostels in Lonely Planet, but our room was not much more than painted cement blocks with two beds and a bald light bulb. The mosquito screens were torn and basically useless, and the fan only had one speed that still worked — which sounded like an airplane engine.

But it was cheap and we were exhausted, so we checked in. Then went out to find an ATM and lunch. Lunch was only so-so and we struggled to find internet access. Every store kept its front door locked, making it hard to tell what was open. The people who ran the stores had to unlock a deadbolt to let you in or out, including our own hostel. At one point I told Lauren that we should just check out now and try to catch the next bus to Tela, the beach we were trying to get to. But it was getting late, so we decided to stay for the night.

By the time we went out to dinner that night, it was already dark. We were nervous about walking around outside, but one of the people in the hostel told us that it would be fine. The streets were occasionally dark where the streetlights were out, though, so Lauren and I practiced our NYC-walking speed.

The restaurant we were looking for didn’t exist, but we found a cute cafe next door and ordered pasta. The pasta was good, but it oddly came with salad on it. Actually on top of the pasta. And since Lauren and I avoid lettuce like the plague (it’s one of the most likely ways to accidentally “drink the water”), we nervously picked around it.

A local guy chatted us up as we were trying to leave, hoping to get us to buy his CD. As we started out the door, he warned us that we should take a taxi — it was too dangerous to walk.

After the waitress unlocked the door for us and let us out of the restaurant, we realized there were no taxis in sight. And the few that passed were full. We were only 4 blocks from our hotel, so we decided to make a run (or fast walk) for it.

The whole time, we kept looking around for any suspicious men or anyone following us. I held my breath if a car drove by too slowly. We practically jogged up the one darkish alley we had to take to get back up to our street. And finally we were at our hotel.

Except we were locked out. When we got there, a guy who was staying at the hostel was talking to two young girls who were trying various keys. It turned out that the owner of the hostel had left, leaving her daughters (?) as the only ones taking care of the place. They were maybe 13 and 8 years old. And the key to the front door was missing.

They tried a keyring with 5 or 6 keys before running in back to find another set to try. Nothing worked. The little one came out now and then with one or two keys pulled from the bottom of a drawer, but those seemed even less likely to work. We convinced them to call the owner, who told them to look in other drawers, but those keys didn’t work either.

Lauren and I alternated between annoyed and worried. We were stuck outside the hostel on a deserted street. On one hand, we were in a lit doorway and it looked like someone would let us in any second. On the other hand, we were trapped on the street and it didn’t seem likely we were getting in anytime soon.

At one point, two prostitutes emerged from a bar across the street and sauntered by, tugging at the bottom of their very short skirts to keep them from exposing themselves. We debated the gender of one of them.

The other travelers inside seemed to be mildly concerned with the situation, but not extremely so. I was grateful not to be inside, knowing I would start freaking out about the possibility of not being able to get out in the event of a fire. I tried to convince Lauren to give the camera to the gringos inside, so that if we were robbed, they wouldn’t get the camera.

Finally, the kids called again and the woman said she’d come home. It would take 20 minutes, we were told. The guy waiting with us gave up and headed to a bar. Lauren and I tried to stay calm.

The owner showed up, quickly jumping out of a taxi and tossing the keys to the girls before getting back into the taxi and leaving (never apologizing). We were finally let into the hotel after 40 minutes of waiting outside. The one bathroom that was supposed to be shared by the entire hostel was being used, so Lauren and I brushed our teeth in a non-functional sink outside and went to bed.

The next morning, I woke up nauseous. I had been having stomach issues ever since Ecuador, and while some days were better than others, it still wasn’t gone. Lauren went out to buy some snacks for our bus ride as I sat around our room trying to feel better.

I ended up throwing up. We had saved a puke bag from our last airplane flight (Lauren always thinking ahead) and I was able to use it. When Lauren came in and I told her what had happened, she looked disappointed.

“So I guess we’re staying here another night,” she said.

“No!” I objected. “I can make it.” More than anything, I wanted to leave this dreadful city.

We ended up waiting outside the bathroom for 20 minutes before I could go in and clean myself up. I took two Imodiums and one Dramamine and we left for the bus station.