Jinotega

I step onto the green school bus, and breath a sigh of relief at the sight of the many empty seats. I have just gotten off of the expreso from Managua, where the five seats across the bus had no relation to the actual number of people set to occupy them. One’s space is only as sacred as one can make it by broadening shoulders or glaring evilly, neither of which I am good at it. Soon, aisles begin to overflow with people and backpacks. There is certainly no 18 inch personal bubble in Nicaragua, and no 6 inch bubble on a Nicaraguan bus.
The current bus lurches into reverse, and then gasps into first gear, the worker hinging out the door, calling "Jinotega! Jinotega! Jinotega!" at the top of his lungs. A few more climb on board the moving vehicle, and we careen out of the station, onto cobbled streets that appear too small for such a large bus.
As we begin to climb the mountainous, twisty highway that joins Nicaragua’s two coffee capitals of Matagalpa and Jinotega, I am awed by the stark beauty of mountain beyond mountain, changing in color from golden green in the afternoon sun to blackberry jam purple and deep pacific blue closer to the horizon. The rugged forms of this naturaleza shape everything here, the country, the landscape, the economy, the people.
As the hour are a half long journey continues, the sun drops behind the mountain ridge, leaving us first in twilight followed by a blue mistiness, even though it is not yet 6 pm. The mist seems to pervade all the air, filling up the bus, steaming the windows, and invading my bones, chilling me for the first time since I arrived in Nicaragua. I pull the sleeves of my one long sleeved shirt down around my fingers and pull my knees up to my chest. I look out the window and sigh, preparing myself for another arrival, another city, and more exploration.