Life in Nica

A friend was sharing a story about getting into the wrong taxi at the airport.  He was in Managua, and chose the taxi that was a fancy car, with a driver who was dressed in nice clothes and wore a good watch.  My friend said he chose this driver because he felt he had less of a chance of getting robbed.  At the time, he was traveling with some friends from North America.  He said the taxi drive was long, going over a dark road through the middle of Nicaragua on a dark night, with nobody around.  Somewhere in the middle of this road, the taxi driver pulled the car over, pulled his gun out, and took everything from the boys in the backseat.  My friend and his companions were left standing in a dark road in the Nicaraguan night,  minus all their belongings.

“How awful,” I gasped at this point in the story.  “So, how did you get back with no money and no passports?”

“Oh,” said my friend, “they always leave you with your passports and some bus money.”

… very thoughtful!


Here is the sign for a funeral home that I walk by regularly:

One thought on “Life in Nica

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