I recently decided to spend a month on an island in Nicaragua. The highlight of my experience turned out to be a two-hour ride to my destination on a crowded so-called chicken bus.

Before traveling to Nicaragua, I had had certain anxieties. Would I be safe? Would I find my way? What if I fell ill or had an accident? 

When I got off the boat from the mainland, the bus was already there, draped with green exterior lights, and a broad decal at the top of the windshield read, “Pon a Dios en Primer Lugar” (Put God First). 

I boarded the empty bus. Then, close to departure time, came the flood of bodies, laden with bags and boxes. Soon, it was standing room only.

These people were poor. I could see it in their aspect. One of them was pregnant, moaning with discomfort. Two people vacated seats so she could sit and rest. Others began to comfort her. And then, the most moving gesture: An older woman pushed forward and began to arrange the distressed woman’s hair with motherly care.

This was my introduction to Nicaragua. Among these people, I learned that I had nothing to fear. Let the dreaming begin.

I recently decided to spend a month on an island in Nicaragua, far from anything resembling a city. The highlight of my experience turned out to be nothing that most tourists would be interested in: a two-hour ride to my destination on a crowded so-called chicken bus, which is how the locals, and intrepid foreign backpackers, get around.

Before traveling to Nicaragua, I had had certain anxieties, even though, or maybe because, I had visited developing countries before. Would I be safe? Would I find my way? What if I fell ill or had an accident? How would I thrive in a place where I didn’t know a soul?

When I got off the boat from the mainland, the bus was already there, idling in place. I looked askance at the old thing, which was battered but serviceable. Still, there was something appealing about its adornments: It was partylike, draped with green exterior lights, and a broad decal at the top of the windshield read, in stylized letters, “Pon a Dios en Primer Lugar” (Put God First). 

I boarded the empty bus and for a while thought that I might be the only passenger. But then, close to departure time, came the flood of bodies, all seemingly locals, laden with bags and boxes. In short order, I was wedged against a window, and it was standing room only.

These people were poor. I could see it in their aspect; I could hear it in their gently expressed laments. And yet there were glosses to emphasize their need to put their best foot forward: the pink bow in the hair of the little girl with dirty feet, the pomade in the slicked-back hair of the little boy in well-worn trousers, the lovely bracelet on the wrist of an old woman in a faded dress and torn shoes. These Nicaraguans describe themselves as moreno (brown); they also tend to be of shorter stature, so I must have stuck out with my pale Maine snow-country complexion and 6-foot-3 frame. But no one remarked. No one glanced at me. Slowly but surely, I began to feel at ease.

About 40 minutes into the trip, the bus stopped to take on yet more passengers, even though this seemed an impossibility. One of them was a young pregnant woman, in clear distress, moaning with discomfort. Immediately, two people vacated a front seat so she could sit and rest. Others, strangers all, began to comfort her with affirming touch and words of encouragement. And then, the most moving gesture: An older woman pushed forward and began to arrange the distressed woman’s hair. I couldn’t take my eyes from this scene, whose theme might have been, “We are all in this together.” As for this older woman, her gesture seemed to be saying, “I know you are not well, but you are a woman and you deserve to look beautiful, so I will fix your hair.”