BETWEEN THE MANGO TREE AND THE OLD CINEMA: MAPPING TRANSIT IN MANAGUA
TEAM MEMBERS AND ORGANIZATIONS THAT WORKED ON MAPPING MANAGUA:
RODRIGO RODRÍGUEZ and FELIX DELATTRE, co-founders of the MapaNica project, and members of Nicaragua’s OpenStreetMap and free software communities.
The printed transit map was created in collaboration with a local design studio in Managua and distributed to thousands of residents across the city.
RODRIGO RODRÍGUEZ and FELIX DELATTRE, co-founders of the MapaNica project, and members of Nicaragua’s OpenStreetMap and free software communities.
The printed transit map was created in collaboration with a local design studio in Managua and distributed to thousands of residents across the city.
In Managua, a group of volunteers made public what had long been opaque: the power of data. In cities across the world, public transit maps are a given. You find them in subway stations, on phone apps, printed on signs. They show how people move , how to get from one place to another, how neighborhoods connect. But in Managua, Nicaragua, a transit map didn’t exist—not in print, not online, not even in government offices.
“It wasn’t that the data was lost,” said Rodrigo Rodríguez, co-founder of the grassroots mapping project MapaNica. “It had never been collected. Or if it had, it wasn’t being shared. And that’s a political choice.”
In 2013, Rodrigo and fellow technologist Felix Delattre began gathering GPS data on every bus route in the city. They rode the buses themselves, trained volunteers to do the same, and slowly built what had never existed before: a complete, open-source map of Managua’s sprawling, chaotic transit system.
A CITY MAPPED BY ITS PEOPLE
Managua is a city shaped by rupture. Two massive earthquakes—one in 1931, the other in 1972—flattened the city center and left deep scars on its urban fabric. Rather than rebuild in place, the city sprawled outward, growing in fragments. Streets often have no names. Landmarks, not addresses, anchor people’s sense of orientation: two blocks from the old cinema, then left at the mango tree. Even today, it’s not uncommon to ask for directions based on where something used to be.
Public transport evolved to match this improvisation. Instead of a centralized system, Managua’s buses operate through a patchwork of cooperatives—many still using repurposed American school buses, or Chinese and Russian models, all ill-suited for the city’s sweltering heat. The rides are loud, sweaty, and alive: fans rattle overhead, vendors squeeze down the aisles selling candy or phone chargers, and music spills from dashboard speakers. Buses grind to a halt at formal stops––and wherever a passenger whistles or waves a hand.
And in all this movement, there was no map.
Rodrigo and Felix, both members of Nicaragua’s free software scene, saw an opportunity. If government agencies didn’t have the information—or didn’t want to share it—could a grassroots effort build a map from scratch? Over the next three years, more than 200 volunteers proved that it could.
Students, bus drivers, teachers, designers, technologists—they came to mapatones (mapping parties), logged GPS tracks, tagged informal stops, and learned to use OpenStreetMap. Some had never coded or mapped before. Others knew the tools and standards used around the world. Together, they didn’t just make a map, they built a shared understanding of how the city moves—and who gets to know it.
“It wasn’t that the data was lost,” said Rodrigo Rodríguez, co-founder of the grassroots mapping project MapaNica. “It had never been collected. Or if it had, it wasn’t being shared. And that’s a political choice.”
In 2013, Rodrigo and fellow technologist Felix Delattre began gathering GPS data on every bus route in the city. They rode the buses themselves, trained volunteers to do the same, and slowly built what had never existed before: a complete, open-source map of Managua’s sprawling, chaotic transit system.
A CITY MAPPED BY ITS PEOPLE
Managua is a city shaped by rupture. Two massive earthquakes—one in 1931, the other in 1972—flattened the city center and left deep scars on its urban fabric. Rather than rebuild in place, the city sprawled outward, growing in fragments. Streets often have no names. Landmarks, not addresses, anchor people’s sense of orientation: two blocks from the old cinema, then left at the mango tree. Even today, it’s not uncommon to ask for directions based on where something used to be.
Public transport evolved to match this improvisation. Instead of a centralized system, Managua’s buses operate through a patchwork of cooperatives—many still using repurposed American school buses, or Chinese and Russian models, all ill-suited for the city’s sweltering heat. The rides are loud, sweaty, and alive: fans rattle overhead, vendors squeeze down the aisles selling candy or phone chargers, and music spills from dashboard speakers. Buses grind to a halt at formal stops––and wherever a passenger whistles or waves a hand.
And in all this movement, there was no map.
Rodrigo and Felix, both members of Nicaragua’s free software scene, saw an opportunity. If government agencies didn’t have the information—or didn’t want to share it—could a grassroots effort build a map from scratch? Over the next three years, more than 200 volunteers proved that it could.
Students, bus drivers, teachers, designers, technologists—they came to mapatones (mapping parties), logged GPS tracks, tagged informal stops, and learned to use OpenStreetMap. Some had never coded or mapped before. Others knew the tools and standards used around the world. Together, they didn’t just make a map, they built a shared understanding of how the city moves—and who gets to know it.
OPEN TOOLS, LASTING IMPACT
From the beginning, MapaNica’s approach was radically open. Every route was uploaded to OpenStreetMap. Every tool they built was shared. And the resulting data was translated into GTFS—the format used by apps like Google Maps and Moovit, a global transit app that helps users plan journeys using real-time bus, train, and metro data in more than 3,000 cities.
This openness made the project uniquely durable. Even as civic space narrowed in Nicaragua, the data remained accessible—free to download, remix, or build upon. That legacy helped inspire mapping efforts in cities across the Global South, including projects in Accra, Dar es Salaam, and La Paz. It also helped shape GTFS-Flex, a new standard built for the messy brilliance of informal systems like Managua’s.
The printed map was similarly a milestone. Created with a local design studio, it reflected the way people actually navigate the city: through reference points, color, and intuitive shapes, not gridlines and precise angles. It was functional, but also familiar: It looked like Managua.
People loved the map. When the team handed out printed copies around the city, the reactions were instant—people would stop, open it up, and just stare.
“We’d hand someone the map,” Rodrigo said, “and they’d say, ‘I’ve lived here my whole life and never knew that bus passed by my house.’”
Others pointed to new routes, surprised to find easier ways to get to work or visit family. Even bus drivers were amazed—one admitted that on his first day, he had to ask passengers for directions. Now, with the map in hand, everything just made more sense.
“That first impression was something unforgettable,” Rodrigo said. “People looked at it and finally saw their city laid out in a way that made sense.”
MORE THAN A MAP
MapaNica didn’t just show how people moved––it helped them move better.
With the full network in view, people discovered shorter routes, safer alternatives, and new possibilities. Commuters planned trips to places that once felt out of reach. Friends visited neighborhoods they’d never explored. Entire areas of the city—once invisible on official maps—suddenly appeared.
For many, it was the first moment the city felt legible. And maybe, just maybe, like something they could change.
The project eventually slowed. Its lessons, however, remain: that data, when shared, can create public good; that volunteers can build the tools their cities lack; and that sometimes, a map isn’t just a map.
It’s a way to see the city—and belong to it.
From the beginning, MapaNica’s approach was radically open. Every route was uploaded to OpenStreetMap. Every tool they built was shared. And the resulting data was translated into GTFS—the format used by apps like Google Maps and Moovit, a global transit app that helps users plan journeys using real-time bus, train, and metro data in more than 3,000 cities.
This openness made the project uniquely durable. Even as civic space narrowed in Nicaragua, the data remained accessible—free to download, remix, or build upon. That legacy helped inspire mapping efforts in cities across the Global South, including projects in Accra, Dar es Salaam, and La Paz. It also helped shape GTFS-Flex, a new standard built for the messy brilliance of informal systems like Managua’s.
The printed map was similarly a milestone. Created with a local design studio, it reflected the way people actually navigate the city: through reference points, color, and intuitive shapes, not gridlines and precise angles. It was functional, but also familiar: It looked like Managua.
People loved the map. When the team handed out printed copies around the city, the reactions were instant—people would stop, open it up, and just stare.
“We’d hand someone the map,” Rodrigo said, “and they’d say, ‘I’ve lived here my whole life and never knew that bus passed by my house.’”
Others pointed to new routes, surprised to find easier ways to get to work or visit family. Even bus drivers were amazed—one admitted that on his first day, he had to ask passengers for directions. Now, with the map in hand, everything just made more sense.
“That first impression was something unforgettable,” Rodrigo said. “People looked at it and finally saw their city laid out in a way that made sense.”
MORE THAN A MAP
MapaNica didn’t just show how people moved––it helped them move better.
With the full network in view, people discovered shorter routes, safer alternatives, and new possibilities. Commuters planned trips to places that once felt out of reach. Friends visited neighborhoods they’d never explored. Entire areas of the city—once invisible on official maps—suddenly appeared.
For many, it was the first moment the city felt legible. And maybe, just maybe, like something they could change.
The project eventually slowed. Its lessons, however, remain: that data, when shared, can create public good; that volunteers can build the tools their cities lack; and that sometimes, a map isn’t just a map.
It’s a way to see the city—and belong to it.