Turtle Party

After dark it is pretty quiet here, so around nine o'clock yesterday evening I joined a lesbian couple from California for a night trip by Jeep to a nature reserve where sea turtles come to nest. Doing anything is fun with Patricia and Marianne, the life of whatever party they can find or get started.

The full of the moon had just passed and there was still some activity in the nursery. At the height of the season, as many as twenty thousand turtles will come ashore each night. Using only red coloured pin lights to avoid disturbing the animals, we saw two metre-long females climb out of the sea to the dry sand above the tide line and use their fins to dig nests into which they would deposit about a hundred eggs. Adult turtles returning to this beach are wary of predators as they leave the water and cannot be approached but, once they are committed to laying their eggs, they will not stop and it is possible to get within inches.

Our guide discovered several nests and we watched the hatchlings, each about five centimetres in length, break out through the sand and crawl slowly to the sea, twenty to thirty coming from each nesting site. We had to step cautiously to avoid the hundreds of tiny, struggling creatures. There are always a few nests that miss their timing and emerge in daylight. To save these hatchlings from circling seabirds volunteers walk the beach, collecting them to be kept in water until dark. About a hundred of them were carried down to the waterline in a basket and we released them into the relative safety of the ocean.

Some species can live up to two-hundred and fifty years, but perhaps only one individual in a thousand will make it to adulthood. In spite of the many reserves like the one here and conservation programmes, all but a few varieties of sea turtle remain endangered by extinction.

Alternate Modes

Various minor obstacles are still preventing me from closing the deal on the purchase of a motorcycle. Lacking a vehicle of my own, I have needed to explore alternate modes of transport. Last week, during an evening at the local expat hangout, Big Wave Dave's, I shared a conversation with one of the town's many hotshot real estate agents. A few day later Mark called to offer me a tour of several beach front properties to the south of town in his Toyota 4x4 truck, assuming me to be a potential buyer. Admittedly, I did not disabuse him of this notion when I accepted his generous offer. A graduate in Latin American studies from Atlanta with fluent Spanish, Mark is twenty-six years old and has lived here for eighteen months, enjoying life's sweet spot of being in the right place at the right time. If he is not a millionaire by his thirtieth birthday, we will both be very surprised.

At a little waterfront bar I let Mark buy me drink and give a short tutorial on property development in the area. Should you be interested, houses facing onto the beach are already over $400,000 and climbing, although serviced fifteen hundred square metre lots on a hillside overlooking a spectacular stretch of sand can be had for as little as $55,000 and for about $100,000 more the developer will build you a nice, two bedroom white stucco hacienda with red tiled roof. At the moment, a rutted dirt road runs along the coast past these developments, reaching ten kilometres down from San Juan del Sur to the Costa Rican border. If it is paved within the next few years, as people here expect, prices are likely to jump.

The smart money is already moving on, I am told, buying cheap in the undeveloped coastal areas towards the northern border where serious building is still five to ten years away. Another interesting new wrinkle is the commercial development that is starting to appear in the town centre of San Juan del Sur. Some parties obviously believe that all the money and people flowing in will soon make new shops, services and restaurants a viable proposition.

Two things have caused the market to stall somewhat in the past year. The first is the Sandanistas' return to office. Americans feel a residual paranoia regarding Daniel Ortega left over from the Reagan era and still harbour suspicions that this country could become 'Cuba lite'. The reality is that many senior party officials are among the wealthiest businessmen in the country, with vested economic interests. It is hard to imagine them trying to revive the kind of hard line socialism that collapsed in the rest of the world almost two decades ago. The other issue is the real estate meltdown in the US that has property owners scrambling to unload assets here so they can pay down debts at home. Unencumbered by either ideological baggage or a depressed housing market, Canadians appear unconcerned and are still actively shopping.

The next day, I joined a half dozen others to rent horses and ride five kilometres south of town to a beach inaccessible by vehicle. I was the one who naively raised his hand when the vaquero asked if anyone knew how to ride and drew a feisty little chestnut mare, Tintero, full of energy and eager to run.

A tight hold on the reign held the horse back to a steady canter along the rutted dirt track, but I still made the beach a good twenty minutes ahead of the others. Once there, I eased my grip and we galloped along the firm sand near the waterline. Turning as we approached the rocky outcropping at the end of the beach, I urged Tintero on for another run, but as she got up to speed I suddenly found myself tumbling through the air as the world spun around me. Kicking loose from the stirrups as I fell, I struck the ground head first into a pile of loose stones. Rolling onto my back, I saw Tintero standing a few metres away, looking at me curiously. The impact had knocked the wind out of me and I struggled for a moment to fill my lungs. After the usual check to see that all systems were functioning and all of my blood supply was still on the inside, where it belongs, I slowly got to my feet and went to discover what had happened. The saddle was hanging off to one side and lifting the stirrup confirmed the obvious, the cinch had come loose. Normally, the cinch is held tight by a buckle, but this one was a simpler arrangement only secured by a half hitch in the leather strap around a D-ring. There was nothing I could do other than shake my head in wonder and rub the growing bump on top of it.

The beach was a beautiful and deserted half moon bay, with sets of five foot breakers rolling in. With Tintero tied to a fencepost, I swam out to catch the waves as they crested, body surfing into the shore. After a couple of hours my shoulders were starting to sunburn, the adrenaline was wearing off and sunset was closing in. Besides that, a boatload of surfers had shown up and one came within inches of decapitating me with his board. It was time to go. The ride back aboard Tintero was uneventful, although I anticipate an ache in my thighs tomorrow.

Road Warrior II

This week so far has been busy, but surprisingly uneventful. With only until the end of the month to get a handle on Spanish before having to fend for myself, I have been concentrating on my studies accordingly.

Friday I will go to Rivas and finally buy a motorcycle. Buying used might have been cheaper but, after canvasing my few local contacts, I realized that a new bike is the only way to go. With an extended family or large social network, finding a second hand bike might be possible locally, but lacking either I would be in for a long and arduous undertaking. There is no craigslist.com for Nicaragua. After imagining myself making the four hour trip to Managua, then trying to track down possible sellers with my fumbling Spanish in a city without street names or house numbers that was put back together in ad hoc fashion after the last big earthquake in 1972, I thought it better to go to Rivas and find a dealer.

Honda and Yamaha are represented here, as well as many other brands I don't recognize. Several Chinese makes are available with a wide variety of odd names like Kayak, Freedom and RC Moto, all of which appear remarkably similar and are most likely unauthorized copies of Japanese designs. Indian brands Bajaj, Quasar and Discovery are also here. Road bikes and dual purpose machines with off-road capability, all in the 100cc to 250cc engine capacity range, are the most common. One suggestion I received was to buy a 'Chonda', assembled in China from genuine Honda parts. A few hundred dollars less than the real thing, but I would need to have a mechanic “tighten it up” before riding.

Nicaragua's roads will be a challenge on two wheels, but the locals manage so surely I can adapt. When a man rolls by riding a 100cc motorcycle on these roads with his wife on the back, a baby in her arms, and a toddler perched on the gas tank, you can't help but admire the obvious riding skill.

Land Rush

The several real estate offices in town indicate the pace of development here, with at least half a dozen scattered around the downtown area. All are American owned an operated. The project brochures are impressive and smiling salesmen repeatedly assured me that San Juan del Sur will be unrecognizable within five years, their enthusiastic tone implying this would be good thing. The unsettling aspect of these projects is their similarity. Poor, uneducated peasants are paid a pitifully small amount for their land on which houses and condos are then constructed for wealthy foreigners within walled compounds with their own stores, infrastructure and security forces. These self-contained developments are designed to ensure the inhabitants of minimal interaction or involvement with the surrounding community and will make a negligible contribution to the local economy. The developers will realize millions, Nicaraguans will only ever see the inside of these places as servants and San Juan del Sur will still be struggling for money to keep the town's utilities running.

Here is an alternative scenario. Imagine for a moment that a foreign government aid agency or NGO took an interest in this place and acted to see that the latent economic value being developed here actually benefited the local population. The budget necessary would be quite small as aid projects go. Groups of local land owners could be organized to form co-operative corporations that could then make deals with developers or create their own development companies. A loan guarantee from a foreign government, which involves no actual expense, could give the town the ability to raise money through a sale of bonds at the lowest possible interest rate, with the cash going to improve the local infrastructure. A condition of the loan guarantee would be independent oversight of all spending of the funds raised, eliminating any possibility of money going astray. Instead of gated compounds, new construction could be integrated into the existing community, creating more tax revenue, inviting retirees and owners of vacation properties to become a part of the local culture and giving them an interest in the town's future. The profits from sales of the homes eventually constructed would be shared by the original landowners, potentially vaulting thousands of people here into the middle class in a matter of a few years.

It is just an idea, but one I am going to investigate. A little research should provide me with the contact info for the Canadian International Development Agency and some faculties of international development studies at Canadian universities. Why not try?

Road Warrior

Viewing the traffic on the San Juan del Sur to Rivas road from a distance, you might wonder if the local drivers are in the habit of dropping a lid of acid before climbing behind the wheel. The cars appear to be weaving erratically across both lanes and both shoulders, slowing and accelerating at random intervals. Only if you were up close would you see that the road is actually a minefield of potholes, some deep enough to break an axle, through which the cars must thread their way.

I made the journey in a 'taxi collectivo' that only leaves when every seat is taken. The trip to Rivas takes forty minutes and costs the equivalent of $1.50. My driver was pushing his little Toyota hard, at some points going along the very outside of the shoulder, engine screaming, with cool disregard for the ten metre drop just beyond the crumbling edge of the asphalt. From the disdainful look I received he seemed to take it a comment on his skills, or perhaps my lack of machismo, when I buckled my seatbelt. The next ten kilometres were especially rough and everyone in the car, veterans of this trip, rolled up the windows in unison to keep out the billowing clouds of ocher coloured dust rising from the road surface. Once we made it out to the Pan-American Highway and relatively smooth tarmac, I could open my window and let the breeze blast the beads of sweat from my forehead.

Kodak Moment

After Spanish class, the students and teachers climbed into a van and drove to Rivas, a larger town about a one hour drive inland. There we stopped at a supermarket to buy large quantities of candy, soft drinks and ice cream. Back on the street, we found a store a few doors down selling piñatas and bought a huge, red one in the shape of a dog. Once we had loaded the dog with candies the van took us to the shores of Lake Nicaragua and an orphanage operated there by a U.S. based baptist ministry.

Forty shouting, jumping little children greeted us while eying our presents with greedy anticipation. The piñata didn't last beyond its sixth assailant, a tiny boy with the swing of Barry Bonds. As it contents spilled onto the floor, the kids swarmed the scattering goodies, pulling up the hems of their shirts to make baskets for their loot. I've seen unfortunate children before in heartbreaking circumstances, so it was a special joy to see these happy little ones with their bright, smiling faces. The place has a good feeling to it that makes you believe these kids are well cared for and truly loved. Its location is certainly gorgeous, with geese, dogs and pea hens wandering the grounds. There was dancing, games were played and many pictures were taken. Outgoing ones who reached up their arms were picked up and held while shy ones had their nervous tears wiped away and were gently encouraged to join in.

I discovered that some of the children resident there have been orphaned and others have been abandoned, a situation that has sadly become more common in recent years, since the government outlawed abortion. Oddly, Nicaragua is one of only three countries in the world in which ending a pregnancy is illegal under all circumstances.

On the way back I spoke with a newly arrived student, Laurene, a middle-aged earth mother type who owns a store on one of B.C.'s channel islands, selling handicrafts to the tourists. She is in town for a couple of weeks with her daughter, Mandela (yes, really), visiting her two sons who are surfing real estate agents, or perhaps real estate selling surfers. The sons could be the local contacts I need to help me purchase a motorcycle and Laurene also informed me of a local dance teacher who gives private salsa classes for $20 per week. Lorene has invited me to visit the house where her family will be staying next week on Ometepe, the island in the centre of Lake Nicaragua crowned with two volcanoes. My calendar is filling up.

Fin de Semana

Fortunately, this town is too small for the cultural peculiarities of the place to be masked by a thin veneer of tourist development. Last night, a truck drove through town while the driver recited on loudspeakers the eulogy of a local woman who had just passed away. It's was a kind of open air memorial service with the entire population in attendance. This afternoon her casket made the trip to the cemetery in the back of a white van, along the main street with at least five hundred people walking behind.

Wherever I go, good food is a priority and the meals here have been simple and tasty, made with love and the freshest ingredients. Each morning pickup trucks full of fruit and vegetables roll in from the countryside, stopping for any housewife who steps out to the roadside. Although a small supermarket has just opened, it presents only a modest threat to the dozens of tiny grocery stores that dot the town, as its selection is underwhelming. When I went over to have a look, the sound system was playing Alvin and the Chipmunks singing in Spanish to a conga beat. It makes me giggle.

My first week of Spanish classes has ended and I am coming to terms with the scale of the challenge I have taken on. How do you achieve reasonable fluency in a language in only four weeks? The first few days gave me an understanding of the teaching method and pace of the programme. As well as reviewing my notes each night, I have begun adding fifty words to my vocabulary and translating a page of the local newspaper each day. I am hoping that, over the month, that should give me at least 1,500 words and a good understanding of the grammar. Guessing where the instruction will go next allows me to prepare in advance for the next day's class. Still, even rapid progress feels painfully slow.

This weekend will be a quiet one. Despite the heat, I have managed to catch a cold and will be giving myself the next two days to get over the worst of it. The volcano climb I had intended is a difficult ascent and the trip to the top and back down takes ten hours of hard effort, so best to wait until I am feeling more able. Maybe surfing deserves another try.

Back to School

My first day at Spanish class. Six students arrived to be introduced to the instructors; three Canadians, two Australians and a Finn. I drew Margarita, a beautiful twenty-six year old Latina with a megawatt smile. Half of the instruction is the old-fashioned but necessary rote learning of conjugations, etc. The rest is simple, halting conversation, picking up words and pronunciations as you go. None of the teachers speak more that the most basic English. From first impressions I think I will make rapid progress over the next four weeks.

Before coming here I had worked assiduously for months with a computer-based language learning programme that billed itself as the fastest possible way to get results. I got nowhere. Three days here has given me more Spanish than all the time I wasted on the computer. .

The school organized a hike this afternoon to the top of a headland just north of town. Tourism only started here about four years ago, but development is accelerating and the changes are easy to see from a vantage point. A luxury hotel with attached condominiums is nearing completion on the hills above the town. At the north end of the beach and separated by a stream from the main part of town is a neighbourhood of grand houses and gated communities surrounded by high walls, some topped with razor ribbon. We walked along its well paved streets and I was told that all of the services here are up to date and reliable, unlike the rest of town. The expats I have met or overheard gripe about the government having the country in a tailspin and the limitations of this place, but in the next breath invariably boast about how incredibly cheap they are able to live here.

Local people regard Daniel Ortega as the people's president, concerned with the plight of the impoverished majority of Nicaraguans. On the hike I spoke with a New Yorker who is shopping for property here. Beyond the headland was an area of vast private villas he described as “the Beverly Hills of Nicaragua”. Half an acre with a spectacular ocean view goes for about $100,000. Our climb took us past a series of developments, each one more extravagant than the last. Reaching the top and looking down at the town, with its crumbling streets and decrepit buildings, it was easy to understand why the last election put Ortega back into office.

Eyes Wide Shut

That my quiet life in Canada might have dulled my wits had concerned me. Now I realize that my apprehension was justified. Yesterday, I decided to have a beach day and took a water taxi with a few others to a secluded spot about forty minutes north of town. It was a beautiful length of snow white sand and perhaps only six other people were there. After lazing about for a couple of hours, I got restless and went exploring. A few hundred metres along the shore I found a surfing school and spent some time watching the students get up for two second rides on one metre waves before falling off. It was a cool little scene with a bar and funky music playing from loudspeakers. With an hour left until the water taxi returned to pick me up, I headed back to the main beach with a group of others.

My mistake was in stopping to take a picture. That minute made all the difference. The rest of the group had disappeared around a corner. I wish that there were some pictures for this post, but at that moment three masked men carrying military combat knives emerged from the trees lining the beach and charged me. I turned reflexively and tried to make for the water, but they had picked their spot. Ten metres of slick, sharp rocks separated me from the sea. Attempting to run over the first stretch of rock, I immediately fell and gashed my knee. It was a stupid move and they were closing fast. I had a knife, but it was buried deep in my bag. I had taken it out of my waistband before I had gone swimming. Even if it had been in my hand, I would not have drawn it. Three-to-one are lousy odds in a knife fight and there was nothing on me that I was willing to die defending.

Flinging my backpack to the right, I broke left towards the main beach. There was a wad of cash in my pocket and I did not like the prospect of being searched for it. Glancing back as I accelerated, I saw them hesitate. It was enough. In that single second I had a ten metre lead and was at a full sprint on the firm sand along the waterline. They didn't bother to follow. Thirty metres further on I rounded a corner and ran into ten surfers headed in the other direction. After stopping to warn them, I limped back to the main beach to await my boat. All I had lost was my camera, a really cool Oakley backpack and a fascinating book on political economy by John Ralston Saul. I can live with that. Even if the camera had not been smacked on the rocks and doused in sea water, it is useless without the cables and I doubt that they have enough English to read the book, so all the thieves get for their trouble is a backpack and enough coins to buy a Coke.

Landing back in San Juan del Sur, I found my driver, Victor, and went to the police station. One officer took the details down in longhand, then filled out a report on an old Remington typewriter while two others watched Die Hard on television. How quaint. There is no chance of recovering my possessions, but perhaps others could be warned. They told me a major police operation on those beaches is just about to get underway.

I cleaned the wound on my knee, applied disinfectant and bound it. It will be fine in a couple of days, but my plans to go dancing with the two English girls I met had to be scratched.

The harsh reality is that cheap holidays to places like Cuba, the Dominican Republic or Nicaragua are made possible by the poverty of their citizens. It is comforting to think that tourism is helping the economy and not just taking advantage of the people's misfortune, but honestly it does both. Inevitably, for some the wealth of visitors in the midst of their poverty will make crime too attractive an alternative to resist.

Our own security is inextricably tied to the well-being of people in countries like this one and not just safety from robbery while on vacation. Drug cartels and organized crime organizations that prey on our society are enriched, empowered and given safe haven in poor countries where they can take advantage of people's desperation. The violent Jamaican street gangs in Toronto are a product of the crushing misery in Kingston's slums. It is ironic that none of the U.S. politicians ranting against illegal immigration or the drug trade are proposing the only rational solution with any hope of success; massive, Marshall Plan scale investment in Mexico. My language school here was chosen mainly because the proceeds go to community projects. I am trying to contribute as I am able.

Some lessons need to be learned the hard way. I had heard of robberies on the southern beaches, but had been told that those to the north were safe. I should still have been on my guard. Making the right move only after making a truly bad one could have been my undoing. From today I will have my eyes wide open.

On the Beach

First class to Managua without a hitch yesterday. Landing at 1:00 PM, I loved the place as soon as I stepped out from the airport, felt the heat on my skin and smelled the air. A driver had come from the Spanish school I am attending to pick me up. A bus would have been cheaper, taken twice as long and involved two connections. As a veteran of third world transportation, I considered a direct trip in an air conditioned car to be a wise investment. It also allowed me three hours of conversation with Victor, my driver. By the time we arrived I knew the layout of the town, all the significant landmarks, amenities and upcoming events, as well as the names and particulars of all the people with whom I would be dealing. Our speed rarely got above 60 kilometres per hour, due to roads that are badly potholed and in some places completely broken up. And this was the main highway.

San Juan del Sur is exactly what I expected; a kilometre long beach lined with small hotels, thatch- roofed restaurants and bars to serve the few hundred foreign tourists in town. Fortunately, the gringos are not so numerous as to be annoying or radically change the flavour of the place. Fishing boats bob at anchor in the bay. It is a small town of about seven thousand and amenities are basic, but they are here. A few doors down from my accommodation is an Internet cafe and the Spanish school supplies unlimited wireless connectivity. There is also a gym that I plan to investigate tomorrow.

I am staying with a family for my first month here, about a ten minute walk from the beach. My room is spartan, but very clean, neat and private. A monk's cell that suits me fine. After dropping off my bags, I walked down to the water and started to get my bearings. Heavy rain started suddenly and stayed for half an hour, although it didn't keep the local kids from continuing their soccer game on the beach. This is the dry season and rain used to be a rarity at this time of year, but I am told that climate change is making such anomalies more common.

I have two days to find my way around before starting classes on Monday. Tomorrow morning I will be up for a 6:00 AM run and then have a wander through town before the day begins.

Half Way There

We crossed the US border and drove on to the Buffalo airport through a howling blizzard in the 4:00AM darkness. A self-sacrificing friend had volunteered to take me. Arriving the prescribed two hours before my flight, I checked in, passed quickly through security and sat down to wait. Not until everyone was boarded and settled into their seats did the captain announced that the flight was canceled. His altimeter was not functioning. I could see how that might be important.

A hundred and fifty or so grumbling passengers trooped off the plane and back to the departure lounge. Two hours later the airline staff finally informed me of something I already knew, that they could not get me to Atlanta in time to catch my connecting flight to Managua. I was offered a seat on a 10:30 flight to Atlanta, three coupons for the airport fast food meals of my choice and a hotel room overnight to await tomorrow's flight to Nicaragua. For a moment I considered demanding an upgrade to first class, but couldn't be bothered arguing with anyone at that point. Instead, I went and had breakfast. When I returned, there was a lineup of some four hundred people waiting to be processed by security. For the next forty minutes I watched the ones in front of me in line shuffle forward, sullenly kicking their bags ahead of them.

The 10:30 flight did actually take off, but at 11:15. By 1:00 PM I was in Atlanta, where an unusual cold snap had temperatures hovering just below freezing. The hotel room is just what you would expect, with a view of strip malls and fast food joints. It was suggested to me that I did not want to venture outside in this neighbourhood after dark.

Tomorrow is a short ride to the airport at a much more reasonable hour, followed by a four hour flight to Managua. And I will get an upgrade.

Hasta Luego

It is January 1st, 2008 and my last day here. I fly out in the early hours of tomorrow morning. New Years Eve was a quiet evening in conversation over supper with a friend, then a stroll down to the clock tower in the centre of town, where a bagpiper played Auld Lang Syne at midnight for the assembled townspeople followed by kisses, handshakes and hopeful wishes for the coming year. It was a fine way to mark the old year's passing.

The temperature has plunged today and wind chill has taken it down to 20 degrees below zero centigrade. It is the kind of cold that makes your face ache and causes you to involuntarily hunch your shoulders, trying to give your neck the added protection of just one more millimetre of collar. I really didn't need to be reminded of why I am getting out of here. My farewells have been made and my loose ends tied off. It's time to go.