Nicaragua 2023
hermit crabs, howler monkeys, powerful waves, calm waters, muddled ruminations, and more
The jungle of Tola is exactly as you’d expect. The lively green flora contains crevices into which vibrant purple and red crabs of various sizes escape, their geometric legs clacking against the rocks and wooden staircases as they scatter from the onset of human steps. From above, the booming territorial chant of the howler monkeys who occupy the trees’ branches joins the solicitous squawking of the magpie jays, who fly down to the private beach below looking for sugar packets and scraps of fried plantains. Sitting in the soft, white sand, one can spend hours watching the myriad hermit crabs go about their day, each of them housed by tiny turban and helmet shells of browns, whites, rusty reds, pinks–– any color really but it seems as if a beatific swirl must adorn the shell for it to be worthy of occupancy.
I love stepping threateningly near the tiny crabs because they go from scurried movement to stillness in the blink of an eye, receding into their homes so the shells appear as unassuming as those I grew up with in L.A. But there is an active life within them, as active as the fire ants or the absurdly large wasps. Nicaragua breathes life; it is so beautiful that it distracts from the remembered excerpts of A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid that linger in my mental periphery, reminding me of the price of my bearing witness such a spectacle.
What is a vacation destination for me is a home for others, a home whose economy is both dependent on feeding white people who stay in their own country and welcoming white people who don’t. It’s no wonder why, according to Kincaid, “a tourist is an ugly human being.”1
In Popoyo, I don’t stay in a treehouse of a resort, but a beachside property owned by a French family, where I am lucky to witness the humbling morning high tide and fierce torrents of summer rain. Later at sunset, when the tide has settled and the ocean is more inviting, I wade deep into the shallow waters overcome by a thick white foam resultant of the powerful waves crashing against the rocky shore. Surfers pass back and forth all day, chatting boisterously in Danish, Dutch, German, British, and American accents. There’s an orange cat who sits on the daybed with me and I get distracted from my book by even more hermit crabs, whose seemingly nonsensical movements pique my interest in their curious little society–– one driven to chaos when the cat goes on the hunt. On my last morning a drizzle of rain darkens the ocean and dampens the palm trees, but brings forth a double rainbow so magnificent it’s as if a certain type of strength emanates from its bright colors. I marvel at the sight, and then hurry to pack the folded laundry given to me by the local woman who works at the property.
The apartment in San Juan del Sur is loaned to us by my father’s friends. Sat atop a punitively steep hill, its balcony affords such a stunning view of the beach below it’s easy to overlook the rusted tin roofs that peek out from the abundance of treetops. From this height, the anchored fishing boats, narrow with pointed curved ends, appear like colorfully painted fish on a flat pane of blue glass; but later, up close I can see the algae stains on the sides of Vanessa I, Must B Crazy, and any of the other boats that are largely empty save for the perched colonies of pelicans ready to torpedo into the water at the first sign of fish. One such boat delivers us to a bigger one, with a daybed and a tiny shelter, which in turn takes us to a private bay only reachable via water–– unless you’re part of the family of millionaires who owns it and prefer to travel by helicopter. I wonder how the locals caring for the property reach it.
The water is so clear I can see my tan limbs exert themselves to carry me from boat to shore, where the white sand has been momentarily turned into a battleground for hermit crabs trying to steal each others’ homes. I laugh as I use goggles to easily collect from the bottom of the ocean eye-catching conches the crabs would evidently die for; though in a karmic irony, it seems the flounder fish and sea turtles everyone else sees purposefully hide themselves from me. Later, when I’m back on top of the hill, I skip dinner and sleep like a baby.
The roads that take us from place to place, and eventually return us to the city of Managua, are winding and bumpy and cause a queasy car sickness to sit heavy in my stomach like a brick. I distract myself by humming along to whatever song is playing and looking out the window at the myriad cows, pigs, ducks, chickens, dogs, cats, horses, and goats that cohabitate the farms bordering the road. Sometimes the animals are allowed to roam free, and other times they’re tied to trees, the length of the rope varying from place to place. In some parts, their bones are overly pronounced and I can count their ribs, while in others they are plump and fat and contently graze the greenery that grows in abundance all throughout the country.
When I’m in the midst of the verdant countryside, I can feel the sticky heat and smell the earthy air, but from the plane that takes me to California I can look out the window and see how the clear blue oceans and azure lakes contrast with the brilliantly green trees and bushes. I can see how the jungle forests roll along the hills, dipping into the craters left behind by inactive volcanoes before rising again to the peaks of various mountains. As if the whole country is modeled after the waves crashing into its rocky cliffs and sandy shores.
Foreigners own most of the businesses and restaurants I frequented, and locals took the jobs thereby made available, allowing me to exercise my “ability to leave [my] own banality and boredom… to turn their own banality and boredom into a source of pleasure for [my]self.” It’s an ability that stems from a systemic privilege I admit to not fully understanding, which might help explain why, instead of guilt, I only feel an individual, inherent helplessness (or passivity?) to do anything but bear witness to the incredible display of nature that comprises Nicaragua. Besides, I think, who the hell would even want another dose of useless white guilt–– especially when it’s more often than not just a virtue-signaling code for pity.
Looking out the window, it’s laughable to think such a breathtaking force would be receptive to any type of pity from someone like me, like you, like anyone. Not to be trite or overly reductive, but it’s only ever wanted to be respected for the life it fosters, for the way it commands attention, and for its awe-inspiring ability to strike a humility into the heart of anyone who gazes upon it. And even though “no action in the present is an action planned with a view of its effect on the future,” whatever happens today, Nicaragua will live on way past tomorrow. It will surely be left standing long after the last of us have fallen and hopefully then it can return to what it is best at being: a home.
All quotes in this piece are from A Small Place.