From my table at the edge of the restaurant, high above the Caribbean Sea, I took my time over my rum-infused hibiscus; partly because it was worth savouring and partly because I was trying to work something out. I’d been on Corn Island for two days now and had yet to get my feet wet, nor could I be bothered in that moment to walk all the way down to the white sandy beach below. Was this a good thing? Was my life so cool that I could be blasé about being in the Caribbean for a few days? Or had I become jaded, so spoiled with visiting amazing places that they no longer moved me? Even worse, could my lack of energy simply be down to getting older?

I had plenty of time to contemplate this conundrum as I made my second trip around Nicaragua for Rough Guides. Nicaragua’s a good size for a guide book job. At 130,000km² it has almost exactly the same area as my native England so for me it feels not too big, and not too small - just right. Being British I’m used to the odd hiccup with public transport, though there are no passenger claim forms in Nicaragua. Having said that, people might complain less in the UK if they were entertained while they waited by stream of travelling salesmen, preachers, beggars with various ailments, and women and children selling hot food and cold drinks.

This trip was a military operation compared to the first time, when I’d kept forgetting things and having to double back on myself. Now I could arrive in a town, step off the bus, boat or plane and hit the ground running. I had a system and ticked places off with remarkable efficiency. I had been almost everywhere and knew which places I wanted to get over and done with as soon as possible and which I wanted to linger over, staying just one more night and therefore having to have one more meal in that perfect restaurant. In some spots I was the master of disguise, giving any mystery shopper a run for their money. In others, it was like returning to visit old friends, laying down my rucksack in the familiar surroundings of a friendly hospedaje (guest house) where I was mostly glad to see that the same wonderful owners were still welcoming travellers to their home and enjoying it.

Of course not everything was exactly as I’d left it two years ago. Along the Río San Juan the owner of Sábalos Lodge, who had endeared himself to the locals by coordinating many aid projects for the village with international organisations, had sadly passed away. Maybe it was just a case of the new owners finding their feet, but the friendly atmosphere created by Don Jaro was gone and everything was too much trouble for the new owner. I’d gladly walked for over an hour through fields and across streams to get there, but the trek back to town seemed so much longer, the scenery now muddy and wet, rather than lush and green.   

Being British, my favourite food on the whole trip was curry. I’m sorry, I know I should be writing about the wonderful enchiladas and empanadas but they just don’t hit the spot like a well-made curry. And that was what I knew was waiting for me at the end of a long day travelling to Ometepe Island on Lake Nicaragua. Café Campestre is located in the small town of Balgüe and by the time I landed on the island one early Sunday afternoon, I’d missed the last bus. I usually keep a tight rein on the finances in order to be left with something of a wage at the end of my trip, but the dream of that curry had kept me going for so many days that I splashed out on a typically over-priced Ometepe taxi to get there[*]. The curry did not disappoint. Warming lentil dhal with a flour chapatti and onion salad washed down with an equally warming home-brewed beer (not that I’d been anything but warm for the past six months). This was the place I stayed an extra night for.

So, why couldn’t I be bothered to swim in the Caribbean? Probably a mixture of everything but I’m not complaining. It was the end of a long and tiring journey, and watching the sun go down with a glass of rum and good book is not a bad way to spend the evening. I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere about not having to be in the ocean to be a part of it, but I’m too relaxed to figure it out.



[*] As a side-note, Omtepe taxis really are a phenomena. They are so over priced I can never decide whether I admire their business acumen in sticking together and resolutely charging in dollars rather than the local córdoba, or loath them for reducing me to the status of just another gringo they’ve managed to swindle. I think the latter.

Of all the excuses I have ever given for being late (and there have been many), this had to be the best. 

It had already been an eventful journey.  We had let two slow rutiado busses go by in the hope that an express would come eventually, before getting worried that we would miss our connection and getting a rutiado anyway. The conductor had lied to get us on the bus, saying that we would be in plenty of time for the connection if we went with him - so why wait for the express? But everyone knows that conductors always say that, so why did we even bother asking the question?

My old flat-mate, Astrid, and her husband were waiting for us to spend the weekend with them in their new home high in the mountains of Nicaragua, not far from the border with Honduras. Only four buses a day go from the city of Somoto up to Las Savanas, so we had planned to get to Somoto in time for the early afternoon departure, but that had long been forgotten and by now we were just hoping we could make the last bus. Not that it would have been a huge drama to be stranded in Somoto. I was traveling with Astrid’s Nicaraguan mother- and brother-in-law, so I didn’t feel vulnerable, as you sometimes can  in a strange town, where people just see your pale skin and blue eyes and don’t know that you’ve lived in Nicaragua for years and that you are no longer an outsider.

The bus was packed. In a land where busses are often packed, this one was really packed.  As it filled up from the fount and the back, we became the filling in a hot and sweaty sandwich.  At some point on the road to Somoto a poor old woman wanted to get on with a pig and a sack full of chickens. I didn’t see her get on - I could see very little other than the body in front of me. Olivia, the mother-in-law, told me later that the conductor hadn’t wanted to let her on as there was really no room, but she agreed to put the pig in a sack on the roof, so she - and the sack of chickens - were allowed on board. I didn’t notice her and I didn’t notice when we had to stop because some people had set a roadblock of rocks in the road and were throwing stones at the bus, but Olivia told me about that too.  I was busy texting Astrid to warn her that we might not make the last bus to La Savanas. I complained about the lack of express busses to Somoto and about the lying bus conductor who had said we would be there by now.  She would understand my frustration, but know that it wasn’t a serious falling out with Nicaragua.

When the pig fell of the roof, though, everyone noticed.  We were going up a steep, curved section of road and it was really no place to stop, but suddenly the driver stood on the brakes and we swerved to a halt. The driver had spotted the pig flying off the roof in his rear-view mirror.  The call “el chancho! el chancho!” spread down the bus and those of us that couldn’t see a thing waited for news from the passengers at the back, debating whether the pig would be alive or dead, or whether it would be recovered at all. Maybe it would be fine and run away, in which case we couldn’t wait while they hunted it down through the bush. Maybe it had fallen down the steep mountain slopes either side of the road, in which case there was no hope….Possibilities were debated amongst passengers who just moments ago were bumping along in miserable silence.  It turned out that it hadn’t gone too far, as moments later news came down the bus that the pig was alive but injured.  I glimpsed the woman out of the window, crying and holding the pig still (thankfully) in the sack. Public opinion was that it was worthless now. Some said she should be compensated, since it was the crazy driving that had flung the creature off the roof, but the conductor was having none of it.  I felt a flash of anger when I saw the conductor grinning and joking about the whole thing, while the woman was clearly distressed.  The fact that she was on the bus with her livestock in the first place probably meant that she was going to the nearest town to try and sell them to raise a bit of money, perhaps for a medical bill. 

Once we reached her stop, the chickens decided to rebel also and squawked their heads out of the sack in all directions as she battled her way down the bus to get off.  We left her by the side of the road, balancing the two sacks.  I felt quite sad for her and wondered how people could be joking about it.  But really it was a small pig, it wouldn’t be worth much yet.  And I guess that’s just life: if you will transport your animals on the roof, every now and then one will come a cropper. In fact, perhaps it’s more of a wonder that I’ve never witnessed a person coming off the roof.  Although I still prefer travelling up top to being cooped up inside, I certainly thought of the pig and held on that bit tighter the next time the let us up. Anyway, the rest of the journey went a lot quicker now we had something to debate up and down the bus. And of course, I had a wonderful excuse for being late.

Just realised that my award-winning article has finally disappeared from the Bradt website and been replaced with newer winners, so thought I'd better preserve it here for posterity...

THE ART OF STILLNESS
My best friend’s choice of husband was a strange one, but at least it was a choice.  My early twenties had turned to my early thirties and I was still no clearer on what this ‘something’ was that I needed to do with my life.

The main advantage I could see about the husband was that we now had a man to accompany us on all those journeys around Nicaragua that we had previously avoided doing on our own, precisely because of Nicaraguan men. 

So, not for the first time since their wedding, I found myself back in our village in the mountains, ready to set off on another adventure though Central America.  This time we were staying officially within Nicaragua.  Our route was through the autonomous region to the east of the country, which is much more foreign and inaccessible to the rest of Nicaragua than say Honduras or El Salvador.  The first eight hours were overland to El Rama, so far, so normal.  Even as we boarded the boat for overnight trip down the Río Escondido and out into the Caribbean Sea, it seemed like we were taking the safe option as there were other boats in port bound for Venezuela and beyond.   I asked about boarding one and although I was told they were strictly taking cargo and crew only, all things here are flexible when you know how.  Sadly, things like foreign visas for Nicaraguans are not.  So, the husband turned out not to be so useful after all.

As the boat pulled out, I felt that familiar sense of contentment that mine was more than an ordinary life.  I had been born in the western world and I had learned very young to appreciate what that meant.  If I worked hard in between trips, I could go anywhere on this earth, experience anything.  Here on the boat with us, every other person was here because they couldn’t afford the airfare.  And in the air above us, tourists were flying in to the Caribbean because they couldn’t afford the time.  We are all poor in one way or another.

The ironically named Island Express normally takes twelve hours from El Rama to Corn Island, which is quite a feat considering it is less than a hundred miles away.  This time it took twenty.  There was no drama, no panic.  The engine cut out and that was that.  The crew wandered below deck to the engine room and didn’t emerge until hours later when the engine began chugging away again.  In the meantime, we had slowly drifted back downstream, but that was about all that had happened.  Those that were sleeping continued to sleep.  Those that were awake continued to be awake.  There was nothing to say, we would arrive later than planned, but there was no mobile phone signal to oblige people to call ahead.  I finished reading my novel, carefully chosen about a girl called María.  I rechecked my guidebook and noted even more mistakes; I don’t know why I always have to buy the latest edition, just to prove to myself that I could have done a better job.  I flicked through the photos I had taken on my digital camera, deleted a few.  The sun was getting hot now, so I put on some sunscreen.  In between distractions, I meditated on my life, where I was going.  I found all kinds of metaphors in the boat and the river but no revelations.  For once, I admired the Nicaraguan art of doing nothing. 

It was one of the first things I had noticed on arriving in the country.  The national pastime is doing nothing.  It is an art I have never really mastered.  I can do it for about five minutes at most.  But try as I might, the westerner in me just can’t do nothing.  I can daydream, I can sleep, I can plan my next trip, I can even watch the world go by, but I can rarely manage to do nothing.

We had arrived here together, a couple of idealistic westerners wanting to ‘do something’ with our lives.  But that was ten years ago, and while I had got bored after a few years and moved on to something else, my friend had turned native, married a local and seemed settled.  Unlike me, she had mastered the art of stillness.