Interamericana

The somnambulant village of La Boquita is awakening. A rotund and loosely dressed woman emerges from a ramshackle cluster of decrepit shacks and lurching, half-fallen structures. Gnarled branches, thatched palm leaves and weathered, colourful sheets are the simple materials of her family home.

She ambles towards a lightly meandering stream, descends the muddy banks and enters up to her knees. Bending down, she fills a large white barrel with murky water, lifts it high above her head and rests it squarely on her crown. One hand balancing the vessel, she gingerly returns to her abode. Nearby, all along the teeming banks, herons and waders peck through the black, finely ground silt. Yellow-chested fly-catchers flock between tree-tops and wire fences. White-eyed, crow-like grackles announce the morning with violent hisses, curious lilting tweets and cackles.

Perched on the shores of the Pacific some 25km from the ‘White Town’ of Diriamba, La Boquita is a quiet, low-key beach resort with coarse grey sands and feisty waves. As yet lacking running water, it is a popular destination among Nicaraguan families, but for now remains assuredly off the gringo trail. Permeated by the smells of salt and earth, lightly smouldering wood fires, fresh fish, rotten wood, decay and dirt, La Boquita has an authentic presence, in spite of its resort status.

Further along the beach, beneath the shadow of lightly crumbling hotels – now in decline, now empty, ruined and derelict – ancient speed boats land on the sand. A crowd forms and large fish are distributed among everyone assembled. Three black vultures linger hopefully on the sand. Packs of dogs pad proudly along the beach, in their own way, masters of the village. As the bay arcs south, banks of elegantly eroded rocks swallow the surf, and miniscule crabs, rendered nearly invisible by camouflage, scuttle in and out of tiny holes.

As the day warms, the sky lightens. Fierce sunshine spills over the tired old hotels and a group of young boys assemble by the surf. One by one they cast simple fishing lines into the water, telling jokes, waiting. Soon they pull small fish from the ocean, leave them gasping and flapping on the sand, as cooking fires are lit and pots prepared.

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