Hope is a double edged sword, waiting with bated breath to fall on dreams and nightmares alike. That's its magic, its majesty, and its malevolence.
And it leads us to funny places.
Places like Big Corn Island, off the east coast of Nicaragua; a paradise of white sand beaches prostrated beside black volcanic rock piercing lapping waves, coconuts at your feet, an ice-cold Tona in your hands, while islanders pass you by, brandishing smiles that could power cities.
So when I got off the plane, which was holding together by spider-webs and crossed fingers, I didn't expect the drug dogs, flea-bitten and teats swinging, or the six-foot sign at the baggage counter that declared it unlawful to fuck the children (paraphrasing).
Ladies and gentlemen, I present:
I'd suffered to get here, through the confusion of the flights, to the especially talkative alcoholic that was breathing rum into my face while he spoke of his many trips to wherever, and let's not forget all the preparation I had done before I'd ever left.
I was here to enjoy myself, but more importantly, to find those goddamned stories.
That's what I was gonna do.
So I took a cab with a couple who were also from the United States, leaving behind the authority of the armed guards for the sunset that was about to stretch across the ocean.
"So where are you staying?"
"No idea. Playing by ear."
Their laughter was healthy. They thought they knew better than I did.
"Well, shit. If I'd known I was supposed to impress you two, I would've made better plans."
The ride was mercifully silent after that.
Once the taxi had left us at the marina, we waved goodbye to one another begrudgingly, then went our separate ways, they to Little Corn Island and me to my adventure. It took about 3 minutes before Louis, a sketchy man made of five-foot-nothing and a mangled right arm, approached me, seeing if I needed any help finding a place.
Here's something to know about me: I'm perfectly fine trusting in the kindness of strangers if I'm in the open and armed.
So off we went... roughly five steps and he offered me ganja. At the time, I wanted a clear head, so no ganja for me. Not yet, anyway.
Soon enough, but not yet.
As we continued walking, I was taken aback by what so many people would call a paradise. Next to the concrete rail we were walking by, emaciated cows tethered to sticks chewed at grass that couldn't outperform whatever parasites had filled their intestines.
Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink...
Apparently, this was common. There was a veterinarian that visited the island, but only once a year, leaving the animals to fend for themselves against micro-organisms they would never be aware of.
And here's another thing you may not know about me:
I volunteered at a veterinary clinic for three years, helping out animals because they're easy to love. Easy to sympathize and empathize with.
So my heart broke a little bit. And it didn't stop with them. Stray dogs, gaunt or queerly swollen, had patches of fur rubbed raw from scratching, and were darting from food kiosks and in between cars, over the syringes on the side of the road and on to their next meager opportunity.
Louis chased one off as he told me about his fishing accident, which broke his arm in several places, and how he couldn't afford to go to a doctor and was living by himself and loved helping tourists and yada yada yada.
Sometimes it's not in our best interest to show who we really are. And I felt he wasn't showing me any more than I showed him. Fair enough.
It was a slightly clever exchange, but no real threat.
As we walked, I tried to soak in the potential beauty of this place. The sky was devoid of clouds, a perfect day for the local children to play with a large piece of styrofoam they'd found by the marina.
There was something precious to the moment, beautiful in its innocence, with a twist of mourning toward a childhood I don't remember having. But the ingenuity of it held a peculiar charm. This charm, however, went to reinforce the gravity of what happened next.
As we walked down the dirt road, I came upon this:
After realizing what I was looking at, I froze. I'd seen plenty of dead animals in my day, but not one that had this kind of impact on me.
It wasn't simply that she had died. It was the ring of dirt around her. She'd been running away from her own death, but couldn't muster the strength to even stand.
She died alone, struggling, surrounded by people who didn't give a single fuck. Or maybe they simply couldn't afford to. For several seconds, I couldn't move, while cars and people made their way around us both.
And then we kept walking, past the children, past the dog, and past a swamp that now holds a tremendously heavy context for me.
But we'll get to that later.
Eventually, we found exactly what I was looking for. In every way, shape, and form, it was practically gift-wrapped with palm leaves.
Bungalows with showers falling from sea shells, delicious home-cooked meals, privacy, the sea greeting you at every moment, and the white sand beach fifty yards away.
But what's more, there was the volcanic rock jetty, pushing adamantly up from coral and wave to stand proudly apart from the rest of the landscape.
There was a strange power to this place. It was undeniable. This was where it would happen. This was where I'd break myself down, to rebuild into something stronger.
Now here's a little bit of foreboding:
I won't tell you the name of the place, nor their nationality, out of respect for them, and due to where this story will eventually take us.
Having said that, this was it. This was the place where I had to be.
So I approached a man in his late-forties lounging in a chair, bare feet propped on a coffee table, scratching his shaved head, bifocals pointed to a book worn by time and the intrigue of the reader. We'll call him Al.
So this man, a man I'd come to look upon as a friend, looked up to me as though... well, as though I'd interrupted his reading. I saw the benevolence and smiled, all too familiar. In broken English, he explained that his wife was the one that ran the business and that I should speak with her.
So I walked through the cabanas, around the fallen coconuts, and to the restaurant where Cassie, a thin, darkly tanned woman with long brown hair tied into a knot, wearing flip-flops and a sun dress, was cooking freshly caught fish. Her shoulders dropped in sympathy as she informed me, also in broken English, that they were booked solid for three days.
"That's absolutely fine. I'll be here in three days and I'll be staying for a week. Sound good?"
She smiled, slightly crooked, yellow teeth beaming under crow's feet etched from laughter and the sun. She wasn't worn, she was seasoned.
These were good people, so I didn't waste their time further.
Instead off we went, Louis and I, to return to a hostel we'd passed previously, one that hadn't hit the mark quite so well.
But first, we had to walk past the dead dog, me whispering a promise to myself. I'd brought a first-aid kit. It had gloves. I'd take care of this poor soul by removing her from the path of onlookers and traffic once I could put my backpack down.
Maybe get some food and a pint or two of those sweet Tonas, you know, for hydration and a touch of courage.
Once I arrived, I booked a room for two nights for the hefty sum of $50, the extra money going toward wifi and two free meals. So I put my backpack in the room, the sweat of the day leaving vertical strips down my chest and across the entirety of my back, and planned the next few hours in my head.
Pumping away at my water purifier, I filled a large bottle I'd been reusing, downed half of it, refilled it for later, and went off to order room service and grab a beer.
You might as well order two...
The meal, a combination of plantains, black beans, rice, and shrimp in a garlic sauce, was wolfed down with the abandon of the starving, leading me to crash onto the bed, stomach full, fuel tank empty.
Mustering the will, I went through my bag and found the first-aid kit, took out the latex gloves, and walked outside toward the front gate, where my heart began thrumming in my chest.
I was locked inside the establishment by a 12 foot tall chain-link fence topped with both barbed and razor wire, no help to be found.
Sonofabitch.
To be cont'd.