The Toyota Yaris bounced down the one lane road through the barren farm land. My tshirt, saturated with gringo sweat, stuck to the wooden beads covering the passenger seat despite the frantic efforts of the overworked air conditioner. Two surf bags secured to the top with nylon straps, accentuated every pothole with a creak and grind of sun worn paint. The cab driver, unfazed by the frequent pigs and log sized ruts in the road, focused his attention on sorting through the hundreds of songs on his USB powered stereo. Skipping through tracks that seemed about as similar as houses in a Phoenix suburb, he picked one and let it play through.
"How many Kilometers did they the say it was from Rivas?" I asked Cris in the backseat.
Looking back from the window, "I'm not sure, cant be more than 40," Cris said with a tone of calming indifference.
"We must be getting close now."
A few hundred feet ahead, a Mercedes flat bed truck crested the hill with a cloud of dust and whir of a powerful diesel engine. Adhering to the nautical term, "Might has right," our cab pulled off to the side. As the truck bounced by, I noticed the logo of an aspiring golf course/resort painted on the door.
"Mucho trabajo," the cab driver said pointing in the general direction of the truck as he shifted from first to second.
Cris and I nodded in agreement.
"This road is sure getting a lot of use," I said, making mental note of the thick layer of dust covering the trees within twenty feet of the road.
"Yah, the richest family in Nicaragua is building a huge resort out here. It's a ten year project. They want Americans and Euros to buy places," Cris said, maintain his gaze out the window.
"Jesus. When did they start?"
"Two years ago, I think. About the time we first came down here."
"Changing tide, I guess."
Point of View.
Sunset glass off.
The local quiver.
Despite the commotion happening a few miles inland, the fishing town seemed sleepy in the mid day heat. Fisherman tended to their nets and maintained their outboard engines under the shade of corrugated fiberglass roofing. On the other side of the street, at the lone cafe, a handful of sunburnt surfers drank iced coffee and enjoyed the bounty of satellite internet from the comfort of a few hammocks. Time felt still, as if everyone was waiting for an inevitable change.
"It wont be like this in a few years," I said to Cris.
"No, no it wont."
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