A sea of voices fill the air, chatter and clatter, fruit and dreams. Hay piña, Hay piña, Hay piña y sal, nasal and piercing.
Bananas piled high sandbag their sellers in, creating, an oasis of yellow and brown blotchiness; separation from the mess and chaos on the street.
Pink lace-frilled apron, faded and dulled by yesterday’s dirt, hold coins exchanged for oranges, onions and limes. Maybe pink-lace frilled apron does not have any lime trees. Maybe all she has is 3 children and worries. She need not worry, humans are resourceful, kids especially. The fruit that appears in their pockets at the end of each day playing helps them grow and lets her earn some dough.
A grey neatly trimmed moustache sits atop firmly pressed, down-turned lips, like a gecko on a basalt grey crack in the wall. A gecko, shaded by a New York baseball cap and framed by bare sinewy, brown arms, far stronger than mine.
This is life. This is Nicaragua, outside the hostel door.