October 12, 2023, Nicaragua. After getting a good look at the island on the scooter, I decided to stay on the far side and booked a bed at La Urraca Loca, a highly recommended hostel in Balgüe. I didn’t know buses here were almost always late—if I had, I would’ve finished my breakfast instead of rushing off halfway through. As it turned out, I waited half an hour for the chicken bus to leave, and the 20-mile trip took two full hours. By the time I got off near the hostel, I was exhausted. When I asked if they had A/C, I found out not only did they not, but I was assigned to an eight-person dorm on a top bunk with no fan. I hate top bunks—getting down in the middle of the night to pee is a recipe for disaster, and without a fan, I would be roasting. It was already a scorcher, so I decided it wasn’t for me.

I walked over to check out a nearby home rental someone had suggested, but the guy sitting outside was smoking, and the smoke wafted into every room. Not ideal for someone with lung fibrosis. Feeling discouraged, I walked over a mile back to the bakery I had found earlier and treated myself to a cappuccino and a tiny cupcake. I lingered there for a few hours—grateful for working Wi-Fi and a calm place to land.

Online, I found a place called Dragon’s Garden, run by a French couple. They offered dorms, cabanas, and private rooms. One of the café employees happened to be going there to visit his brother, who managed the property, and kindly gave me a ride. His brother showed me the options, and I chose a dorm room with both a bunk and a queen bed. I had it to myself and chose the queen, which sat right in front of a large window. It was still hot, so I asked for a portable fan the next day. It turned out to be a very comfortable stay, and I felt lucky to have landed there.

Later, I walked toward Mérida and met a warm and friendly woman named Francisca who looked to be in her 60s. She was selling homemade coconut goodies by the roadside. I bought her ginger turmeric coconut milk and coconut candy made with raw sugar cane—both delicious. She suggested I check out Playa Mango behind her house and introduced me to her friend Lukas, a German who’d built bamboo cabanas along the lake. At the bar, a young man led me to him. Lukas was kind and shared that he’d tried a similar project in Bavaria but was blocked by local opposition. He invited me to a dance party later in the week, but I ultimately passed—house music isn’t really my thing. Still, the sunset behind the volcano was stunning, and I took a swim out to a platform floating offshore. The water was warm, and for the first time in a while, I felt like I could truly exhale.

October 13. Curious about the name Dragon’s Garden, I explored the property and discovered rows of dragon fruit trees, along with palms and tropical plants. The owners had built charming bamboo-and-thatch cabanas, clearly inspired by Lukas’s lakeside creations, but with more creature comforts like fans and mosquito nets.

Wanting easier transportation, I asked about renting a bike. The property manager had an old one he wasn’t using and offered it freely. I insisted on paying what I would’ve spent at a rental shop—it felt like the right thing to do. It was a heavy, clunky bike with limited gears, but it beat walking in the heat.

I rode to Pan de Mama, the lovely bakery café I’d found earlier. I got another cupcake (so tiny!) and a latte. After losing 10 pounds on this trip, I was craving sugar and fat. Later, I biked over to El Pital, the so-called “Chocolate Paradise.” Their café was located in a gorgeous spot near the lake, but the prices were outrageous. Despite the temptation, I passed on their chocolate and desserts—$6 for a brownie was just too much.

I continued riding east toward Punta Gorda, stopping at a rare, clean stream to cool off. I hadn’t brought a suit, so I stripped and hoped no one noticed. The plan was to ride around the island, but I realized I didn’t have the stamina for it, especially with the heat and rough dirt roads. On my way back, I bought tortillas in Balgüe. The only place selling them was open from 2 to 4 p.m., and when I arrived, they hadn’t even started. Roasted chicken would have to wait too—the only kiosk that made it didn’t fire up the grill until after 5. I returned to Playa Mango for a sunset swim and inhaled the earthy scent of compost being made at Dragon’s Garden, a nod to the island’s ongoing permaculture efforts.

October 14. I rode to the bakery around 10 a.m., just in time to discover that a 92% solar eclipse was underway. The owner was helping local kids build pinhole viewers. A Dutch expat even brought a flat piece of obsidian, once used by Indigenous peoples to view eclipses. The clarity was remarkable. I spent the hour before and during the eclipse watching crescent-shaped sunlight filter through tree leaves—it was magical.

Later, I rode to the Saturday market at Playa Santa Cruz, where I met Francisca’s daughter Marlene. She gave me a garden tour the following day. Both women were selling their usual coconut-based goods. I loved their lively banter and easy humor. Their friend Hilder, a free-spirited, worldly hippie, joined us. A former Hare Krishna, he shared his love of 1960s culture and recommended I visit Nicaragua’s coffee regions near Matagalpa and Jinotepe. I added them to my list.

Marlene was selling used clothing, including sarongs—“ropa americana.” I badly needed one, as my lion-print sarong from Hala was falling apart. I bought a blue one with a yellow batik sun for $3. These secondhand imports are everywhere in Latin America and seem to play an essential role in local economies. Before leaving, I made sure to pay Francisca for all the treats she’d shared with me—I didn’t want to take her generosity for granted.

I later discovered a second market just five minutes away, apparently created after a COVID-era split over masking rules. I continued riding along the beach road to the island’s only ATM. The last time I was there, monkeys had descended from a tree and made off with my lunch. This time, I swam in the lake instead. I had a way of swimming in shallow water that let me avoid walking a mile out. I left my bag on the beach near a family, hoping it was safe. The music was grating, but I tried to focus on the water. Back on shore, I ran into the vegetarian restaurant owner I’d met earlier—small world. I decided to skip the dance party that night and rest, but the pounding music still kept me up until 5 a.m.

October 15. This was my last day at Dragon’s Garden, and I didn’t want to leave. Someone else had reserved my room, and I needed to keep moving. I had hoped to visit Guatemala, but the country was experiencing widespread road blockades—locals protesting exploitative government policies. It reminded me of what I’d seen in Panama.

Sunday meant no local buses, but Elmer had offered to give me a ride. Before leaving, I joined Francisca and Marlene for breakfast. I’d barely slept due to the thumping bass, but still made it over with some tortillas. We had beans and corn. I was surprised by Francisca’s quietness around her daughter—so different from how she’d been with me. Marlene seemed to parent her mom, something I deeply understood. Despite that, we bonded quickly and became Facebook friends. She even messaged me later about an edible mushroom hike she’d taken with fellow plant lovers. I felt grateful to have made such meaningful connections.

Francisca and I walked together to Playa Mango. Along the way, she shared the heartbreaking story of her son, who got involved with drugs and crime and even stole her phone. He had only recently apologized after serving time. She cried as we sat watching the lake waves. I didn’t want our time to end, but Elmer was waiting.

We miscommunicated at first—he was outside, and I was still inside packing. Eventually, we met and loaded my bag onto the scooter. I asked if he could take the long way back on the unpaved road I’d been too nervous to tackle alone. He hesitated but agreed. The road led us through forested areas as Elmer shared more of the island’s history—until recently, people had lived without running water or electricity. The gravel road was only a few years old.

He also told me about the importance of plantains here. A single bunch of 80 now fetches $10, a substantial sum locally. Like coffee or cocoa, the plantain market is vulnerable to global forces. Islanders grow them on the volcanic slopes to take advantage of the fertile soil.

As we descended a steep hill, two men on a scooter heading uphill wiped out in front of us. One flew off the bike. Thankfully, neither seemed seriously hurt and they got back on—gritty, like most people here.

We stopped at a roadside café I’d wanted to visit previously but had been too nervous to pull over for. Elmer needed a break—riding with both me and my heavy pack was a workout. After a passion fruit juice, we rode back to Moyogalpa and reached Hospedaje Soma by dark.

Craving pollo asado, I headed to my favorite street grill. As usual, it was busy. I devoured my food and tossed the bones to the nearby dogs. I know you’re not supposed to, but when they’re hungry, I figure it’s better than nothing. Back at the hostel, I finally slept—thanks to A/C and the absence of pounding music.