I'm on a beach in Nicaragua. I've been here for an hour or so. It's a warm, almost moonless night, and I've just watched a turtle haul herself out of the water, climb a small sand dune, dig a hole nearly half a metre deep and start to lay eggs. The only noise is from the crashing waves. But then They - inevitably - arrive. Americans. 8 of them. Women. With the subtlety of a tank wearing a mu-mu. The silence is replaced by endless chatter. "There she goes again"; "oh my God"; "pop, pop, there was two of 'em right there"; "okay, I'm just going to go ahead and take my phone out and take a photo real quick". An iPhone appears out of nowhere and lights up half the beach. Mercifully, we are near the end of the laying, and shortly after, wen she has her nest covered, she is done, and turns to head for the sea. But the Americans have built themselves into a half moon blocking her return, causing her to detour up the beach - which they track, the fucking tools. Eventually they give her a path, but trot ahead, constantly in her field of vision, forcing a much longer, diagonal walk to the surf. Incredibly, they take it upon themselves to go up each and every one of them and touch her shell, causing obvious distress. Finally, when she hits the sea, they applaud. You couldn't make it up.
A few weeks ago, on the Honduran island of Roatan, I listen to the amazing Jeff (from Brooklyn) tell his newest buddy in a bar about how "these negroes down here, they work hard. Harder than our ones". Referring to the local Garifuna population, descended largely from British-Caribbean creole-speaking, refugees. Jeff is showing admirable ignorance of the volume of his own voice, and the colour of the skin of both the barman fixing his cocktails (unseen, below bar level), and the gentleman grilling his chicken (unseen, in the kitchen). Casual racism clearly being just as de-rigeur for the yachty cruisers of the Caribbean as it is for the west of Ireland of my parents' generation.
Prior to this, on a dive boat in Belize, I am subjected to an horrific nuclear family. The older child is a severe, outdoorsy boy, embarrassed by his parents. The younger is 14, and flagrantly homosexual, something which will devastate his parents when they figure it out. Mum is not quite vegetarian, but used to be, and still eats little or no meat. Or carbs. Or dairy. She is a walking advertisement for everything wrong with extreme dieting. Devoid of energy, she is sallow, sunken and stooped. She is forty-seven years old but doesn't look a day under 80. Dad, when he wears pants - which is about 50% of the time - fastens them just below the nipples. He speaks in paragraphs, usually beginning with "studies have shown that…", and ending with "but what we've done right in California is…".
'No' is the curt response form the taxi driver in Northern El Salvador when i ask if there are many Americans living here. The jeep/truck in front of us has a number plate holder that reads "US Air Force Dad". 'None' he adds, somewhat definitively, just as we drive past a joint El Salvadorian-US air force base. While there are more tourists than troops these days, they are on the whole unwelcome, likely as a result of a century of political and military meddling (usually on the wrong side). At best they are ignored - itself a noteworthy skill. The woman who hawked us into her hostel in Nicaragua at the turtle nesting beach is delighted we are Irish. "Anything but Israelis" she says, "they are the worst". I ask: " what about the Americans?" She smiles but says nothing. They may be more welcomed if they had some humility. Or a mute button.
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