Poncon is growing tropical hardwoods there, a profitable project in sustainable tree farming.  Guests are encouraged to talk to, learn from and follow the progress of the fifty workers on the farm. 
 
Late in the evening, we join the guests at the bar and see the Traveling Thornberry's again.  "Made it to the top!" I said.  "Did you now!" Mrs. Thornberry said. "Splendid.  And our directions were okay then?"  I told her the directions worked great. 

Others introduce themselves.  Janet, from California, is at Morgan's Rock on her own.  She carries

herself in that bruised and independent way, like a mother from Malibu, although it would be a stretch to call her a trophy wife.  "Doing some research," she says.  There were plenty of North Americans 'doing research' in Nicaragua.  For Sale signs are everywhere.  The San Juan del Sur area is hot, and Janet admits that her husband sent her down here to look into buying something.  “We’re in Pasadena, yeah, Pasadena,” she says.  There was plenty of property 'just like Morgan's Rock.'  ReMax agents were out there.  Real Estate conferences were being held.  Don’t buy two years from now, buy now.

She admits “a lot of the properties down here have some pretty ramshackle buildings on them.  I've found something west of Managua, a lot of property.”

Janet says, “Did you know that five of the guests here are journalists?"

That would mean a third of the rooms were filled with reporters.  Actually, I had guessed that to be about the number.  Morgan's Rock is brand new, the travel papers around the world will be writing about it.  A man, who has been reading books and drinking wine in the bar for the past two days, is dressed well and looks completely out of place.  The 'I'm traveling from London to Nicaragua to read a book' is completely implausible:  What's sad - in a mildly intoxicated manner, this man is writing his piece on Morgan's Rock.

People ask me all the time if I get paid to write travel.  When I tell them no, I don’t get paid, they let the conversation go, as if disappointed.  There is glamour in being paid to write travel; in a recent poll, it was considered the second most popular dream job, behind acting.

When I see this guy, in his starched shirt, I wonder.  If all those people in that poll saw this guy, what would they think?  When they see him alone, his wine glass, pretending not to be listening to our conversation, which is fake anyway, to throw him off.

I wonder why pink-shirt didn’t talk to the other travel journalists; they all ate alone at their tables, looking inconspicuous.  Only large travel magazines and newspapers have the budget to send people to places this far away; why we as readers allow this level of journalism to exist is beyond me.  I never once saw any of them on the beach, or out in the forest.  They appear to be asking no hard questions, they appear uninterested in the importance of this place, how it all works.

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