Playa Tunco is the banana smoothie of surf towns. Delicious and soothing if day after day is spent frying in the sun and exhausting oneself in the surf. However, with no surf for me today – I´m craving something a tad spicier than banana smoothie.

Besides, if I´m not going to get my surf stoke today – I´d prefer to get away from the non-stop multi-cultural brobonics-fest that occurs here 24/7. Tunco is a lot like Huntington Beach before it became “gentrified” – nothing but surf shops, dive bars and head shops. It´s only interesting for a couple days unless you´re surfing or high (or both). The tourist women? They were only here for the “beach party”. Nothing but a sausage-fest here now.

I´m on a cultural mission today. Destination: San Salvador

Secondary mission: Find the return bus to La Libertad.

In San Salvador, route 102 has differing beginning-line and end-of-line locations. They are downtown somewhere, they change year to year, and the guidebook recommends not walking around these locations after dark (and caution during the daylight).

San Salvador is a lot like Los Angeles. Same bad traffic. Same sprawling layout that was created with no thought towards future planning. Same possibility of walking from a ritzy neighborhood to a blighted one in four blocks.

On the 8am bus to La Libertad (10-15 minutes, $0.30), on the next bus leaving for San Salvador (1 hour, departs every 5 minutes, $0.66). Watch the vendors board and try to sell just about everything to the commuters. Hmmm – maybe a future article.

Arriving in San Salvador – in a new location than last year – I try to orient myself. It´s best not to look lost or linger in designated non-lingering areas – so I hail a cab. Most gringos, when arriving in San Salvador for the first time – head to MetroCentro – and some never find their way out. The Metrocentro is one of the world´s largest malls. It´s not a specifically-designed space-efficient structure – instead it´s sprawled helter-skelter with many strange wings and floors. Most stores have multiple locations here.

The last thing I want to do is shop in a mall – but it does have everything in close proximity: ATM´s, bathrooms, strong coffee, Pollo Campero, and a comfortable place to sit and pull out the map. Added bonus – it´s a major stop for city buses, and cabs are everywhere.

I could use a masaje (MEH-DEE-CEE-NAL), but I would really like to see some culture on this day-trip.

Parque Cuscatlan looks like it´s only five or so blocks away, it´s on the way to downtown, it boasts a prime art gallery, and a monument to their fallen from their war-torn 80´s. The guidebook sings it praises, but warns carrying anything around (or doing anything to call attention to yourself). Great photo opportunities, but you probably do not want to show a camera.

It´s a little before noon, and how bad could it be? Theives and junkies, as a rule, don´t follow the adage, “The early bird gets the worm”.

The walk from Metrocentro to Parque Cuscatlan is… interesting.

It takes only one block before the neighborhood looks graffitti-covered, barbed-wire-and-broken-glass on the fences, and not so great in a general sort of way. After two blocks, things really begin to look blighted. A young man, early twenties, is squatting on the sidewalk, dressed in old jackets, shaking and sweating. His eyes go from my shoulder bag to both my front pockets – trying to guess the contents of the bulges (wallet with fresh cash supply and camera). He never looks at my face.

Others look more desparate. Perhaps it´s worth the $2 to spring for a cab? I straighten my posture and walk with a purpose – a swagger even. Not the neighborhood to impersonate the weak gazelle.

Every block gets worse. Abandonded houses with broken-out windows turn to abandoned warehouses with broken-out windows, with grafitti and refuse eveywhere.

I see a military man with a machine gun. Usually, when traveling in Mexico, I feel much more nervous around these guys. In El Salvador – I feel relief. This man is guarding the sidewalk leading to the intersection where Parque Cuscatlan begins.

After that, Parque Cuscatlan truly appears as an oasis. It sits below street level, surrounded by embankments topped with walls (and discretely placed barbed wire). Once inside the walls (four entry points), stairs lead down to the grass and paths and many shade trees. I discretely take some pictures… it appears safe here.

Street-vendors are set up many places, and smells of deep-fried deliciosness lightly fill the area. I count three casual futbol games, and most of the benches are filled with couples of various ages and states of groping (not necessarily correlated). All four entrances become paths which lead to the center of the park, where colorful tropical foliage resides.

The park feels tranquil, especially when juxtaposed with the chaos and decay just outside the walls.

On the western half of the northern wall is Monumento a la Memoria y la Verdad - Monument to the Memory and the Truth. It reminds me of the Vietnam Memorial wall. In this case, the names of those who died during the civil war of the 1980´s are inscribed.

The Art Gallery is impressive in the works contained within. The works were modern, and the central themes seemed to be sex, death and gods. The quality is outstanding, and the images wake up the Lizard Brain which bites the Monkey Brain and both start smacking the Human Brain upside the head. El Salvador – with it´s heat, humidity, rain, lush growth and fertility, and smells of growth and decay inscribe something into the gray matter – and the art in this building does a tremendous job of capturing that essence.

I lost track of time in there, my three brains trying to communicate together and make sense of it. Definitely something to see. I even managed to find the bus stop to get back to La Libertad.

A Change in Climate)

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El Mangle´has been overrun with Brazilians. Last year, Canadians were everywhere – no Brazilians. This year, the exact opposite.

I really enjoy the atmosphere at el Mangle´. There seems to be an endless supply of quirky characters hanging out in the common area (myself included). The sorority-like orphanage volunteers from last year? They were here in force again this year – some of the same faces. They were here for the beach party – Tunco must be on the internet bulletin-board party-circuit.

This year, there are Brazilians everywhere – 5 crammed into 2 rooms in Mangle´. Roberto is the patriarch – the fittest 48-year-old you´ll ever meet – drinking from his fancy metal mate´cup. Conejo is a young guy (mid twenties) – who like Roberto – speaks some español and some ingles. The other three speak only Portuguese – and while one will smile and nod towards me, the other two seem too cool to bother. (Maybe this is only perception – that Brazillians, with their aggressive mannerisms, appear unfriendly if no verbal communication occurs.)

The Brazilians have El Salvador wired – they´ve been here for a couple weeks and are in for a couple more. They – along with another pack staying elsewhere – have a car and surf multiple times a day in multiple places. In the evenings – they cook food, hang out and tell stories, go light on the cerveza, smoke the mota, and are generally asleep early (for the daybreak session). Overall an efficient way to maximize their surfing experience (plenty of sleep plus no hangover equals daybreak surf).

This evening – a couple of Brazilians from the second pack were visiting and engaging in the nightly rituals. I was relaxing in a hammock and was drawn into the conversation – introductions were made.

One of them asked, “eSteve? Like eSteve Miller? eStevie Wonder?”

I half-spoke, half-sang back, “I´m a picker, I´m a grinner, I´m a lover… and a sinner. Play my music in the sun…”

They all laughed back, “I´m a joker, I´m a smoker, I´m a midnight toker… I get my lovin on the run…”

They´re just lucky I didn´t try to sing “Higher Ground”.

They shared their evening´s festivities with me – and stories were told (in broken spanglish), of home breaks, and surf past, present, and future.

One of the second-pack Brazilians tried to sell me a very small bag of mota for $100 (perhaps to finance his continued travels?). Mota is very illegal in El Salvador, and possession of small amounts can land one in jail (although in Tunco it is carried and consumed openly in the common areas). Rather than tell the guy what a bastard he was for trying to rip me off, I just politely declined. I´m here to surf, not to carry and consume a bag of paranoia.

The Brazilians had a mission to go on and left me and the hammocks in peace.

Until…

The new-as-of-today couple came downstairs and asked if I wanted to get dinner and a beer with them. Sure! I was feeling pleasantly loopy, and I wanted to hear about their seven-month journey on the road.

Tai and Brooke were in their early 30´s, from Ohio, and were generally nice in a general sort of midwestern way. Their brains, however, were reeling. They had been to Mexico before – trips to Cancun – but for this trip they wanted more of an “authentic experience”. They began by flying to Cancun in January. From there, they would take seven months to overland through the Yucatan, through Central America, all the way to Panama then direct-bus back to Cancun in early August – catch their return flight to Ohio and figure out what to do next.

As they told me stories, their eyes got wide – their voices tinged with hysteria. I could almost hear their grey matter sizzling and popping as it fried in their brainpans. Their worldviews had been forever shattered by the combination of crushing poverty and warm-hearted friendliness they experienced in Chiapas and Guatamala. They were trying to grow a bit of a hard exterior – to discourage scammers from taking advantage of them (money changers, border crossings, taxi drivers, etc). Typical of the true midwesterner – their attempted hard-shell growth only came across as frustration – their shells only had hard interiors. Outwardly, they only got agitated in a polite sort of way. The waiter charged them an extra dollar for their arroz con camarones. They got frustrated, complained more to me than to the waiter, and paid their bill.

I had one beer to their three each. They wanted to go to the next bar – so I dragged my sleepy carcass back to my soft flat place under a ceiling fan (it was 10pm already). I slept well.

Just another day in the bungalow.

Another day of sleeping through the alarm.

Another day the wind was still offshore when I did finally wake up (7:30 this time).

Another two cups of coffee from Alba before surfing.

Another “best surf session” of the trip – along with another “best wave” (Pete the Floridian told me if I would have dragged an arm and stalled I would have gotten tubed).

Another day of eating lunch, watching the beach break, writing, practicing mi español with the waiters (and they their ingles)…

Another day of having no thought of leaving Tunco for the day.

Sounds like a rut, no?

Call it serious surf-training. Just don´t call it a comeback (apologies to LLCJ). Rumors are, the surf will be big soon – and I need to be ready. This was the first back-to-back days of surfing for me since… my trip last year. Soon, I will need two surfs-a-day, and the last time I did that? (if you guessed last year´s trip, give yourself a goldfish)

We had the first serious thunderstorm and downpour of the rainy season here Sunday night (the 4th?). The lagoon breached, flushing everything into the surf. Monday, the water wasn´t bad – but today there was the oh-so-familiar smell of gasoline detergent from the road wash-off. Also on Tuesday – hundreds of plastic shopping bags. These urban jellyfish were everywhere in the line-up.

Wednesday will be a city day. Time for my body to recover, my sinus cavities to flush out the contents of the lagoon, and time for the urban jellyfish to swim away (or more likely, get eaten).

Mario stopped by Mangle´tonight, to see the Brazillians. There was an exchange of shirts and pictures taken. Mario, when out of the surf, dresses in the finest designer shirts, jeans and shoes. Whatever he does for a living must be profitable for him to carry around those antlers.

No, nothing for me, thanks – other than a “Que onda!”.

San Salvador and Parque Cuscatlan)

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Let’s play a mental game…

Pick a country or a region that you believe to be “third world”.

Do you have your country in mind?

What do you think their life expectancy is? How about the number of children per family? How does this compare to the United States? How about China?

Write down your guess.

Have you written it down? We can’t go on until you do…

A friend recently shared a new website with me – he introduced me to TED.

Technology, Entertainment, Design.

TED is a conference held annually since 1984, that “brings together the world’s most fascinating thinkers and doers, who are challenged to give the talk of their lives (in 18 minutes)”.

I’ve sampled a few talks now – and they all have been fantastic.

So, have you written down your guess? Do you think you understand the Third World countries? Do you think you understand China?

Feed your brain – and enjoy!

Here’s another thought-provoking video, guaranteed to change the way you view the world. I originally saw this presented at a conference last summer. This video is shorter, and it does change slides fairly fast – but the content is also outstanding.

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