This was one of the first things Larry said to me, coffee-stained teeth showing, eyes a little wide. Larry had disheveled white hair, white beard, and work clothes that were worn and faded from the Costa-Rican sun – but well-cared for. I thought he was a bit crazy, at the time. Of course you need to live next to food – my twenty-something mind thought – why would you live where there was no food?

“When the economy goes bad, they will no longer ship food to many places… you need to live where you can grow your own food!”

This was a decade ago. I spent three months in Costa Rica surfing – a little bit of adventure before starting a graduate program.

Larry lived with his Tica wife, Lupe. Lupe and Marisol (sisters), ran a little posada in the village of Domincal on the Pacific coast. Larry looked like he could be in his early sixties – he was literally getting long in the tooth – but he was fit and wiry. I occasionally spoke with Larry, he seemed to spend his time gardening, repairing the posada, and working on various projects. I thought he had that slightly-crazed ex-pat vibe, but he didn’t share the beer-gut and perma-sunburn that most older gringo-men seemed to carry around.

Domincal – and this posada – became my Pacific-coast home-base for a good chunk of that summer. The surf was, at times, heaving beachbreak barrels. Domincal is known as the Puerto Escondido of Costa Rica. A restaurant/bar there has scores of broken boards on the ceiling. If a wave snaps your board in half, you can trade it to the restaurant for a free dinner – and add to their decor.

Consistent surf, a friendly place to stay (Marisol spent quite a bit of time teaching me Spanish, and seemed to look after me – I felt welcome like family), and good food kept me coming back that summer.

There were quite a few expats living there – many there to surf, some because they could grow thier own food, and others seemed like they had nothing better to do except drink cheap beer and smoke dope in the jungle. In other words – paradise. There was even an authentic Italian restaurant run by two young Italian couples. Eating real pizza in the tropical jungle after surfing is something I will never forget.

A decade later, I find myself thinking Larry’s catchphrase quite often – “You need to live where they grow the food!”

They do grow food here locally (and dope – dope is the largest contributor to the economy in far-northern coastal California). I’ve thought quite a bit about settling here and buying land (land that I could grow food on).

Now that the credit-card debt has been paid off, my life has been downsized, I have a new job and started saving money like a madman – I think about my options. I’m ready to hit the road and see the world – but shouldn’t I buy a piece of land that I can grow food on? The economy looks a bit bleak – and the fact that I have a good job seems more valuable than it did a year ago.

My original timeline was one year from Feb 1, 2008 before leaving on my trip. I calculated the cost of the trip, and realized that I wouldn’t be ready until working and saving until the summer of 2010. My new job is better (how could it get worse than this?) – but it is still a burnout job. I’m in a good position to save – so how long should I do this?

I originally posted a flowchart of my employment options. After surviving the second half of 2008 (I wasn’t writing on this blog because life got a little strange) – I’m more determined than ever to get out. After thinking about it for a year – my escape fantasies look like this:

1. Sell the truck, leave the dog with family and travel around latin america and/or world for 1-2 years. Estimated departure: Jan 2010 (nine months from now).
2. Drive with dog in latin america for a year. Estimated departure: July 2010 (one year and three months).
3. Stay at the job long enough to get vested in the pension program – two years and three months. Use the accumulated savings to buy property either here or somewhere cheap and surfy with good soil. Estimated departure: July 2011.

Now, I know I’m ripping you off a bit, because this project was not named “The 2+ Years of Living Frugally”. For that, I’ll refund your cost of admission to this page.

Somewhere, in the back recesses of the human-brain, is that grandmother-given idea – the Protestant work-ethic). Although I’m not Protestant (and I’ve been accused of not having a work ethic by some…), my grandmother used to tell me stories about living through the Great Depression. She taught me how to surf-fish, and how to can food, and garden – how to rely on myself. I can hear her stories – and how they survived – by taking care of themselves and living simply. She essentially gave me instructions on how to survive an economic depression – and for now I’m trying to follow those rules.

I’m not ready to leave today – I do need to save more money – so we get to see how this economic crisis will play out.

In the meantime, I get the feeling that today’s dollars are more valuable than yesterday’s (bubble economy) and tomorrow’s (likely high inflation). Maybe buying a piece of land would be the best thing to ensure the type of life I want to live. (”You need to live where they grow the food!“)

I haven’t forgotten this project. I’ll post a year-end wrap-up of how I have done soon. I’m still breaking off the writing-rust.

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Sometimes the best made plans go awry. Like this travel blog. Due to a number of external (and internal) forces, I have not been keeping up on this. Plenty of good old-fashioned pen-and-paper writing has occurred – it just needs to be translated into flying-photon format. Next week (when I´m back in the cold, coastal, far northern California climate), I´m going to start this travel article from the beginning. It will make sense when I get there. Until then, I´ll post a couple of pieces.

5:30 am. No alarm – tried to sleep in – awake anyways. Today is a day off from surfing. After five consecutive days of overhead-or-better surf, I need a break (and a chance for my shoulder injury to heal a bit).

I´m awake – and there´s something natural about checking the surf – so I walk.

The surf doesn´t look much smaller than yesterday – but it is a lot less consistent. Like yesterday – there is a huge pack in the water already.

La Bocana looks great. This may be the option for the remaining days of smaller swell (beside the fact that there are a lot less people surfing there).

There´s a small gathering of people crowded around something on the beach. It´s una tortuga – a sea turtle (Olive Ridley?). Señor tortuga esta muy infermo. Swollen neck, lots of red on the underside neck-skin, and general lethargy. Señor tortuga was trying to crawl up the beach to escape the shorepound and projectile cobble-stones.

Everyone has a different opinion on Señor Tortuga´s malady. The old pescador points out the red, swollen neck – and tells people that Señor Tortuga came up on the beach to die (since sea turtles lay eggs in the middle of the night).

Maybe he ate one too many urban jellyfish a few days ago?

Some of the group are insistent that we do something to try to save the turtle. The pescador tries to explain how sick and weak this turtle is – and the crowd eventually disperses.

Señor Tortuga is given peace (well deserved, because if this really is an Olive Ridley – it is huge – and old).

When I´m walking by again to get breakfast (and coffee), some people are walking Señor Tortuga through the waist-deep water – out to sea. Every time they let go of him – he slowly turns around and tries to make his way towards shore (very lethargically).

“It´s confused!”, they say. “Let´s help it get out to sea!”

And they kept turning Señor Tortuga away from the direction he wanted to go – and walking him farther out.

When I took my seat on the patio – I saw Señor Tortuga bouncing around the shorebreak, cobblestones bouncing off of him.

I saw a couple others – local surfers – swam him 40-50 meters off the beach.

Señor Tortuga, realizing that there would be no peace on this beach – disappeared.

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I´m working.

I´m inside a small office which has two steel doors and plexiglass windows cover two walls. My office is inside the hold of a large container ship. My office doors are typical ship´s bulkhead doors.

Friends stop by, women stop by – trying to get me to go out. Women from my past. Unknown women who seem familiar to me.

Outside my office windows – there is a beach inside the cargo hold of the ship. A beach with an ocean (and small waves). Hundreds of people line the beach. I step outside of my office to see.

The Olympic Torch ceremony is taking place. A swimmer is transporting the Olympic torch in through the breakers. When ashore, a torch trade is made – a swimming version for a running version and the runner heads down the beach 100 meters to light the Eternal Flame. The official hands me the swimmer´s torch and asks me to hold on to it for a moment. The Eternal Flame is lit – and much celebrating begins.

A reveler approaches me and asks for the torch I´m holding – to keep it safe for his friend. I don´t know this guy from Adam, so I decline – and he grows agitated. Someone else approaches and makes a similar request – denied. People are watching this and getting agitated. Pushing and shoving occurs. In two moments – a riot has broken out.

Absolute chaos on the beach (in the ship´s hold).

About twenty or so people appear – wearing those giant padded “Sumo wrestler” suits (the one you can rent and mock Sumo wrestle in). These suits are different – they are hippopotamus suits (and a couple elephant suits) – pink and purple cartoon hippos.

The hippo people run as fast as they can and bowl into the crowd – knocking people over. The riot becomes increasingly chaotic. A group of people catch a hippo – and working together – rock it back and forth until they succeed in turning it on its back. I don´t wait to see if they set it on fire.

I see people in my office – I begin throwing them out. When I throw the last person out – I seal the bulkhead door. Someone else got in! I throw them out the second door and seal that one. Somehow, someone else got in!

This process contiues for a couple more intruders until I finally call security.

I look out the window. Full scale riot. Scrums of people are fighting over unknown loot. The hippo people bowl into the scrums – scattering them.

Security finally arrives. Security is “Bull” from “Nightcourt”. I try to explain the problem (while people ransack my office) – and he doesn´t understand. Finally he says, “Why are you working down here? Why don´t you work on the deck?”

I´m stunned. I don´t have an answer. The lonely cry of a Peruvian Leafcutter breaks the silence.

Everything fades.

Wait! Where´s the deck!

I wake up in a pool of sweat. No wind, muggy, warm at 5am. So much for the pleasant climate.

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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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The lonely cry of the Peruvian Leafcutter filled the air…

I was dreaming (nightmaring?) I had to get up and go to work. I was tired and hitting the snooze button…

I woke up in the dark with my alarm going off.

5:00am

Time to get up, make instant coffee, break-fast with a Cliff Bar, stretch, and be in the water for the 5:40am sunrise.

Alarm off.

5:00 am in El Salvador has a pleasant climate. A breeze was coming in through my north-facing window, nice and cool and in the high 60´s.

North wind? The wind is offshore this morning.

Coffee.

Get up, find a mug in the community pile – and mix it strong – about one quarter instant coffee, three quarters water. The trick is to drink as much as you can as fast as possible – instant coffee tastes like mierda.

Power down the bar (and glad that it´s chocolate chip to cut the aftertaste of the coffee), chase it down with a juice-in-the-box. Manzanillo today.

More wax on the board? Nah, I´ll finally do it tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow…

8:00am

Eyes open, it´s light in the room. I must have drifted off thinking about what I was going to do when I got up.

Wind still blowing through north-facing window – still offshore.

Walk downstairs and buy a fresh cup of coffee from Alba.

Surf looks clean – 15 people on the point. Offshores are holding up the lip, making the usually slow sections raceable.

Power down the bar (chocolate chip). Stretch. Get a second cup of coffee – tell Alba “Cafe es mi sangre“.

8:30am. Ten people on the point. Wind still offshore. Motivation found.

Talk to an older former-gang-member-looking guy getting out of the water. (because generally, if they´re still active in the gang, they´re not active in the surf – especially in the early morning (okay, mid-morning)).

Francisco wants to check out my surfboard (a 7´10″ Takayama egg). Francisco is leaving tomorrow – he spends half of his time working in Cocoa Beach, FL. He complains that he, “never has time to surf anymore, and it´s getting harder to paddle his shortboard, and” – he pats his gut (about the size of a five-pound sack of flour). I say, “Yo tambien“, and tell him about all the time I spend in the “praying mantis” pose in front of a computer at work – and the egg is easy to paddle and can be ridden in almost any conditions (although I imagine that it might have a harder time in really hollow waves).

We´re talking boards, surf, balancing work and surf… Francisco stops. He says, “You´re a nice guy. If you ever need anything, just let me know.” (always nice to be thought of as a nice guy from a guy with serious gang-related neck tattoos)

His two friends get out of the water – he calls them over, “Luis! Mario! I want you to meet this guy, he´s a nice guy.”

He tells me, “If you need anything, Luis and Mario can help you out. We usually surf sunrise to about now. Mario lives in Tunco.”

As I´m paddling out, my mind wanders through all the things I could possibly obtain from a local former gang member.

I like El Salvador. My normal day-to-day babbling seems to mesh well with the locals.

The wind is still offshore, the tide low and just starting to push in, and the sets head-high plus. Every ten minutes or so, three to five head-and-a-half waves roll through, cleaning up the inside. This creates two distinct take-off zones.

Three long-boarders sit on the outside zone waiting for sets. One of them is Tom – a real prick who got forced out of the water by locals when I was here last year. The outside sets alternate between really racy walls and some slower sections all the way to the beach.

The inside waves stand up and race for 100 or so meters. A half-dozen shortboarders sit here – an even mix of locals and gringos with no apparant alliances formed.

Luckily, there are plenty of waves to go around. I catch a half-dozen waves (with a slightly stiff shoulder) before paddling outside to wait for a big one. On the next set, cabeza de pene Tom paddles for and misses the first wave – leaving me on the prime spot for the next. After surfing this beautifully-groomed wall of water all the way to the beach, I get out – no way to top that one.

10:30am

The wind is still offshore. All of the beachbreak looks perfect on the incoming tide. I take my camera down to La Bocana and snap a few pictures of the great surf (today´s photos). Everywhere looks great – it´s offshore, peaky head-high plus waves everywhere! Surfers getting tubed, surfers busting phat staley-fish-pop-whatevers. I get lunch where I can continue to watch the show. The wind stays offshore until noon.

I´m suprised by how unaffected I am by the heat. My advice – spend your first day and night sweating with a fever and no air conditioning. When the fever goes away, you´ll feel great! Possibly, there is more wind this year – more offshores in the morning and onshores in the afternoon. This would make sense, last year an El Niño year and this one a La Niña. Either way, I don´t miss the air conditioning.

Just another day in the Bungalow)

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It´s not the heat – it´s the humidity.

For some reason, neither feels bad right now.

Maybe that additional year in far northern coastal California has given me new perspective. Lying in a hammock, all pores open, sweating, feverish…

All the open pores feel like they are exhaling (not panting) – outgassing all of the pollution, sickness, and stress associated with the last several months of work.

I feel as if I´m slowly deflating.

There will be no surf for me today – maybe a trip into town. My shoulder is stiff from yesterday, but I do have full range of motion. Tomorrow is another day. Today is for healing (shoulder and cold).

Mangle´ no longer has a refrigerator – that changes the food/eating situation. The refrigerator isn´t the only thing that has changed…

There are a lot more people here. Not entirely negative – there are more unattched women here – but the majority seem to fall into the “backpack party crowd” versus the “surf” crowd.

Last night was a “beach party” night. At the end of the road is a restaurant with space extending into the sand (Restaurante La Bocana – named after the surf break). I did not attend, I woke up around midnight to hear the band covering “Could You Be Loved” at a faster pace – a merengue-inspired “Could You Be Loved” if you will. They played the same song at last year´s beach party. Everyone loves the song, everyone knows the words, and this is the song the local beach boys (the “crows”) use to try and “seal the deal” with the tourist women. The music (both trips), was a mix of Marley covers, Sublime covers, and Salvadoreño party music.

I thought about walking down to check it out – but I was too sick and out of it. Instead, I ate a Cliff Bar, drank another liter of water, and lay under the ceiling fan while drifting in and out of sleep. The band ended the party with “Could You Be Loved” (a crowd favorite), almost suggestively, and I imagined everyone doing there best – sweaty bikini-clad double-time reggae skanking, asking, “Could You Be Loved“?

Instead of surfing, I went into town – La Libertad. The swell was still solid overhead, and Punta Roca looked great (all the way through to the inside at La Paz). On Sundays, there is a party-like atmosphere in town. The park in front of the pier turns into a “farmer´s market” of sorts. Coconuts, mangos, plantains, pupusa stands, and just about anything and everything you would expect at a flea market. They cover about one-third of the pier with tarps – like a covered bridge – and set up a bustling fish-market. Guaranteed fresh, direct from the pangas which launch from the end of the pier. I tried some fresh ceviche, after a great sales pitch from a beautiful local woman (even though I had an irrational fear of Salvadoreño ceviche from an outbreak of something that happened back in 2000). Out of town families were everywhere – walking the pier, buying street-food, staring at the fresh, whole fish (most of the time the fish won those staring contests), and generally having a great time.

I practiced mi español with whomever wanted to talk, figured out how to ask for hydrogen peroxide at the store (agua oxygena), and decided to have dinner in town.

I am a little paranoid in La Libertad, given its reputation for gangs, drugs, theft, murder and general unpleasantness. Walking around after dark is not recommended. After dinner, I approached the first cab-driver on the town square. Ramon looked to be in his late fifties, and wore coke-bottle-thick glasses (with the 50´s style thick black frames). I asked Ramon how he was and he replied, “mas o menos”, anxiously (”more or less” – an ambivalent reply). Ramon´s truck was a thing of beauty: a pearlescent reddish paint job, fancy chrome rims, lowered, a roll bar, dark tinted windows, and an “air wing” on the back of the bed to keep the back end glued to the road going through those high-speed turns. After we start driving, Ramon asks if I like music, and cranks up the 80´s power ballads (Love Hurts, followed by Heartache). My chest is reverberating with about 400 watts of woofers – but not a tweeter to be heard. I compliment Ramon on how fuerte his stereo sounds – and he turns the volume down. I try to joke about how dark his window tint is – and he grabs a towels and starts smearing condensation over the inside of the scratched-and-tinted windshield.

The humor was not translating.

Ramon was really anxious. I was slowly beginning to understand why.

Ramon could not see.

I could barely see the road – and I have nearly perfect vision.

All I could see were the headlights of oncoming cars, the lane lines extending maybe 50-60 feet in the distance, and the street signs from 100 feet away.

It was dark. The windshield was tinted near black. The tint was heavily scratched, and the inside of the windshield was dirty.

Pedestrians and bicyclists on the side of the road? They would suddenly materialize out of the dark whem we were about 30 feet away.

When we were 10-15 feet away (from pedestrians) – Ramon would see them and sharply swerve towards the center of the road – as if he were suprised.

We drove 30 mph all the way back – with other cars honking and flashing lights and passing us at 50-60mph.

Ramon seemed truly relieved when we arrived at el Mangle´ – as was I.

Meeting the man behind the man behind the man)

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I woke up as the plane was making it´s final descent, and would you mind putting your seat into the upright position please?

My brain was filled with sand, my cold felt a lot worse – and worst of all I had missed getting the immigration paperwork.

Looking out the window, I could see point after point with swell wrapping in perfectly. The swell lines could be seen to the horizon in the low morning light. Suddenly, I didn´t feel so bad.

Somehow, I made it through customs. The officer would ask me a question in Spanish – which made no sense to me in my foggy state. As I stared at him, trying to remember mi español - I heard another part of my brain control my mouth and say “dos semanas“.

Guillermo was nice enough to stop at Punta Roca so we could check the surf on the way in (a little sideshore wind at 8:30am, but solid swell).

Finally! Playa Tunco! Punta Sunzal! el Mangle´! Except that I could not check in for four more hours – and I was still wearing jeans.

No problemo, me and my jeans-wearing self had breakfast (desayuna tipico), walked the point to check the surf and dozed sweatily in a hammock.

Only problem – my cold was having it´s way with me. Feverish, sweating, coughing, runny nose… just keep drinking water and sweating… esta´ bien… tranquilo…

The second I finally checked in – trunks on, in ocean to swim, and to see what condition my condition was in.

Actually, nothing was going to keep me from surfing today. Unpack, attach fins, sunblock, hydrate and walking to the point at 2:30pm.

The surf was bumpy, a pack of six locals on the point with a few scattered gringos. Sets were solid overhead plus, with bigger sets approaching head-and-a-half and maybe bigger on the high tide.

I waited in line behind the locals – and managed to catch a few sets this way (plenty of waves for all). I drifted too far inside and the next really big set caught me. The third wave broke right in front of me, and when I turtled my board it turned into a kite and pulled me over the falls. My right arm was wrenched over my head – that didn´t feel good. I bellied to the beach and licked my wounds.

By 4pm, I was sweating and out cold in bed – and stayed that way until 9am the next morning.

Travels with Ramon)

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Friday was my last day of work. Actually, it was only a half day – I was leaving at noon to carpool to San Francisco International to catch the red-eye to San Salvador, El Salvador. Two weeks of surf to remember what not working feels like.

There was too much unfinished business to actually leave work. (What kind of sick statement is that?!?)

I had one more major meeting to attend – to deal with, among other things, my supervisor situation.

This was what I did NOT say during that meeting…

“Since I have been ordered to not distribute any sort of written document, unless it goes through my supervisor first – and I have been told to never disagree with my supervisor in front of anyone else… I propose that I go back to my office and try to finish up work so I can leave for vacation on time. I also propose to leave this cardboard cutout of myself here instead. Notice the articulating “speech bubble”. It says, “Yes, I agree!”. The string to operate this I will leave with my supervisor.”

Instead, over the last two days – others have begun to support my position.

The majority of members of that committee had my back. I did not have to say a thing. Others brought up the issues that affected them. My supervisor was asked if he was going to support the system plan that I had written up (that represented the original direction before he got here anyways). His response was the quietest, most mealy-mouthed “yes” that I had ever heard him speak.

I had won a battle, but who knows where the war will go next…

Doesn´t matter – time to leave for vacation!

Just a few loose ends to tie up and I´m leaving at noon!

Except the data system had crashed in a new and unexpected way the day before. All of my time was dedicated towards training someone else to operate it – and trouble shoot the new processes.

It was not looking good.

Friday, 11:30am, the problem was found. I had to scramble to change some programming, write the procedure, and walk the new operator through the process step-by-step.

Friday, Noon. Stop by the office of the co-worker I was carpooling to San Francisco with. I open the door, say “Fifteen more minutes!”, and head back to my office.

Friday, 12:15pm. I finish each of the steps with my co-worker. We had written down a couple things to fix for Monday´s run – but everything had run successfully piecemeal. All I had to do now was run it as a batch process successfully and…

The power went out. For the entire institution.

I smiled.

I turned and left, telling everyone to have a good weekend. I told no one in particular, “I have friends in high places”, as I gathered my pack and board and left to meet my ride.

In their office, the joke was that I arranged the power outage so I could leave as planned. I did not deny it – nothing wrong with leaving them guessing.

No problems getting to the airport. The guy at the TACA counter said to me, “I´m not sure why so many go to Costa Rica to surf, El Salvador has much better waves.

Another good omen.

After that, nothing bothered me. The screaming kid? Earplugs. Freezing cold plane? Fleece and beanie (although I was cold, and I hardly slept – I asked for a blanket too late after they had run out).

The new south swell, peaking Friday afternoon through Saturday morning – is supposed to be double-overhead on the biggest sets. Someone from Roca Sunzal will be at the airport to pick me up at the airport – and with any (more) luck I´ll be in the water by 10am.

Solid surf, and sickness)

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Happiness is a learned condition.

When I travel by myself, friends and family often wonder if I´ve gone mad. They´re getting used to the idea, but many do not understand it.

It all depends on what you are looking to get out of your travel.

When traveling with friends/family/significant others, the focus of the good times is sharing experiences with those travel partners – a worthy cause. This reminds me of something an ex-girlfriend once said (who had a caustic sense of humor). We were looking at a friends´ travel photos – and the photos were awful. Every single one of the photos featured either one or both of them – and they took up the majority of each photo. It was so bad that we could hardly see the landscape/architecture/things that they were trying to photograph. After a while, the ex-girlfriend could no longer contain herself. As she received the next picture, she blurted out, “Oh look! Another picture of you with different lighting!”.

In some ways – that defines my thoughts on travel with friends/girlfriends/family. The relationship can easily become the center of attention – turning the travel experience into a series of places with different lighting. Of course, relationship-centered travel can be great. And sometimes people can travel with others and have minimal influence on each other. However, I know what I am getting into when I travel solo (and most do not have the flexibility and/or inclination to go on the type of trips that I like).

While traveling solo, I am taking a minimum of outside influences into my new location. All I really bring with me (besides a surfboard and a change of surf trunks) is my attitude. My attitude acts as a mirror – what I bring to a new location is reflected back to me by whoever I interact with (and likewise, I can reflect the attitude of those I talk with).

Happiness is a learned condition – like any attitude/outlook. Once you learn an attitude such as happiness (or any other attitude, including bad ones), it has momentum and can take effort to change.

Are Americans happy? Generaly not, from what I have seen at home and abroad. Americans have more of everything per capita than anywhere else the world – except happiness and health.

Traveling by myself is an opportunity to leave all of that behind for a moment – and attempt to learn how others live. Once I slough off my bad attitude from home and work – I get to “start over” with the attitude, and seek out interaction with happy people. Traveling is an opportunity to learn other cultural ways to live happily.

One of my first interactions here in El Salvador ended with a look that said “asshole tourist”. I was (and still am) sick with a cold from earlier in the week, I had been awake all night, and I had to wait four hours until I could check into my room (and I was wearing jeans from the day before). I had asked for a cup of coffee – but somehow it came across in the wrong way. After six months of dealing with an unpleasant work situation (with over a month of outright hostility) – my outward expression had turned negative. I had learned unhappiness, and the momentum had carried over to my vacation.

The sooner I unlearn my “under fire” attitude and re-learn happiness, the better off I will be. Luckily, I have planned a strict regimen of surfing, hammock time, and practicing my Spanish.

Luckily, I have usually been a good student.

Begin the Journey)

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