From Guatemala it’s a six hour bus ride to
a cool surf town on the El Salvadorean coast, or a sixteen hour bus ride to
skip through the country all together. I
had no intention of skipping through, as I knew there were waves. Many others had every intension to skip
through. Bit of a shame really, but then
fewer crowds are always nice.
The country is ranked the murder capital of
the world, a viable reason to avoid it, maybe.
It’s also, surrounded by violent neighbours of Belize, Honduras, and
Guatemala which are in the top five.
It’s been twenty-four years since the civil war ended but multiple daily
murders continue and migrants continue to flee in the hope for a better
life. Many succeed in starting a new
life that’s safe and comfortable.
Although, occasionally it’s not uncommon to meet those who’ve been
deported. I guess it’s hard to kick old
habits, get caught up with the wrong crowd, or simply drink drive where bribes
no longer mean anything. The gangs
continue to recruit members because many feel there is nowhere else to go, no
other family. The political system is no
better. The violence affects the poorest
populations the most. They are driven
out of their homes, living under constant threat because they are easy targets with
limited choices. The ones that are lucky
enough to have a higher education take the opportunity to leave as soon as they
can, where they find an income that their own country would never be able to
provide. With a lot of the educated gone
and tourist avoidance, the economy continues to plummet, the political system
sheds little light for change, leaving the rest to struggle unable to break the
cycle. That’s the situation in a
nutshell, but nowhere is really safe from harm.
My very first trip over seas, years ago,
the Australian government were urging people not to go and airlines were
refunding tickets. We went anyway. It was an awesome surfing holiday, where I
immediately shifted the warnings to the back of my mind. At ground level, everyday life continues. The media love to highlight the horror in the
world. Why don’t we hear of the beauty
of spring arriving with thousands of flowers in bloom, or the wonderful
festivals held around the world? If you
need drama, then what about the thousands of humans saved every year from the
work that thousands of others do? Of
course some places are more dangerous than others, but looking at statistics it
shows that most harm is caused by someone known. So, whilst I had nothing to do with gangs and
drug wars, I felt very safe surfing El Salvadore’s fun stretch of
coastline. Every country is someone’s
home, someone’s culture, with landscape different to the next. It is all part of the worlds picture. Everyone, every place has something to offer. As it turned out, El Salvadore had some of
the kindest people of all of Central America.
It’s like the theory, its better for your car to break down on a quiet
road rather than a busy one, because on a busy road people will always assume
someone else will help. In a dangerous
country, the general population goes out of their way to help.
We settled in a small surf town, where
whatever tourists did go to El Salvadore, would go there. We met other travelers and locals. On weekends it would turn into a bustling
party vibe for the locals from the city.
Friday and Saturday nights the streets would fill with a mix of blaring
reggaton from the different bars as they compete for customers to take up their
‘ladies night’ offers. A small group of
us found it more entertaining to buy cheap beer from the local store and sit in
the street watching the mayhem unfold. Some
nights we seen live music. Although, the
Rolling Stones will now never be the same for me as one old guy cleared the
bar. The El Salvaoreanos were always keen
to mingle, there was no ‘them’ or ‘us’.
The party would spill out onto the beach were we played drums and danced
salsa by a fire. During the week the
town would calm down. The city folk
would return to work, tourists would pass through, and the locals partly open
stores as they pleased. We had a cheap
place to stay, were I was happy to be able to cook but also found delicious and
cheap pupusas, the national specialty.
The days were super chilled, with a long point break to play and the locals
were always up for a chat in the water.
In the afternoons the black sand would start to cool down and the El
Tunco rock would be an attraction to watch the bold, pink sun set behind.
The beach town was the local’s holiday
destination with only a small live in population. One day we wanted to see what ‘real’ El
Salvadore was like. This meant venturing
into the capital. We wandering the
streets a little lost to find something of interest so we asked for directions.
To our skepticism the guy offered to
finish his work for the day, despite it still being the morning, to take us on
a tour of his city. So far we were out
of luck and he seemed genuinely nice. Sometimes you just have to trust your
instincts so we jumped in his car. It
turned out to be a great day and amazing insight into the culture. Rodrigo drove us to a volano, to an artsy
district, and into the city centre. He
warned us the centre is where the majority of violence occurs, but that it was
more dangerous for him than tourists. The
streets were lively, filled with market vendors that blocked the roads and
filled the pavement. The usual Central
American town square was full of people sitting on park benches having lunch,
beggars, and children having ice-creams.
Next to the town square was a
beautiful grand church that stood amongst this city of violence. El Salvadore, meaning ‘The Saviour’, a highly
religious country filled with crosses and shrines to the lord but with so much
violence. It makes me wonder, how can
that be? Is the religion cherished so
much because that’s a place to turn to amongst the violence, or have people
completely lost their way as to what their god stands for? As i've traveled and experienced many different religions, it becomes obvious that people will always pick and choice the rules they wish. So, in a world of so many rules, are there really rules at all? Interpretation can be a strange things sometimes. Our day in the city had come to an end. Rodrigo didn’t ask for anything in return,
just the hope that we could enjoy his city.
We were thankful for the generosity and insight. He turned our likely boring day, into an
eye-opening venture. It was capturing to
hear his eagerness to want more for his country. Rodrigo was one who had had the higher education
overseas but come back to try put something into his country. He knew he was part of a minority but he had
determination and passion for the hope that one day the next generation might bring
change.
We visited other coastal towns, continuing
to do exactly as we pleased day by day. It
wasn’t surf season but there were still waves and I was happy to be back in the
ocean and sunshine.
Nicaragua unfortunately was filled with
frustrations. I wasted days, turning
into weeks, trying to sort out my Indian visa.
I come in close proximity to imagining what life would be like to
actually live in Central America. When traveling, it doesn’t matter so much about time. When trying to get something done it seemed
hopeless, even for what you would think to be a basic task. The theme of frustrations however did seem to go hand-in-hand with amazing generosity.
I spent days in massive bank lines trying to get a cash cheque, lucky if
a bank knew what a cheque was but at the same time a guy spent hours out of his
working day to stand in line with me and try help. Another time we locked the keys in our
accommodation and the usual street noise of barking dogs, car alarms, and buses
drowned out our knocking and yelling. Then
a lady notices and helped us by searching around town asking someone, who knew
someone, who knew the owner to unlock the door for us. This was definitely the slowest country to
get a meal. Each meal we spent hours
waiting for food, but by this time I was well addicted to refried beans and plantans. Like most of Central, there is massive
overuse of plastic that all ends up polluting the landscape. Nicaragua is one of the safer countries of
Central though and to hitch a ride in the back of a truck was common. I come to the conclusion that the majority of people are
lovely, just no idea on efficiency.
After travelling Central for a while now I
had seen my share of volcanoes and colonial cities. All I was interested in was finding waves
because I knew before too long I would be without it. Gus and I had been on the hunt for the
perfect beach location and had not quite found it yet. We were hopeful for three criteria; cheap,
good surf, and a nice beach. It was only
in my last week of being in Central that we finally found our perfection,
Popoyo beach. There was miles of beach,
multiple breaks, cheap accommodation, and it was quiet just full of surfers. After all the frustrations, the tiresome of
being on the road, I couldn’t help but wish we found it sooner but was just
glad we found it at all. Gus and I had
unintentionally spent everyday together for months now. We didn’t look ahead, rather each day we
found ourselves traveling in the same direction. He said he learnt so much from me, and I was
content in his company.
I don’t think either of us realized just how much we came used to the
company by our side. As one day turned
into the next suddenly our paths were to split, with no knowledge of when or if
we would ever see each other again.
That’s the thing with travel. You
meet people along the way. They join
your journey, or you join theirs just when it’s needed. For whatever reason or whatever lessons, you
share a wonderful bond in extraordinary experiences and when there’s the fork
in the road, its never less part of the journey, forever the more enriched. It was a tough good-bye and I knew I had a tough journey ahead.
