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travel

Wipeout Central: Off-Season in Nicaragua

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Wipeout Central: Off-Season in Nicaragua

Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
— E. E. Cummings
Dawn patrol at El Yankee before getting crushed by barrels. 

Dawn patrol at El Yankee before getting crushed by barrels. 

I've been holding back a lot lately in the waves and I don't know why. A few weeks back I had a killer trip to the Pacific and was going for it, without fear, and reaping — er, ripping? — the benefits. But something changed when I got back home: suddenly I was pulling back on each wave, second-guessing and over-analyzing my every move. 

Was it that the waves were easier where I had been? Or was it being in a different place altogether, without the eyes of the people that I know? Either way, another surf trip seemed the obvious solution and I was due for a new stamp on my passport...

Are you familiar with the concept of a border run?

While we're super blessed with powerful passports that let us have unplanned tourist visas to pretty much any country, there is a time limit to how long they'll let us dick around inside their borders. And while three months in a place may sound like a long vacation to some, us permanent travelers and over-sea dwellers find it a little constricting. But without a foreign resident visa, we're required to leave and re-enter in order to renew our visas every 90 days. So why not make a surf trip out of it?

The waves are pumping on the Caribbean side right now so we headed for Bocas del Toro, Panama, one rainy dawn morning. There's been a lot of drama at this border recently after an illegal passport-stamping scheme was busted. One of our crew was denied access for having a suspicious stamp so, after a long and dramatic near-arrest (not her first one!), we accepted defeat and headed back for Costa Rica. This time with five days to spare before her visa would expire. 

So, ummm, Nicaragua? Porque no!

In Nica, it's currently the season for blasting offshore winds of nearly 30 mph — the kind that make it hard to even see where you're surfing cause there's so much back-spray in your eyes. There also wasn't much swell, and what waves we could find were crowded beyond function. So we went and harassed some locals at a surf shop into taking us to some better, emptier waves.

Nena Belen of  TuCamino Travel  skateboarding around the surf shop... SDJS has lots of fun, paved hills.

Nena Belen of TuCamino Travel skateboarding around the surf shop... SDJS has lots of fun, paved hills.

Well, apparently all our frothing made us appear a touch more advanced than we really are, cause we arrived the next dawn to a fast-barreling wedge. Well, shit. Guess we gotta at least try, no? 

A wedge is a strange thing, a magical meeting of two waves at opposing angles, creating a very cool and confusing wave. We barely had time to sort it out and get some wipeouts in before a whole crew of talented, back-paddling bros showed up. We cut our session short after being frustrated by a lack of wave-sharing.

But we both dreamed of the wedge that night. And again the night after. A crowded day at one of the easier breaks had us ready for another try. This time it was barely waist high, so no barrels were really on offer, but there was nothing serious to be afraid of either.

I'm not gonna' lie, we ate it... a lot. But we also went for it.

The beauty of a wipeout is it represents a risk taken — a willingness to push yourself. Sure you chance failure, but if you don't venture out there, you also chance missing out on greatness. 

And so, now back home in the waves I know so well, I'm going for it again. A little confidence and a lot of audacity go a long way. 

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Sticky Fingers

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Sticky Fingers

"You shall find out how salt is the taste of another man's bread, and how hard is the way up and down another man's stairs." - Dante Alighieri

Living with other families is strange. I always knew it was hard to live with other people (roommates, boyfriends, etc) but another family is a whole different story. You really get a chance to see just how thoroughly different other people are from you. Their eating habits, laundry routine, the way they say good morning/goodnight/I love you — everything is alien to the way you conceive as home.

You know that smell of another persons’ house? That strangeness that you know is their particular aroma and it fascinates yet concerns you? Every experience is like that smell.

That said, I truly enjoy the place I am now. I live on a under a thatched roof on a wallless platform that contains only a bed, mosquito net, and a shelf. Yet I don’t have the choice to play music in the workspace, and I miss it. I don’t have the freedom to twerk all over the damn place, and I miss that too. Nor is there a suitable location to practice yoga (except the beach, which is not all that bad, obviously). 

 

I am learning; maybe not as much about bread making as I might have imagined a live-in apprenticeship at a bakery would teach me, but about work itself and being part of a small, local business. I am learning about bread-making too, though this type is childlike, occurring slowly through observation and by mirroring the work of the skilled hands around me. It's humbling, tactile and pure.

When my hands first touched the dough they were foolish, clumsily gumming their way through spongy masses of gluten. I couldn’t keep the dough from sticking to every part of my hand — like having the hand of a gecko — as I pulled pieces away to weigh each individual loaf. And attempting to pull correct weights was a process in itself. It is important to consider that for an imperial system-trained mind to suddenly work in the metric system feels impossible; trying to change the brain from cooking by volume to cooking by weight is a drastic shift.

However, it is beginning to work even if I still can’t wrap my brain around it logically. At first, when I pulled a piece that was the correct weight, I knew it was a fluke, whereas for the others around me it was expertise. Now I'm beginning to understand the difference between the various doughs of bleached and whole grain. They rise at different rates, require different approaches with your hands, and have drastically different weights by volume.

Waiting for the last load of loaves to be ready to come out of the oven...


I’ve learned too that whole grain bread has very little whole grain flour in it (or at least here); the ratio of white to wheat is somewhere around 4:1. Not so whole after all. And I question the health and sustainability of bread as a food in a region where it can’t be grown effectively. I desire to challenge this system... Yet the question is: am I here to change the world or only to witness it?

I know that right now I’m in a place where I have to observe, to see how things work with as little judgment as I can muster. Then one day when I am in a place to influence, I can do so with more understanding. Not just of food itself, but of how everyday people interact with and are affected by it.

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TRY GOOGLING: HOW TO ILLEGALLY CROSS BORDERS

"Never look back unless you are planning to go that way." - Henry David Thoreau

I sit cross-legged on the musty couch, weighed down by the yellow light that presses from the singular ceiling bulb. Black flies buzz on windowsills and geckos chirp, more distinct than the drone of traveler’s conversation that pools around me. I'm not in the mood for company but there is only one hour of Internet in the evening and the signal doesn’t reach up to my bed in the attic's dormitory.

A couple days rest in this lagoon-nestled hostel is necessary but I'm anxious to get back on the road so I can make it back to Mexico in time for my flight. So I sit, scouring message boards for information on how to illegally cross the Guatemalan border.

A comically strong Australian accent leaps into my right ear as I realize I’m being addressed. I look over into the leathered, lined face from which glimmer the little aqua eyes of the proprietor. “Right-o, miss, I always take the right opportunity to find out where everyone comes from, what they’re about, and where they’re going.”

After probing me for my tale, he proves as knowledgeable as he is interesting, loaded with details on every Guatemalan border and stories of traveling the world by boat. Layered in swaths of Aussie slang, I get the lowdown on three border exit points that will hopefully spare my limited funds from being exhausted by paying off border guards. I had asked other hostels, travel agencies and locals along the way, seeking advice on what to do if you’ve managed to miss the exit station of one country (because you wanted to save money by walking to the border instead of taking a taxi) as well as the entrance to the next one (because the borderline is actually a loosely defined patch of geography navigated by two hours travel by both boat and bus). In every instance I was laughed at heartily, “¿Ilegal en Guatemala? Cómo es posible?” but given no answers.

Thankfully, this salty old fella’ has some insight for me, but I'm no more at ease than before. As expected, it will all come down to how much I am willing to pay to have my passport issue overlooked, or how adventurous I am feeling to try and avoid borders altogether. Here are my options to consider:

 1. “The Most Expensive.” Go on the gringo trail. Via Flores and east to Belize,which I know as I took it the year before. But to deal with the pricey, invented border fees that exist there even without passport issues, plus cross through multiple countries, would only be worth it to go back to Caye Caulker. Already feeling the strain of one mosquito-born illness, I figured it was a lot of hassle to head straight into the thicket of buzzers during wet season. 

 2. “The Most Time Lost.” Go back the way I came. It’ll take me back through Flores for another overnight on the miniscule island, back through the border town where I spent my lovely night sleeping on the porch clutching my knife, and racing toward a night bus which I may or may not make in time. Then it’s still 18 hours ride to the Caribbean coast of Mexico. The upside is I know the lay of the land and can avoid passport scrutiny due to the less than defined nature of that border. 

 3. “The Most Mysterious.” Head through Flores to a lesser-known northern crossing, mostly used by Guatemalan day laborers and errand-goers who cross to the more developed Mexican town on the other side. I am assured by the Australian sailor that it is a lax border. In the mornings and evenings no IDs are even considered as people are allowed to move through the gates in large groups. From there a few buses can get me to an overnight bus to the east where my flight to the US awaits me.

The latter option seems the most viable and I finally retire, exhausted, to my netted bed upstairs. The only other person going to bed as early as I am is pre-grade school.  

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Kombucha, Kombucha, Kombucha

"Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity." - Hippocrates

My breakfast just arrived at my table, a large goblet of unnaturally pink yogurt pooled around layers of banana and granola. I long for real yogurt so intensely that I close my eyes and picture it in the aisle from the health food store. Those large white cylinders, words promising well-being glinting under the reflected fluorescent lights. My vision blends with a memory from sleep, draws from my brain a fraction of last night's dream.

I am running through an enormous, gleaming health food store, wildly pulling things from the shelf and tossing them ecstatically into the grocery cart. Sauerkraut! Yogurt! Chia! Kombucha, kombucha, kombucha!

Why can't I be where I am? Why can't I enjoy the present moment? I have arrived at my destination, the pilgrimage nearly complete. I am eating the aforementioned pink yogurt on a breezy veranda overlooking the rushing river at the base of Semuc Champey, that most glorious mecca for which I have longed. So I suck it up, take a deep breath, see out instead of seek within and head out to finally see the falls. 

The glorious falls. The cliffs to jump from. The friends I make, climbing an hour deep into a cave with nothing but stubby candles in one hand, held above the water while we swim through black, icy depths with the other. The splif we smoke on a rocky outcrop as the fog descends on us with the dusk, and we try to do nothing but laugh for five minutes. 

And I begin to remember what it feels like to enjoy traveling. But I also know that it requires a strength and well-being that I lost with that fever. The dreams of health food aren't something to be ashamed of, they are the call of my subconscious telling me to stop acting like an explorer and start acting like a patient. 

I move the date of my flight back to The States up by two weeks.

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The Familiar and the Unknown

"You do not travel if you are afraid of the unknown, you travel for the unknown, that reveals you with yourself." - Ella Maillart

I have been to Flores before. On this tiny island in the lake — wound up in the central-most of its few streets — I have been in this very hostel before too. Almost exactly a year before I came here with a friend from Brooklyn half-way through a trans-Central American journey. Here the travelers' paths (lovingly coined the gringo trails) split into two common directions: 1) north-east through Tikal and on to Belize or 2) south to Semuc Champey and on to Honduras.

I hadn't intended to come back because, well, I'd already "done it", so to speak. And what I hadn't done the previous year was Semuc Champey. The promise of those seven magical, glittering waterfalls — that every vagabond had raved about after we had committed to Path 1 — has brought me back to Guatemala determined to get there so directly that I've made many missteps in my rush.

Deep down I know that the art of traveling is to flow from one place to the next. To move like a bead of water down the rocks, pooling where you are welcomed and trickling out where it is full. But what I know to do and what I can do don't always align. I'm stuck, stubborn, and starting to think I shouldn't be traveling. My body is depleted from the mysterious tropical fever back in Mexico. My spirit is broken because I allowed other people's opinions of me (my whiteness, my nationality, my motives) to define this journey, rather than just the experience of it. And mostly I'm completely lost about how to reset that.

So I will see the goddam gleaming falls of Semuc Champey, buy a ticket back to America, and be done with it.

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An Unusual Crossing

I’m a Barbie bandit, face tied in a pink scrap of fabric — hours earlier around my eyes to block the night’s floodlight — now slipped down over my nose and mouth. It could be 6 am or noon with the daylight so thoroughly shaded by the canopy of vine-snared branches. I search for my watch wrist, wound intricately in the thin sheets that have snapped away from the corners of the mattress. It’s 9:30 am, and much later than I’d like, but I pack swiftly and sacrifice breakfast, though largely only because I can’t tolerate another crap meal after I hear that the Internet isn’t working to distract me from it.

I still feel that I’m getting an early enough start, but it turns out that I’m not. The first two hours of my van ride I am able to distract myself by reading, but the carsickness settles over me like a fog, and I begin my lifelong tradition of trying to find something outside the window that doesn’t move. It all moves. Through my sunglasses the window bleeds in light in an ominous red, mutated by the overlapped layers of tints. The gray skin that has peeled from the corners whips desperately at the window, drumming a vibration, as it oscillates between adhesion and departure.

Here the land is more open, more farmed, and mounded with tree-dotted hills that would make Dr Seuss erupt in rhyme. I arrive in a little town and defiantly walk to the boats; I will not be overcharged once more. I was wrong, this is a very long hot walk; where’s that taxi? But feet work and I get to a broad brown river, where I am approached by a boy who seems simply helpful at first but is simply trying to sell me a boat ride. Something about this causes me to break, lip quivering, tears building behind sunglasses, as I relent to a lofty boat fare to Guatemala.

Deep breaths and the vibration of the motor soothe me to stillness, that kind of empty exhaustion a child feels after a fit has worn out. And I’m dropped at a muddy shore whose banks I climb tentatively, affected equally by its muddy slope and groups of men calling out, “Hello Blondie.” These calls are automatic, expressionless, vocal eruptions that lift the teeth from over the tongue, clattering shut once the force of air has passed. 

A rather nice local woman with startlingly blue eyes helps me change some money and book a bus ticket. I wait on the bench, reading, and when the transport is late I pull out my pillow and lay back. The sun splatters through the leaves even though it is raining at the same time. The hefty mango branches above me keep me dry and monkeys crawl down them to the ground to play with the dogs. Oh well if I get stuck; I’ll pop my tent in a field in this peaceful village and go in the morning. I smile at the charming little thought; how lovely life is! But the bus really doesn’t come and this is no longer a fantasy. Where will I sleep? 

A cement porch, it turns out, belonging to the friend of blue eye’s friend. I set up quickly under the single light bulb that dangles from an extension cord and the long line of male stares from next door. Once inside, I tie my pink cloth scrap over my nose and mouth to choke out the smoke from the nearby trash fires and then I’m asleep. 

Like all late afternoon naps, I awake in twilight, perplexed. And starving, but I still feel all those eyes still on me, and I resign myself to spoonful of nutritional yeast and a glass full of soluble fiber. I convince myself I can handle this. The morning bus comes at 6 am and I can survive that long. I try reading; try sleeping; my stomach squeals and whines, begging for more. I affix my valuables on my back and walk out into the night. 

 It’s only two blocks, but it unexpectedly requires me passing a cantina and it’s Saturday night. I head with as much not-weird speed as possible to the tienda across the street, and buy a “dinner” of chips and rehydrated soup. Some men venture near as I eat the half-cooked noodles, fork scratching, rubbery, at its Styrofoam walls. I pay and hurry home, though I am followed, calls begging my attention in my wake. Monotone, guttural, “Excuse me, baby, excuse me, excuse me, baby.” As always, the words eventually fall away with their owners, but I tie my tent’s interior zippers in double knots anyway. Inside I finally, ravenously, finish Lord of the Flies, finding it the appropriate final inspiration to clutch my knife to my chest as I slide into my sleeping bag. I hear grunts of nearby pigs as a dreamless sleep takes me. 

 I wake up to any sound that can be interpreted as footsteps, but eventually exhaustion grips me so hard that it holds me to the concrete with an otherworldly force. Around 3 am I noticed that my protective light bulb, swinging from its cord above me, has been turned off. Something is different this time, there really are footsteps slowly maneuvering the gravel. But that heaviness of sleep has taken over me and I fail to pull myself up from its depths. The knife is still in my hand but my grip is soft, tingling numbly with dreams. 

 I think I hear the sound of the pigs again but it’s snores. The full moon outlines two feet, gingerly crossed, pressing into the fabric of my tent, where they press rhythmically from the hammock that cradles the rest of their attached body. I consider both violence and sleep and the latter pulls at me, dragging me to the floor of my tent. I fight it feebly. 

 And then come the honks, furious, almost hilarious, as a bus careens through the streets in the dark. But I know I can’t break down my tent fast enough, and that mysterious body is still snoring outside. It’s only 4:30 am so I start packing softly inside, expecting another hour before the next bus. I don’t want to emerge unprotected from my fortress before then. And I time it almost right, but as I sit exposed outside, tent stowed away, the drunk unfolds himself from his hammock, stretches, and croaks, “Buenos días.” I nod, attempting that particular balance of politeness and non-engagement. He squints one eye, leans toward me, lips parted dryly. “Buenos. Días,” he says, drawn out, with force. I nod again, drawn out, with force. 

 The man stumbles off around a corner from which a bus emerges mere minutes later in an immense cloud of dust. My hand written ticket remains un-checked in my pocket as I climb on, joining the large number of men already headed toward work. Most of them attempt to sleep as I keep an eye out for the immigration station, which the bus rolls right past after a quick glance proves it empty. My driver informs me that it must be closed and shrugs when I ask if I’ll have trouble without having my passport stamped. I accept there’s nothing to be done except shrug along with him. I wedge my jacket against the window and join in the napping.  

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Mattresses in the Sand

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Mattresses in the Sand

I have long felt that the best thing about living in a place is leaving it. Even if just for a day, some perspective is refreshing. And movement is a catalyst, it activates and invigorates, generating creative energy. I have needed something to combat the stagnation, the sense of lifelessness that has surprised me in this beach "paradise."

On this day, I packed in under twenty minutes, post-surf and pre-breakfast, and I didn't want to go. I'm glad I did. I needed the motion.

In a car full of acquaintances, we headed on a generally unplanned trip in search of a so-called circus in the nearby town of Mazunte. We scouted a beach, rumored to be empty enough to camp on, and found it entirely perfect for the goal. We went back to town, most drank too much mezcal, none could see the circus through the crowd, all ate tacos, wandered to a dance party, and at some point made it to our beach. 

I don't know how, because I was sleeping in the back of the truck, snuggled soundly with a stocky pit bull. I had thrown in the towel after a dreadlocked drunk stumbled over his singular Birkenstock to demand that I dance with him or I would prove myself a square. Happy to be a square this night, I gratefully accepted sleep while those more energetic than I kept working at the dance floor. 

In the morning I emerged from my tent to find everyone entwined around the remnants of the campfire. After playing in the surf, topless sun-bathing and cowboy coffee we made our way home — I rested, the others exhausted — all glad to have had an experience outside the routine.

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The Surf Gods

“Surfing, alone among sports, generates laughter at its very suggestion, and this is because it turns not a skill into an art, but an inexplicable and useless urge into a vital way of life.” - Matt Warshaw

I now know what any surfer can tell you: there is no experience more spiritual than being with the waves.

On the night before, we rented boards and went to sleep early, excited to visit an uninhabited beach with waves rumored to be even more wonderful than those of the beach on which we were sleeping on. At 5:30 am, 15 minutes before my alarm and 45 before sunrise, I awoke ready to go. In the darkness before dawn it was still cold so I pulled my shorts and sweatshirt on over my bikini. Out on the street I met the others, all bed-headed and rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. 

The five of us stacked our boards on top of the taxi we had prearranged and crammed ourselves into the four seats. We arrived at the break, La Barra, with only the slightest hint of light in the sky, stars still bright enough to reflect on the surface of the estuary and an honest-to-goodness white horse grazing untethered in the mist. I felt my cellphone in my pocket, pulled it out and took the most beautiful photo of my pals leaning on their boards against the backlight of the rising sun. 

It's the last thing my phone would ever do. At this moment I discovered that we would have to swim across a deep outlet to get to the beach and there was no way my bundle of clothing I had brought for warmth could possibly stay dry. And so I sacrificed my phone to the surf gods. 

I was rewarded by catching my first wave ever in the wild rush of some very powerful surf (such that probably should have injured me), emerging unscathed and exhilarated. Sitting on our boards out behind the breaking waves, we watched the sun, bright as blood, rise over the edge of the ocean. And over and over the sea took me and my shit-eating grin down, let me test the strength of my lungs while it held me under before spinning me back out into the air. 

After an hour of furious paddling and gallons of seawater in my nose I swam to shore, much closer to God, or death, or whatever it is that I felt more strongly present than ever before. 

Perhaps it’s good that I can’t share any photos from this day, and that I can’t look at any of them for myself. I remember the day more viscerally than I could if I had looked at it through a lens. 

And now every day without my phone is some kind of blessing.  I’m liberated from a kind of pressure to be reachable on a level that is unnatural. Every day, the only thing I’m now responsible to is my own gut instinct, without research or influence — just a glance at the water and what it calls for me to do in it. 

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