A Surfing trip through Central America in the 90s'. Surf, fresh fish, and bar after bar, but the local charm would wear off, all around were hustlers, pimps, and guns. I remember the ones in Costa Rica the best. At some point, there was some degree of nakedness, usually the funny kind.
But as the nights wore on, the local charm would wear off. The cute local chica your friend was talking to would turn out to be a hooker. And whereas there was someone peddling dirt weed in every town, now we were being offered darker demons. All around were hustlers, pimps, and guns. It was the 90s and the land grab was on โ North Americans, South Americans, Australians, and Europeans buying up farms and coastlines in this Latin world.
Unchecked resorts were growing faster than infrastructure. The coastal villages that surfers had turned into simmering party towns were boiling over with vice. Fast forward to last January. The accommodations are clean and affordable. The staff is friendly, but not awkwardly so. This is a perfect spot to get footage of team riders and work on branding for the coming year.
San Dino International Airport in Managua, we all seem to prefer being off the gringo trail. But every day in Nicaragua on this short recent voyage unearths memories of that road trip we took 15 years ago. A few childhood friends and I had bought a big Ford Econoline and went bumping through seven dusty countries for six months. We were rushed by bulls, shaken down by corrupt officials, struck down by bacteria, and engulfed in political debates with Peace Corps kids.
We also snowboarded in Colorado, trekked the Grand Canyon, surfed our way through Mexico, visited Mayan ruins in Guatemala, survived El Salvador, got lost on dirt roads in Nicaragua, did six weeks of waves, volcanoes, and jungles in Costa Rica before the long drive home. It was the kind of trip that shapes who you are.
