Central American Summer Pt. 1 - Venturing Beyond The Bubble

There it was, the silver Sony handheld camera - a little bigger than my fist, state of the art in the early 2000s. It had a flip-out side screen and it stored memories, somehow mysteriously, on a black strip of tape wound up in mini plastic cassettes. There were several of these cassettes in the side pocket, and one was labeled "Morro Negrito."

"Oh my," I thought, "Our high school graduation surf trip... This could either be great, or absolutely terrible."

I'm "home", out in the desert. It's possibly the worst place for someone who wants to call themselves a surfer. Our two-story track home at the end of the coldesac is a place I've never wanted to call home; but I don't have a better word for it. This is the house where I spent my most formative years, mainly the puberty transition from boy to man.

This is where my parents still spend most of their time and where my family gathers each Thanksgiving. After my dad retired, I had hoped they'd move to the coast full-time. My dad could surf more, they'd be spared the oppressive summer heat, and I could finally cut my ties from the desert. But their dreams weren't aligned with mine, so the desert remains our family's home base.

Every year though, a bit stubbornly, I find myself hating the desert a little less. The nostalgia of my middle and high school years grows as I conveniently forget or wisely learn to laugh at the foolishness of my teen years. More valuable, though, is a growing appreciation for the desert's beauty, taking advantage of hikes and poolside relaxation I never had time for when I was younger. Returning from a surf trip, I also take delight in the little things I used to take for granted: drinkable tap water, smooth roads, reliable WiFi, and a big refrigerator with random Costco delights like a giant block of cheddar cheese.

Home is always a little nicer when I've been away.

My biggest beef with the desert, however, is that there are no waves. Without access to waves, there's no surfing, forecasting, or otherwise prepping for or recovering from a session, which leaves me with a lot of free time. After a hike, a chunk of cheese, and a swim, there isn't much left to do. This is when I start following little rabbit holes into the past - a yearbook, a photo album... and on this particular afternoon, the family camcorder.

I found the camcorder under the giant flat-screen TV. Someone must have been playing with it. As soon as I saw it I knew it held some awkward moments I'd be tempted to destroy. It would have been best to ignore it, but my curiosity about what I had forgotten and the potential for a few hidden gems was too much to resist. I tentatively opened the bulky black case that protected the camera and peered in, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. No one was.

I hooked the camera up to the TV. Miraculously, it worked. The camcorder was charged, and my parents still had a DVD player with the old-school AV plugin jack—the one with three circular plugs: white, red, and yellow. Just like that, the past came back in color, with audio. Clips from our first surf trip, a high school graduation gift from our parents, had resurfaced old memories with a level of detail that made me nervous.

Would my ego's selectively edited version of the past hold up with this new evidence? Not likely... I braced for the reality check.

Bursting The Bubble

Clips from the camcorder trigger memories I didn't know existed. Suddenly I'm reliving the trip.

I remember being overwhelmed from the moment we stepped out of baggage claim with our board bags and backpacks. It was hot and humid. The smell of exhaust was thick. People were moving all around us in every direction as I stood stunned. In front of us, repurposed American school buses rolled by just slow enough to allow passengers to throw their bags in and jump on without the bus having to stop.

The buses were tricked-out from front to back and top to bottom, airbrushed with bright colors - mostly depicting religious figures. Big silver horns that looked like long trumpets ran along the hood, giant exhaust pipes extended up the back, and colorful tassels hung from behind the mud-flaps. Every possible aspect of the bus was modified. Every inch used to squeeze in another decoration, apparently in an effort to attract more attention and win more business. Many of the buses even had the front windshield painted, leaving just enough space at the bottom for the driver to see through.

Lights and reggaeton poured out from inside - they looked like discotecas on wheels. Helpers hung out from the front door yelling out in Spanish, presumably trying to attract passengers. Were these party buses or a valid mode of transportation?

I started sweating immediately, partly from the tropical humidity, partly from shock.

I turned to my friend, Chris, and asked nervously, "What are we doing, dude? We're not getting on one of those things, are we?" My daydreams of perfect, empty waves had not included an acid-trip school bus ride.

We took a taxi to our hotel in the city, trusting the driver would find the address we had written down on a piece of paper. He did.

I was relieved to be within the confines of our dingy hotel. My friends, however, were invigorated by the chaos. They were ready for more. Chris and Derrick ventured out to find the Hooters they'd MapQuested before leaving home. It was just a few blocks away - a short walk. I stayed in the hotel room with my stepbrother Cody. I don't remember what his reasoning was. I used the excuse that I was tired from the travel, but was actually afraid of the unknown.

My dad's voice was perpetually in the back of my head. He was the judge I would answer to if things ever went wrong. If I was going to do something even remotely risky or borderline illegal, I needed to have an airtight case. Before I could justify taking action, I would need to have a plausible excuse I could pitch to him in the event that I got caught. If I was ever uncertain about the strength of my case, I'd err on the side of caution and back down. The ever-presiding judge inside my head kept me out of a lot of trouble as a kid... but how often had it held me back from a harmless, yet fun activity?

On our first night I was too overwhelmed by the noise, smells, and heat to play out all the potential ways a trip to Hooters in Panama city could go wrong and prepare alibis for them. So I sat in the damp hotel room with my stepbrother, hoping our friends would make it back alive, and we could get back to the version of the trip I'd been imagining: clear, warm waters, zero crowds, and stoked sessions with my best friends.

They returned, of course, buzzed and excited with stories of a wild scene. They had seen a strip club, a hooker, and had been served by beautiful waitresses who were overjoyed to flirt with a few young Americans. Who knows how valid their reports were... Everything we experienced was through a sophomoric, testosterone-fueled lens—we had big imaginations and little real-world experience. I beat myself up for not going. I felt like I was failing at being a "good surfer"—the guys on tour would have been out all night doing drugs and chasing women, not holed up in a hotel room. Did those guys not have a stern father in their head to answer to?

In hindsight, perhaps this feeling of failure spurred me to go beyond my comfort zone in future travels. I can't say with any level of confidence whether it was in an effort make up for my initial folly, the fear of making the same mistake again, or just a little more confidence to ignore the imaginary judge. Either way, I'd certainly make up for it over the next two summers.

The footage from Cody's camera reel starts the next day on our charter bus ride from Panama City out to a pickup point for the surf camp. Of course, amongst all the 50-plus seats on the bus, we were seated next to two girls around our age. One was all made up, an overt effort to attract attention, just like the wild buses. Long pink nails, full makeup, wedges, and tight jeans—the works. Cody was filming, giddy with excitement, pushing me to ask the girls more and more questions. I was shy and nervous, but was the only one who had taken high school Spanish seriously and could string together a few broken sentences. Luckily, the girls were as curious about us as we were about them, and we had a typical teenage interaction, asking basic questions and laughing awkwardly after every answer.

After the girls got off at an unmarked stop in what seemed to be the middle of the jungle, we returned to watching the scenery out the window. We passed horse-drawn carts, roadside stands selling fruit and chips, and goats, chickens, and dogs roaming freely. Was this what the rest of the world was like? I felt for the first time that now-familiar feeling of traveling into new lands—a nervous excitement, an acknowledgment that the world was far bigger and stranger than I had ever imagined.

Surf Camp Dynamics

The surf camp was a closer match to my daydreams than the initial 24hrs in Panama. It was a classic setup: little cabins with beds covered in mosquito nets, a communal dining area, and a cooler of cold beers priced at 50 cents each. You kept a running tally on a whiteboard and paid at the end of the trip. I think we were just as excited about the beer as we were about the waves.

Two boats shuttled us to various breaks, and the surf was, indeed, as good as advertised. We had a wide variety of waves to choose from: a classic beach break at the rivermouth, a powerful reef break called Nestle's Crunch which was the swell magnet, and a more mellow point break around the corner called Leftovers. We spent most of our time at Leftovers.

There were three other groups at the camp. One group of older guys were from Santa Cruz... what luck... I was preparing to go to UC Santa Cruz the following fall. It was an awkward introduction, as everyone knew how much the local Santa Cruz surfers hated Banana Slugs - the university’s peculiar mascot. But the guys were cool about it. They didn't give me any flak... but also weren't offering any assistance. One reluctantly said I'd be okay up there as long as I stayed out of people's way. It was a small vote of confidence and I'd need every bit I could get. I'd soon find his advice to be mostly accurate.

There was also a crew of beginners who, to my great relief, were even worse at surfing than I was. One of my fears going into the trip was that I would be the worst surfer at the camp. Despite having surfed for years at that point, my turns were weak and inconsistent. I could get into waves and point my nose down the face, but had very little ability to control the board enough to stay in the pocket. I'd later discover that along with my surf ego, my surf board was holding me back. I was proudly riding a board I had shaped and glassed myself.

Lucky for me, some of the other surfers were still trying to master the takeoff. Having other beginners around meant I wouldn't be the only one at Leftovers when the swell came in.

To break the ice between the guests who didn't know each other coming in, the surf guide held a "Wave of the Day" award each night at dinner. The winner from the previous day would pick the new winner and explain their choice. I desperately wanted my surfing to be recognized and thereby validated, but I secretly hoped no one would choose me so I wouldn't have to speak in front of everyone. The threat of speaking in front of the group would weigh on me all day. Sitting in the dining room, I'd rehearse who I'd pick and what I'd say, all while sipping a beer and trying to shrink out of sight during the award ceremony.

To both my relief and dismay, I was never selected. Actually, no one from our crew was except Chris, for his ballsy move to surf Nestle's Crunch one day with one of the Santa Cruz bros - the only guy gnarly enough to charge it. The rest of us continued on around the corner to Leftovers.

The following day, when it was Chris' turn to give out the wave of the day award, I thought I'd be in contention. I'd had a few good waves at Leftovers and I knew Chris had seen at least one or two. It would have been high praise from one of the best surfers in our group. But in an act that baffles all of us to this day, he chose Mia, who had barely caught a wave all week. She was surprised herself but played it off coolly. Our only explanation was that he was hoping to get in her good graces—again, almost everything was motivated by our post-puberty sexual desires. It never panned out for him, but it's given us a few good laughs over the years.

Next Up: Nica

After the surf camp, Chris and Derrick returned to California with our boards while Cody and I continued on to Nicaragua. The plan was for us to meet our parents, rent a car, and drive out to the countryside to visit my sister. Maria, fresh out of college, not knowing what to do with here life had enrolled in the Peace Corps. Her placement was in rural Nicaragua and this would be the first time any of us had seen her since. With a car and some additional outside resources, we’d be able to help her get a better footing in the remote village as she settled in for the two year stint.

In a strange turn of events, my stepmom, Donna, made it to the Nicaraguan airport but was unable to clear customs. Cody and I sat on the ground leaning back on everyone's luggage in the arrival hall waiting for our parents to get things sorted. Looking up to the second floor, we could see his mom, looking down at us through the glass, crying. My dad was off somewhere talking to security, trying to get her through. Wasn't there anything he could do, he asked... to help them make the "right" decision? Unfortunately, no—the head honcho was on duty that day. All rules would be abided.

It was an ironic scene and one I might have triumphed a few years earlier when I was even less mature. In the weeks leading up to the trip, Donna had repeatedly reminded us to make sure we had our vaccinations in order, plenty of sunscreen, and most importantly... valid passports. It turned out she had misread her own and only realized it was expired once she went to check in at the airport in Los Angeles. The airline allowed her to board in the US. She had hoped the US embassy in Managua could sort it out after arrival... but the Nicaraguan officials wouldn't let her through. She’d have to board the next flight back to the US.

At that point, my relationship with Donna was like almost every other stepson to stepmom relationship: complicated. I can't deny a sense of relief in that moment - the trip would be easier without her there. She required a level of comfort and accommodation that would slow the rest of us down. Now we could spend more time in the jungle and less at the nearest hotel. I’d get to spend more time with my dad too, who I felt I could only be myself around when she wasn't there. But of course, I also felt terrible. To know how much she was looking forward to the trip, and then to watch her crying through the glass was heartbreaking.

I was as confused as ever by my feelings. Should I be happy she'd be excluded from the trip or sorry for her exclusion? Was this the time to drive home the point that she should have checked her own passport after reminding the rest of us so many times about ours? I'd learned by this time in my life that the best course of action when I was unsure of myself was to take no action. Just wait it out. In all the pains of combining two very different families together into one, I'd been grateful for my strategic inaction multiple times. In hindsight, my inaction was almost always the right call. This was just another one on the list. I ignored my feelings, and the trip went on.

With Donna's fate sealed, my dad accepted the new reality, and everyone relaxed a bit. Not long after getting our rental car it seemed like my dad was seeing the benefits of a trip without her. We drank Tonas as we headed out to our first stop, the beachside AirBnB Donna had rented. We patiently listened to my dad recount stories of his childhood in Puerto Rico - the environment clearly triggering his memory. He was fixated on finding platanos—chips made from fried green plantains (a starchy cousin of the banana). It seemed like this was one of the formative memories he still held from so long ago. Maybe if he could see and taste the platanos he could unlock more childhood memories and feel young again, even if it was just for a few seconds.

We’d entertain his fantasy of buying an empty lot and building a getaway home. Driving by one of the many empty lots near our AirBnB, he would pull over and look through the window. Surveying the plot, he'd live out the dream - at the cost of living in Nicaragua he could retire now, live the simple life, and surf without a wetsuit - but we all knew Donna would never go for it. She couldn't handle the humidity or the mosquitoes, let alone the burning piles of trash, stray dogs, and a diet mostly limited to gallo pinto (rice and beans). It was still nice to dream...

My dad and I had an average surf session on some mid-length boards we rented from a surf hostel. I was fired up coming off my first surf trip. He was happy to just get out. It was nice to live on our own timeline for once, without Donna's daily agenda to work around.

At the time, I had no idea about the quality of waves in Nicaragua. My understanding of surfing at that time was about as mature as my view of the world. I'd seen little and had a narrow imagination. I had followed Chris blindly down to Panama. I had no idea that Nicaragua's central lake created year-round offshore winds, it picked up swell from multiple angles throughout the Pacific Ocean, and as a result was home to some of the best breaks in the world. I couldn't have imagined that I'd later live at the doorstep of Colorados, one of Nicaragua's most famous barreling beach breaks, living out my own version of my Dad's dream...

After our short stint by the beach we headed inland to my sister's new home.

Going out to my sister's village, I was able to enter into and reacted with the scenery I had thus far only caught glimpses of from behind windows. We talked with the locals, were invited into their homes, and were given the best tea, coffee, or soda they had. Everyone seemed overjoyed to welcome in the family of their resident gringo. I kicked around a plastic soccer ball with the kids, who all wanted to show off their skills, pretending be Ronaldo or Messi.

Coming from our lives of suburban abundance, the poverty seemed severe, but there wasn't any apparent suffering. Life was simple but not onerous. We had plenty of fun playing soccer in the dirt with a flat plastic ball. My dad repeatedly made the case that the simple life, without all the crap we had back home, was better.

Happiness is tricky thing to measure... my dad's evaluation seemed right at face value but I wasn't quite sure about its validity. If he was right, why weren't any Americans trading in their big macs for rice and beans? I made a mental note of the question for further investigation.

One thing that was clear to me from my few days there was that the Nicaraguans' relationship with nature was different from ours back home. It was a relationship of coexistence, not domination.

Houses were made mostly from materials gathered locally. Wooden support beams were often the large branches or trunks of trees. Some homes had exposed brick or cinderblock walls, while others were fastened from simple wood planks. Windows had frames but no glass. Doors, if they existed, were often left open. Everything flowed through the house as naturally as the breeze, including bugs and chickens.

Some homes had latrines that had built by missionaries; the families without them did their business in the forest. Life moved with the rhythm of the land. When it was hot, they sat in the shade. When it rained, they waited it out. When it got dark, they went to bed.

Their homes and lifestyle felt like an extension of the environment. Back home we'd overridden the environment. The desert had been paved, planted, and built up into a new landscape. We managed the flow of water, moved from air conditioned houses to air conditioned cars, and made the sky glow at night from all the street lights.

While we were contemplating how nice it might be to give up the hustle of modern life and sleep in a hammock, they were dreaming about the wonders of life in California. Movies and music glamorizing the riches of America had made it down to even the most rural parts of Nicaragua. Apparently so had the corporations - sodas like Coca Cola and snacks like Oreos were for sale at the local ventas (small informal stores, usually ran out of the window of someone's house). Their empty bottles and wrappers lined the main road. So far, this was America's most evident "gift" to the rest of the world.

I gained a new appreciation for the comforts of life in California and for the first time started to really think about how the world worked. I liked the feeling of being humbled - the basic comforts back home would be so enjoyable with my new level of appreciation for them. I could indeed be happy with what I already had, and possibly even happier with less.

I gained a false sense of moral high ground too. All those spoiled Americans back home were blindly chasing a material happiness. They were fat and spoiled, yet still complained about not having enough. They didn't "get" how the rest of the world worked. I suddenly felt distain for my compatriots. I realized my distaste for Donna was justified - she couldn't live without AC or bug spray. She couldn't bare to eat Gallo Pinto or sit on a latrine to relieve herself even once. Did she think she was innately better than everyone in Nicaragua? I was there, on the ground, and could see we were all the same, just born into different situations. Why couldn't Donna see this? Why was all of America blind to this? This must somehow be at the core of what's wrong with the world.

Just two weeks prior I had been that person... dreaming of becoming rich, ignorant of how lucky I already was. How quickly would I slip back into that mindset and once again become part of the problem once I was returned to my old environment?

Part of me didn't want to lose the moral high ground I had recently attained; part of me wanted to find the true answers to my growing list of questions.

In a moment of inspiration I announced to my family that I wanted to return the following summer for an extended stay. "Put me up with a host family. I want to live the life here - see what's it like after the guests drive off and life goes back to normal. And I want to put my Spanish to work - try to reach fluency. One or two months should be enough, right?"

Before I could back out, the wheels were in motion. I knew this is what I needed. Otherwise the memories and excitement would fade as I returned to my everyday life, motivation would wane, and I'd go back to being another mindless American.

My dad encouraged it and my sister would be happy to have the company. She went to work finding a family to host the white kid from America who, for some unknown reason, wanted to leave the paradise of America and live in their simple village.

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And... that's where we'll pick up next week... to see life on the rural side of Nicaragua... and the types of predicaments a gringo from America can get into there...