The Road West...

More than a year ago I stood on the balcony of a large building over looking the Vancouver skyline, it was my final night on the west coast.  I told myself that I was going to go back there to live, that somehow the West felt right.  Obstacles and circumstances and that state of confusion that accompanies most young people searching for their path in life made it difficult to reach that goal, it almost faded completely.  But the world works in mysterious ways, and whether it be the forces of nature or an act of "god", life seems to work its way out.

Such was the discussion I was engaged in with Kyle Waddington as we made our early morning escape from the province of Ontario.  I knew Kyle from one of my stints in Tofino, he was a mild mannered, free-floating, earth-loving musician that lived for the experience and the human connection.  He had no bank account and very few possessions, and the sole worry that he had in life was food and water, everything else he told me, would work itself out.  The simple circumstances that led us to be in that car together only reinforced such a positive ethos.  I had put an ad on Craigslist offering a ride share to Vancouver and the one response that I got was from Kyle who I had lost touch with.  Much like myself Kyle had returned to Ontario trying to figure out his life when he realized that back on the west coast was where he belonged.  So there we were, two scruffily bearded travelers with a unified sense of purpose, flying down the road west in a small VW packed to the brim with everything we both owned.

We crossed over the border in Detroit without a problem, and quickly put on some Johnny Cash before rolling into Jackson.  From there we crossed Kalamazoo then wrapped around lake Michigan and took the Skyway straight through the heart of Chicago.  The sun was bright in the clear sky for most of the day and the air was warm, with windows down we raced along, the anticipation fueling our desire to keep moving. Heading along the I-94 we reached Minneapolis just after dark, then kept on towards Fargo at the border of North Dakota.  By that point we had been going for a good fifteen hours, and fatigue was definitely kicking in.  I was a bad sleeper and so was Kyle, so he brought along some Melatonin which he used on occasion to pass out, claiming it made him feel refreshed even just after a few hours sleep.  He said he usually took three, the bottle said take one, so I decided to take two.  The natural remedy had its desired effect and I fell into a deep slumber quickly, dreaming of the ocean and the impending west, hypnotized by the loud hum of the diesel engine and oblivious to the changing landscape passing by outside.  I awoke suddenly, Kyle sitting behind the wheel bopping to some tunes and puffing a cigarette out the window.  The surroundings were different,  the air was clean and fresh, the lights of civilization had all but disappeared and were replaced by a pitch blackness lining the highway.  It was the darkness of the High Plains, and we were flying through them at a record speed, no other car or living thing in sight for miles.  I convinced myself that I was refreshed so we pulled over and I took the wheel, but after just twenty minutes Kyle was out cold and I was struggling to keep my eyes open.  The monotonous surroundings only exacerbating my fatigue, the straight and endless road inducing a trance like state, I battled my heavy eyelids for about an hour.  Finally I pulled over quietly but Kyle awoke, I told him to keep sleeping and that I just needed to shut my eyes for another 15 minutes, but he would have none of it.  Instantly, as though he just slept for a full night he hopped into the drivers seat and took the wheel for the next three hours as I slept off the effects of the Melatonin.

I awoke before dawn and took the wheel again, with my head clear I felt good, we were moving quickly thanks to Kyle's persistence.  The rising sun slowly rose in my rear view mirror and the bleakness of the landscape became more distinguished.  We were in the badlands of Montana, oddly shaped rock formations jutted out from the stretches of blond valleys, our road ahead flew straight along into the horizon and we knew that beyond our eyes reach lay the rocky mountains, our first real stop.

We were making incredible time, just 24 hours earlier we were in Toronto and now we were in this alien land, excited about the adventures to come yet fully aware that we were already in the midst of one.  By high noon the sun was shining brightly and the weather was warm, we pulled off onto a side road for a stretch.  The road signs said "no services" as if warning us foreigners to stay away, but we pulled up to the wooden gates of a ranch and parked our car.  We pulled out the guitar and harmonica and played some music, some soulful tunes of the road that were lifted away by the breeze of the open land. 

It was late afternoon when we began our climb up the Rocky Mountains.  It was a winding road through the various passes, wrapping around huge glacier lakes and green forests.  Finally, just as the sun was once again setting we made it to Whitefish, Montana, a small ski town nestled in the mountains along the Canada-U.S. border.  There it was that we stayed with friends of Kyle - musicians that he knew from adventures past.  We celebrated our journey with them, drinking, smoking, playing music until our bodies and minds gave way and we fell into deep sleep.  It was good to close our eyes outside of a car seat, and we cherished the moment, for although we had come so far, the journey was far from over.

Return to El Salvador...

El Salvador is a sacred place to me.  It is where I truly became a surfer, a spanish speaker, a traveler, an idealist, and a writer.  I had strove to become all of these things for a long time, perhaps I still do, but my prolonged period in El Sal marked a point of marked achievement in all of my pursuits, which I can only ascribe to the peaceful surroundings, compelling company, and epic waves that this tiny Latin American nation consistently provides.

And so coming back here after nearly two years away was an important event in my life.  I had spent months and months learning the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of this country, from the people and the culture to the waves and the weather.  I spent Christmas and new years here for two years in a row, the family that ran the hostel where I stayed became like my own.  It was my home away from home, that one place in Latin America where I felt I could escape to when I felt homesick as I vagabonded around the continent.  And now I was back again, and so much had since changed.

Pulling in to El Tunco the road looked different.  It was no longer that rustic little pueblo with beaten down homes, small tiendas, and typical hostels lining the road.  It had become a classic, developed surf town, complete with a variety of hotels and hostels, restaurants, bars and even tourist agencies.  The night life used to be a single bar, lively only on the weekends when the San Salvadorans left the city to hit the coast, complete with drum circles and fire throwers.  Now every night a different bar or disco would throw a huge party, complete with expensive drinks, pat-downs and cover charges.

It was inevitable I suppose, such is the nature of these surf towns.  They grow in popularity and begin to lose their uniqueness as they try to emulate every other surf tourism destination.  More and more foreigners arrive, more buildings are erected, more parties, more drugs, more surfers... More money.  And really that is what it comes down to in the end, money.  Sustainability is trumped by prosperity, and the ability to see some sort of equilibrium between the two is distorted by the allure of more dollars and  the flawed idea that growth is the only way forward.  But in the end who is to blame? Poverty still remains, and with it desperation.  At least things hadn't gotten completely out of hand here, and hopefully community leaders will take charge and ensure some semblance of balanced growth.  It would be a shame otherwise.


If everything else had changed one thing had remained the same, the wave.  I had been out of the water for too long, save for a few sessions in the lakes and some hurricane waves on the eastern seaboard.  When I arrived mid-afternoon I checked in to a hostel, grabbed a board, and hit the water.  With just a 3 foot swell Sunzal was breaking perfectly, just as I remember it, long and perfectly formed point break waves.  Only this time I had a couple years more of surfing experience behind me and I paddled right out back with the locals, catching my first wave, showing them that I deserved a position in the line up.  I surfed that first day until the sky was dark, my waves only lit by the settling glow of the disappeared sun and the moon shining brightly in the cloudless sky above.

Returning to Guatemala: Part 2

The time had come to deliver the food aid to the affected communities, and so we rose that morning with a sense of purpose, my new friend Fernando picking me up from my hotel exactly at the stated hour – an act unheard of in this part of the world. The sun was already bright in the sky as we cruised down towards the Pacific coast from the highlands of Chimaltenango. The cool air blew against my face as I took in the landscape of towering volcanoes and green hills. We quickly found ourselves on level ground, the hills transforming into yellow-dry plains and the hot, salty air invading our car. It was a welcome change.


The food deliveries were much how one might imagine them to be. The people had received word that we were coming and were all gathered and ready for us, anxious to finally get some relief. Some words were said with the occasional prayer and the lists were checked off. One by one people would carry their heavy food bags away. On bikes, motorcycles, or simply on their backs – they did what they had to in order to get the food to their homes.

The rest of the day was much the same, with the exception of the growing number of local boys joining the caravan on the back of the truck and helping to haul the heavy bags as we moved along. I finished the day feeling satisfied, yet discontent. I had spoken to many families and taken lots of photos, I was starting to conceive just what these people had gone through. The rations I was sure would make a difference in their lives, but that night as I ate my own dinner, I could only think about those numerous families that showed up to the distributions and asked me, the Canadian, why they were not on the list.

The next day we headed in the opposite direction, further up into the Guatemalan highlands. The early morning drives in this country are always stunning. We climbed higher and higher up winding roads through thick fog, until eventually we broke through and fierce orange beams of sunlight began to shoot through the dissipating clouds. I was getting used to driving with Fernando, we had begun to get to know each other quite well and developed an unspoken bond. He was an incredibly kind soul, and despite the seriousness of the work he did, he had a devilish sense of humour and was always down for a laugh. He would tell me his interesting stories from the past as we drove, and as he delivered his numerous punch-lines he would glance at me with a semi-smirk, waiting for my approval before we both broke into hysterics.

This part of the country had been hit even harder, the heavy rains causing unstoppable landslides that killed several people and carried away numerous homes. Every few kilometers along the highway we would see huge cliffs that had crumbled, the rubble of rocks and dirt only recently plowed off of the roads. The people in this region were predominantly indigenous Mayans who wore traditional clothing and who’s first language was K’ichi. They spoke Spanish slowly with a sense of uncertainty yet clarity that I was able to understand so well. I had learned my Spanish years back while living amongst other indigenous Guatemalans, and so I was at ease speaking with them.

They had lost so much over the last few years as a result of the rainy season. In Canada as the fall approaches and we all begin to dread the impending winter, I realize now how lucky we are, and I can’t imagine the anxiety that faces these communities before the rainy season begins for them. Yet they hide it so well. They are all smiles and kindness when we arrive, and they thank us and bless us with a sense of sincerity that is like nothing I’ve witnessed before.

Before we left the last community, the leaders insisted on treating us to a sandwich. I’ve become used to accepting offerings from the people here, despite the fact that I know they are struggling for money. That is their nature, to give as much as they possibly can, even if it means a greater struggle for them the next day.

We had finally finished the food aid distributions and I withdrew to Antigua to rest and gather my thoughts. The retrospection was valuable, and I was able to define exactly what it was that I had learned over the last few days. I had often challenged people back home in Canada who blindly gave their money to aid and development organizations without actually acting on their own or doing the research to know where their money was going. And although I’m still sure there are various negative exceptions, I believe that this was typically what humanitarian aid looked like on the ground. The necessity for this aid and for the funds that brought it about was obvious – the gratefulness alone of the recipients was enough evidence in itself. Although not a long-term solution to the problems here, this aid would give many people a chance to simply stop worrying about feeding their families, even if only for a few weeks.

I had a few days of work ahead of me, but I also had some time for myself, so I decided to hop over the border to my old stomping grounds in El Salvador for some sun and surf, and for what would become an eventful weekend on the coast.