Playa Tunco - El Salvador

After a few weeks of relative stagnancy in Antigua, I was ready to get out and hit the ol´trail. David Beclis, a fellow traveler I had befriended on my trip to Volcan Pacaya, said he was heading south to El Salvador´s Pacific beaches for a few days to learn how to surf. David was a 24 year old law student from Birmingham who, deciding not to pursue a career in law, was now traveling through Latin America for six months before moving to New Zealand to look for work. He was reserved and polite, as Englishman are though to be, but he also liked to let loose and party at the same time. I liked him from the start and decided to join him on his trip.

We set out early in the morning, taking a shuttle into Guatemala city where we transferred to a lager Pullman. About a half hour out of the city the bus broke down along the side of the highway. Luckily for us, it broke down right next to a pineapple stand so we were able to eat piña fruit sticks while we watched the driver turned mechanic pull out every wire and tube in the engine trying to find the problem. After two hours of fruit sticks it looked like our adventurous ¨mechanics¨ (over the course of the two hours five or six other men had appeared out of the hills or in pick up trucks and were now also pulling out engine parts) where going to be stumped until one man, converged in engine grease and motor oil, emerged from somewhere inside the engine compartment holding up a slit tube. We waited another 45 minutes for a new tube from Guatemala city and then we were on the road again.

Crossing the board into El Salvador is a lenghty and tedious process. We were made to deboard the bus, present our passports to an exit official, then get back on the bus, present them to another agent on board and then get off again to open up our luggage for an inspector. This was typical for El Salvador which is said to have the most uncorrupted, scrupulous law-enforcement in Central America.

We made it to San Salvador by nightfall and after checking in to a hostel in the Bohemian university area of town, set out for dinner and nightlife entertainment. I was excited. I was hungry and had read about a delicious El Salvadorian dish called Papusas, which is stuffed tortillas filled with cheese, spices and vegetables or meat. I couldn´t wait to try it. We set out, wandering the side-streets, which, thankfully, were frequently patrolled by foot police, until we found the ¨main¨street with all the bars and restaurants. We took a table at El Tres Diablos, supposedly the best bar in town, but which failed to have any type of nightlife or any papusas on the menu. I settle for a steak sandwich and we called it an early night, content on saving our energy for the weekend crowds at the beach.

The next day we took locals buses to La Liberdad, a shabby little port city that is a hub to get to all the other beaches. After reading up on all the beaches in our lonely planet we deiced on Playa Zonte, a black sand cove with a decent off shore break and a good selection of accommodations. It was after we arrived in Playa Zonte that we learned that our two year old lonely planet was severely out of date. If Zonte was ever a happening beach town, it had long since died and someone had done everything in there power to cover up its tracks. There were a few accommodations hugging the rocky beach, which was bisected by a river, and no kind of surf shops or tourist centre. We took a moldy double room at Casa de Frita, and waited for the crowds to arrive for the weekend festivities. There were no crowds and no festivities. We waited around until 8pm and decided to try one of the other hostels on the other side of the river, but the hostel clerk said that the river was high and dangerous to cross and that the main highway- the only other way to get to the other side of the beach- was not safe to walk at night. Defeated we sunk back into our chairs and played chess. But, after a few minutes we both looked at each other.
¨The hell with it man, lets have a go at those other spots cross river,¨ David said.
¨Hell yes,¨ I replied and we set off down the beach with our flashlights.
The river looked more like a stream and looked passable aided by the illumination from the full moon. We walked the banks looking for the best place to cross and realized that there was no way to know how deep it was until we actually got in. We waded out a couple of feet before the currant, going both directions because of the incoming tide, almost made me loose my balance on the slippery rocks converging the bottom. I stayed myself, walked on a staggered line down stream, holding my camera above my head in case an ill-placed step sent me into the torrent. Every step was a painful laborous effort because you would kick up loose rocks trying to find your footing which then, caught in the currant, came smashing back into your ankles. It took us about 20 minutes, but we finally emerged, water logged and bleeding, on the other side of the river. We limped up to nearest hostel only to find a few groups of surfers and locals chilling in hammocks and talking quietly. We pulled up some chairs and ordered a couple Gallo beers and waited to see what developed. After about an hour it was clear that this was as wide as the party was going to get, but we stayed and order another beer each building up our liquid currange before hobleling back to the river to go home.

The next day we went out on a scouting mission and found a better beach with more restaurants, more bars, better waves, and more people, and amazing sunsets over a rocky outcrop just off shore. Playa Tunco was just a 10 minute drive down the road and we moved here in the afternoon taking a room overlooking the beach. About 20 Peace Corers were in town on leave which seemed to double the tourist population and the nights turned out to be pretty lively and fun. Everyone else in town, local or tourist, seemed to be a surfer and it gave the town a laid back ¨manaña¨attitude. The main activities seemed to be surfing, eating, and siestas in hammocks. David and I did our best to fit in. We spent the next three days here, chilling out in hammocks by the beach. One day we were meant to take a suffering lesson, but David got food poisoning the day before and we called it off. After the weekend crowds departed the town transformed back into a sleepy little surfing village and we decide it was time to move on, back to San Salvador. I was looking forward to this because, despite having great food, non of the restaurants on the beach seemed to offer papusas.

Back in San Salvador, we decided to check out of the the many malls that the capital has to offer. Despite is small size and recent civil war history, El Salvador has Central America´s strongest economy and best minimum wage (though that statistic is misleading as roughly have the countries population doesn´t have a ¨qualifying¨ job). But you couldn´t help but notice the affluencey. BMWs and Lexus cars in the street. Armani and Prada stores in the malls. Everyone one wore western clothes and looked very European, a consequence of years of genocidal inhalation of indigenous populations. It was a stark contrast to Guatemala´s highlands which are inhabited by many different Mayan tribes.

That evening I set out determined to find a papusaria. I dragged David around town for the better part of an hour, walking up and down side streets and asking everyone where I could find one. Finally, after running out of streets to search, I gave up, deflated and sulking. In the morning I said goodbye to my traveling companion and took the 5am bus back to Guatemala still sour that I had spent almost an week in El Salvador and didn´t get to try there famous papusas. This time the bus didn´t break down, but it still took almost an hour to get through the custom at the boarder. Sitting there on the bus waiting to be let across some venders came aboard selling different items. Newspapers, candies, and... PAPUSAS! I almost jumped out of my seat and quickly ordered three different flavors, my mouth watering in anticipation. They were a little on the bland side.