On Salvadorians, surfing, and the status of my relationship to solo travel
Bienvenido a El Salvador. First impressions: Kids running in the street. Cumbia blasting from the fruit vendor. Laughter.
Ataco is a small town, just one hour’s drive over the Guatemalan border, and so soon I sensed a change. A different energy from these people. Something livelier than their neighbors.
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A few nights later, in Juayúa, I signed up for a group hostel trip to the nearby volcanic hot springs for “Ladies Night”, which meant women got half-priced entry—$3 instead of $6. (Say less.) We were told it was a party—BYOB—and stopped en route to grab beers. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was not what I walked into.
Imagine: a hundred locals in a massive hot tub-temperature pool—and us, a group of 15 gringos. Live singers and a band. A DJ and a dance (twerking) competition. Coolers stocked with knock-off Aguardiente. Red solo cups in every hand. A full-scale Salvadorian pool party.
So this is Thursday night in Juayúa. Definitely, I thought. There is definitely something livelier about El Salvador.
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I timed my arrival in El Tunco—the country’s quintessential backpacker surf town known for its party scene—for Saturday night. Valentine’s Day.
Once again, I don’t know what I was expecting. Nightlife, sure. But like… your standard hostel bar crawl. Not this.
Tunco was absolutely lit—with Salvadorians. Not just foreigners. The main beach bar packed to the rim with people of all ages. Groups crowded around low, wooden tables so full you could barely move. I’ve never seen a Valentine’s Day party so big. It was almost like the entire country was celebrating.
What I realized, of course, is that the entire country was. It is.
Salvadorians are fucking happy. They are happy to be alive. They are happy to be out, drinking and dancing with their friends and family after years of not being able to enjoy such freedoms we take for granted. They are happy to spend money—their hard-earned money that for a decade sat untouched because they weren’t able to leave their homes without fear of violence.
Whatever your thoughts about Bukele (and if you don’t have any, I encourage you to read up), I am grateful to him on their behalf.
It was a joy to be surrounded by people who are happy with their country.
A few words on surfing, three years in
When I decided to learn to surf on my first visit to Guatemala, it was a natural progression. I had always loved the sea. No better way to spend time in it, I thought.
Thankfully, I still love the sea. Because it is now, after three years, that I’ve come to understand why fate led me to choose this most difficult of hobbies.
For those who may not be aware: surfing is not about surfing. Riding waves is merely a fun byproduct.
Surfing is about sitting—with patience and presence.
What a lovely exercise for me! Me, the girl who still feels itchy and uncomfortable sitting in traffic and yes, occasionally needs to walk around the person in front of me if they’re moving too slowly. (The New Yorker in me will never die.)
I consider this Salvadorian surf trip a success for three reasons.
Logistically speaking, I was catching and riding more waves than ever. The next step is to… ride them better.
I am an intermediate surfer who understands and (generally) executes the foundations of the sport and its etiquette, but who doesn’t quite have the skill (timing, wave selection) to be catching every set that comes in. Nor do I have the confidence that allows people to go for it regardless (a huge part of getting waves). In other terms, this means that if 3% of my time was spent on a wave, the other 97% was spent sitting on the board, waiting. Enter: presence. There is a particular kind of patience required, a mental practice, that comes with spending an hour watching beautiful people on beautiful waves which you know you can ride. And then, when your wave finally comes—you miss it. Or, you get it! But then you fall. And then? The hour wait begins again.
Leaving the sea, I counted a third reason for my success: I left without any injury—to the board, and to myself. No ding repairs, no breaks. No twisted ankle. Just a bruise here and there.
On the bus out of El Tunco, I picked up my backpack and felt a strain in my chest.
Pulled muscle.
Hi universe. I see you.
Closing reflections from the top of a volcano
This time last year, I thought I was done with solo travel.
I didn’t feel I was getting much out of being alone anymore. Wasn’t enjoying the world in the same way that I used to. Because beauty is meant to be shared, and that is a fact.
But there’s also something about having that beauty all to yourself. The moment, yours. The view, yours. The feeling of lying alone in a hammock under extra-bright stars on top of a volcano overlooking the Bay of Fonseca… mine. All mine.
It is a nameless feeling, this. One I have yet to put a label on. Being at the dead center of your own universe.
It’s a combination of pride, peace, and purpose. Knowing you got there on your own, and there is nowhere else you need to be, or would rather be, besides your hammock.
One day, there will be another hammock strung across from mine. And I will remember this nameless feeling like the dearest of friends.
I don’t think it will ever leave me, this feeling. I take solace in knowing that should ever I need it, I can always head off somewhere alone and find it.
onwards,
maggie