After three months in a surfing village on the West Coast of Guatemala, the time to leave was here. Tensions with the locals had been steadily simmering, exacerbated by the impending rainy season and its accompanying blackouts. These challenges served as poignant motivation to seek fresh horizons.
The palpable discord with locals stemmed from multiple sources. Firstly, my presence as a white, English-speaking surf instructor in this embryonic surf town, El Paredon, unsettled a delicate equilibrium. In the dawning stages of gentrification, the local economy relied heavily on street vendors, construction, and surf coaching. This remote enclave remained largely overlooked by the international traveler's algorithm, rendering the pool of potential surf clients minimal.
It's worth noting the treacherous nature of the waves, unlike anything I had encountered before. Positioned vulnerably along the Pacific, the absence of natural barriers invited relentless swell accompanied by fierce multidirectional currents capable of trapping even the most seasoned surfers under. For novices, it bordered on the unmanageable. There was a 30ft radius in the white water where the right and left current met, allowing a slight reprieve from the immense power of a crashing wave. This was where all the locals and myself conducted our lessons. A tumultuous environment of bumping shoulders, shouting in Spanish, clueless learners, and a silent battle for position in an unspoken hierarchy.
Despite my efforts to navigate this unspoken hierarchy with delicate intentions, conflicts both verbal and physical became distressingly routine. Nights were punctuated by an uneasy social dynamic amongst surfers alike, the air thick with grievances and the ever-present silent threat of violence. It became painfully apparent that this was not a battle for me to wage. I was but a transient visitor in a community grappling with its uncontrollable evolving identity. This was not my home to defend, nor could I claim to comprehend the profound sense of loss felt by those witnessing their hometown transformed into a transient stopover for a revolving door of outsiders.
The other catalyst for my hasty departure came in the form of a coordinated poisoning of my dog. When I first arrived to the village, clinging to the exterior of a rickety chicken bus smoking a cigarette, Bruno, a scrappy mutt with a penchant for mischief (a real asshole), became an unexpected fixture in my life. He had a ragged appearance, ears mangled, body adorned with scars, and a compelling smile that you drew you into his inevitable bite.
The unopened hostel I was hired to work for was in Bruno's territorial domain, I initially regarded him with caution, wary of sharp teeth. One day in a moment of recklessness I attempted to bridge the divide between us, only to be met with a swift and painful reminder of his volatile temperament. That little asshole. With a bleeding hand, I kicked sand in his face and swore to hate this animal as he strut away, tail high in the air filled with accomplishment. Two weeks and three bites later our bond was undeniable. Bruno slowly became my shadow, accompanying me to the beach at dawn, guarding my room at night, and eventually claiming a spot in my bed. However, his streetwise instincts and deep-seated traumas remained ever-present, manifesting in his aggressive behavior towards other dogs and unsuspecting visitors. His tactic was as insidious as it was effective: approaching with an innocent facade, only to unleash a vicious attack at the slightest touch. His bites were not warnings; they were calculated strikes aimed to draw blood, every time.
Despite my best efforts to protect him, I was often forced to watch helplessly as he faced overwhelming odds against packs of aggressive dogs who ruled the territory I frequented for ice cream and hut-side fried chicken. Bruno's companions were far from the other fearsome street dogs that ruled the town; instead, he counted a tiny Chihuahua puppy (a true ankle biter) and a petite wiener dog among his closest allies. His presence was met with disdain by the locals, who viewed him as a menace to be extracted from this earth. Many times I thought of driving him far out of town to at least avoid a human demise.
During a holiday weekend, where the beach floods with wealthy visitors from Guatemala City, Bruno killed a non-street dog under my supervision. The morning was serene, with near-perfect 6ft swell and a non-existent breeze, the sunrise painting the sky with golden hues. Bruno and I sat in our usual spot, enjoying the peaceful ambiance, when a passerby came into frame with their small wiener dog, a common breed among the city's elite. Sensing an opportunity, Bruno's demeanor shifted, his instincts taking over as he prepared to attack. Despite my desperate attempts to restrain him, he eventually broke free flying down the beach, mouth open.
I won't delve into the details, but suffice to say, it ended with a desperate blow to Bruno's ribs in a futile attempt to stop him. The damage was done. and Bruno disappeared under the morning sun. Faced with a mix of emotions, I did what I could to contain him, knowing the inevitable consequences that awaited him. Late in the night the locals broke their way into my hiding place for him, cut the fence and killed Bruno. The following days continued with rumors I was also responsible and have to face the consequences. Time for Ben to get the fuck out of town. I packed all of my stuff, got on the first bus out and hitched the rest of the way to Antigua.
The goodbyes were harder than I thought. The bonds I forged felt reminiscent of the social dynamics I once observed in college - a rapid acceleration of connection, where companions became best friends and attraction swiftly evolved into love, leaving me hungover by the intensity of it all. With no concrete plan in mind, I envisioned spending a few leisurely days in the old city before journeying south to meet a friend for a surf excursion 4-5 hours north the Costa Rican border.
By this point, I had fully embraced a feral existence. Shoes were a distant memory. Dawn till dusk, my days were consumed by the rhythm of the waves: surfing, teaching, and surfing again until the sun dipped below the horizon. Evenings spent fireside, where roasted cashews sizzled in the sand and I wrestled with Bruno. I had not worn shoes in possibly two months. By the time it was necessary forge a new path, my spare shoes had become a homestead for a mice family and my flops had been missing for weeks.
Once in Antigua, I opted for a more upscale hostel with private amenities and air conditioning, a stark departure from the $7 accommodations of months prior. Wandering through the city's labyrinth streets, I passed time in the quaint charm of shops, vibrant bustle of outdoor markets, and the timeless beauty of cobblestone pathways. But despite its allure, the city failed to capture my heart - I yearned for the familiar embrace of the ocean.
Reflecting on those days, it all feels like a feverish dream - a whirlwind of distracted emotions fueled by the fresh wounds of a breakup. The ocean offered a temporary reprieve, a sanctuary from the gnawing regret that continuously threatened to consume me. The city, on the other hand, served as a stark reminder of past mistakes, a relentless echo of a life once lived.
In the haze of constant questioning and corresponding movement, one thing remained constant: a regrettable addiction to cigarettes. The juxtaposition of peak physical fitness and self-inflicted harm seemed inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, just a fleeting concern in the midst of greater turmoil. One day, when clarity reigns supreme, I'll return to the city, free from the shackles of self-inflicted chaos.
A few days later I left Antigua at the crack of dawn, bypassing sightseeing Guatemala City, wary of its reputation for violence stemming from gangs and political unrest. Arriving at the airport, I found comfort in its peculiar charm, particularly their indoor smoking policy. After a night spent on the airport floor and a plane ride back to Costa Rica, I hitched a ride with a kind-hearted couple to downtown San Jose, where I continued my journey hitchhiking to my hostel for the night.
A day later, I ventured southward to Dominical, a hidden gem nestled along the coast near Jaco. Here, amidst the pristine waves and rugged landscapes, I found solace and reflection in the company of a good friend. As our time together came to an end, I grappled with the contrast between the volatile atmosphere of Guatemala and the serene hospitality of Dominical. Un-wanting to retrace my steps northward, I felt drawn to Panama by tales of unspoiled surf breaks and untouched landscapes. With a sense of anticipation and curiosity, I embarked on the next leg of my journey, eager to discover what adventures lay beyond the border.
I was compelled to fall further "off the grid." I found myself disenchanted with the hostel lifestyle. My mind, consumed, grappled with the temporary nature of my explorations and the haunting repetition of a life I no longer desired. Each connection made, each interaction with locals, only deepened my sense of unease - each transaction, whether housing, food, or guided adventures, felt like an act of extraction, a betrayal of the undiscovered lands I sought and the people who call it home.
I recoiled from the selfishness of my desires, I yearned for the pristine, the unexplored, the un-human. Like Schrödinger's Cat, the moment I touched the untamed, it ceased to be what I sought. Who was I to crave the unfamiliar, the uncharted? I despised myself for the pain I caused loved ones, forced farewells to newfound friends, for the doubt that shadowed my every intention. I embarked on a journey southward with no plan but a craving for the untamed waves of Panama's West Coast. I scanned weather maps and surf apps aboard the bus. No concrete plan for where to rest my head, I became acutely fixated on a stretch of coast, my excitement mounting. Stepping off at the last stop, I wandered through an unfamiliar town, its name lost on me. Memories of a past encounter with armed men flashed through my mind, but luck was on my side. Finding another local bus heading south, I hopped on and off several times, apologizing as I scrambled for my surfboard bag clumsily secured to the roof.. I am going to keep parts of my route and final destination a secret. Not that I anticipate many readers, but I want to protect these people from the assured destruction I witnessed throughout Central America
After five hours only voyaging through two towns, I needed to rethink my strategy. A thumbs up and a broad smile proved more effective as I was swiftly picked up by a farmer who allowed me to ride in the bed of his truck laden with feed and grass. When asked where I was going I stated "voy al sur!" He laughed and drove me to a bus station south of town. As darkness descended and hunger gnawed at my stomach, I boarded the last bus of the night and sought refuge in an "Inn," a humble family house offering a bed for $7. Awakening early, I exchanged few words with the grandmother of the household, my grasp of Spanish proving sufficient for basic communication. Though not near fluent, it was enough to express gratitude for the shared meal and warm embrace as we hugged goodbye. With a heavy heart and thoughts of my family weighing on me, I continued on my journey, hitchhiking the rest of the way to the border.
Amidst the chaotic energy of the border, hoards of people awaiting their fate, I reflected on the stark divide between those who could afford the comfort of luxury travel and those forced to navigate the bureaucracy of border crossings on their own. Towering steel buses overhead, air-conditioned interiors a stark contrast to the sweltering canopies where families negotiated $3 bus tickets and passport stamps for their children. Conflicted by my forced adversity to hitch hike across the country for sport, rather necessity, my head hung low and my heart fell open as the connection I felt for those who wore the heat of the sun through sweat stains and darkened skin, I was the embodiment of the thing I came to despise.
There is a micro-economy of scams at the border. I will admit that I fell for a border scam last time I walked across. I am still not sure if there are Costa Rican bank accounts in my name after blindly handing my passport and I.D to a random man. Remember early when I said I had sense...
Crossing a border entailed three steps: an exit stamp, an entry stamp, and proof of onward travel within three months. Manipulating this system was alarmingly simple. My preferred tactic: "reserving" a seat on a flight departing in two months, leveraging the detailed confirmation email to fabricate a convincing ticket. For those seeking a more legitimate approach, make a plan (I was determined to remove that word from vocabulary). If you don't want to buy a legitimate plane ticket and want a less costly approach, purchasing a local bus ticket for future activation was an option, albeit time-consuming and rather confusing. I resorted this time to hastily editing a previously used fake ticket using a free photo editing app on my phone, neglecting to change the flight number - a critical oversight I only now realized (they did not notice). Despite expectations of what its like growing up in the U.S my encounters with firearms had solely been limited to incidents abroad. Little did I know, my third and last time was going to happen at the Panamanian border.
I've lived a life of undeniable privilege, and I constantly strive to acknowledge my societal position and the disparities it entails. I've engaged in actions driven by a naive belief that consequences wouldn't materialize, a sentiment I'm not proud of. Despite this, I've never harbored a holier-than-thou attitude or a sense of entitlement, though my actions may suggest otherwise. After deceiving both Costa Rican and Panamanian authorities about my whereabouts, it was time to cross the border and head to David, Panama, in search of sustenance and a place to rest. With a self-rolled cigarette in hand, a nod to my hipster tendencies, I crossed from Costa Rican to Panamanian soil, unaware of the turmoil that awaited me. In a moment of excitement and naivety, I lit the cigarette, inadvertently sparking suspicion. In Central America, rolling your own cigarette is a practice more commonly associated with Europeans, which constantly led to the mistaken assumption that I was indulging in an illegal substance. With Selena Gomez' Calm Down featured in my headphones I faintly heard overtones of shouting, unfamiliar with this part of the song. Lowering the volume and peering over my shoulder, I was met with the chilling sight of three armed officers holding machine guns, ordering me to stay exactly where I was. Unaware of what the situation at hand was, sheepishly I thought "shoot they are going to make me buy a plane ticket"
As the armed men tracked closer to me, I fought the urge to start crying. It is a unique feeling, staring down the barrel of 3 armed officers not speaking your language. I cannot surmise the early sensations of a heart attack, but I can imagine its not too far off. The anger on their faces did not feel commensurate with my presumed offense, although I guess defrauding a government agency does not land me on the nice-list. I had to remain calm and figure my outs. This was about the time I realized I still had my headphones in and the sweet sounds, once a soundtrack of new beginnings, were now an orchestra of fear, regret, and embarrassment. I ripped them out of my ears and put on a feeble smile in hopes to diffuse the tension.
They grabbed my hand, still holding onto the cigarette. Oh what this must of looked like to the bus full of fellow travelers looking down upon me, shivering from their AC filled cabin. A dirty, salty haired man, seemingly listening to music and smoking weed while armed guards surrounded him. For the most part drug laws, especially weed, are lax. I think the severity of the reaction was due to perceived disrespect.
Realizing the disconnect in realities I started saying "solo tabaco, solo tabaco" trying to show them my pouch. They broke apart my cigarette, ripped through my belongings, and sent me on my way with a look of disappointment in my mere existence and presence in their country. I don't smoke weed. Their reaction now seems justified given the circumstances. It made me reflect on those who exploit these countries for personal gain, using culture and community as as a commodity. I never imagined I would become one of them. I guess intention isn't everything.
With a 45-pound surfboard bag on my back and a backpack slung over my shoulder, I pressed onward, each step filled with gratitude that lingered for days. Music was not a welcome companion until the following night. The heat I felt in my veins was either the 11 indexed sun or adrenaline from the nightmare of what could have been a border imprisonment. Exhausted, I longed for relief from the scorching heat, hoping for rain, but it eluded me for four days straight.
I ventured deeper and deeper into Panama, civilization grew sparse, the terrain rugged, and the thrill of adventure pulsating within me. Roads turned to dirt, towns to mountains, and people to animals. Lost in every sense of the word, I excitedly stayed true to my final destination, which we'll call Olasito.
Hitchhiking and hopping local buses through the western Panamanian mountains and farmland, I finally found myself just 15 miles from Olasito. There was one daily bus, ferrying produce, groceries, and children to and from the coast. Unaware of this and my poorly timed arrival, I asked at the only mercado within a 35-mile radius how to reach Olasito.
Confused looks, as to say "who are you? why are you here? and why the fuck do you have a surfboard?" English was scarce or more non-existent. I was at least 5 hours from the closest tourist destination. There was no travel economy, no hostels, hotels, adventure guides, this was just a town like the one you and I grew up in. Except this one was amidst hours of jungle and farms. People did not know the stretch of coast I was trying to reach and the general confusion of my presence over-casted my questions of direction. This was until a local fisherman insisted he knew where I wanted to go. "Quieres Olas?" He said "Si Si, donde esta las olas, estan circa? puedes conducir?" I replied desperately. He said he would take me for $20, which seemed high, but when I countered he just walked away.
Hastily, I agreed, and within three hours of sunset, we traversed a single-lane, two-way road. The scenery continued to transform into an ever expanding jungle, mountains, and farmland, devoid of human habitation. We approached the "ranchito" he said he would drop me off at, I would have to find my way from there. Passing more horses than cars we paused as a farmhand guided his cows across the dirt road, he held 4 fingers out the window, what I took to be time to destination. Deeper into the jungle, the road narrowed, engulfed by overhanging trees and vines, the sunlight filtering through. An immense excitement stirred in my stomach, a childlike eagerness to set foot on the ground and run. In that moment, I felt a sense of belonging, I was home...I thought
He dropped me off and said "ranchito aquí." Gathering my belongings, hands in prayer I mouthed "muchas gracias" as he drove away, leaving me alone. The ranchito he referred to was a dilapidated, defunct surf camp, swallowed by overgrown vines and waist-high grass, with buzzing insects enveloping the air. I knew the ocean must be nearby, though cell phone signal had long vanished. Hiding my belongings in the grass, I kicked off my shoes, desperate to escape their confines, unholstered my board like a Japanese sword, tucked it under my arm, and began sprinting down the lone road. There was one road and the only direction was "not the way we came" I assumed I was going in the right direction.
The scent of the ocean spurred me on. With just two hours until sunset and a week-long hiatus from surfing, I was determined to get wet, regardless of any obstacles. As I ran the intoxicating scent of salt grew stronger. I soon realized I had underestimated the distance to the ocean. My sprint turned into a brisk walk, my bare feet protesting the rough terrain. Passing the individual plots of farmland receiving curious stares from locals on their porches, I smiled and waved, elated by the absence of industry. Pure community and life, devoid of commercialism. Finally, I heard it, the ocean. Reaching the final peak of the uphill road, I caught sight of the water through the natural vignetted single track road. Passing through the tree line, I arrived at what still holds to be the most natural beachfront I have seen. A perfect set wave awaited in the distance. Without hesitation, I shed my shirt, wrapped my phone and cigarettes, and sprinted toward the water's edge. There was no time to watch, wait, or plan. Only time to surf.
Reaching the water's edge just as the shore break wave peaks, I leap into the air, aligning my board parallel to my body. Fins meet water, then board, as I slowly collapse my chest onto it. Hands plunge into the water, propelling me toward the break. Time seems to stretch as I gaze right at the dense jungle and left at the endless expanse of beach, feeling each stroke of water between my fingers. The sun sitting at the top of the mountain tops, intense greens, golds, and blues mesh together. This is home, I thought. Sprinting closer to the break, it's time for the first duck dive. I grab the front of my board, pushing it under a perfect towering wave. Slipping seamlessly beneath, I hold my breath, fully immersed in the moment, sensing the power, current, and energy of the wave. Emerging headfirst, eyes wide open, I realize - I am truly.....alone.
I will write about the rest of this experience: working on a farm for a small family in exchange for food and housing, having a monkey nemesis, and run-ins with crocodiles and the inner-depths of absolute loneliness in the future. Thank you.
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