Our time in Nicaragua almost ended before it began. Crossing the border, we were asked about our occupations. Leisa, being a copywriter, answered 'escritora', which translates to writer. In a country with increasing political instability and no independent press, this prompted a red flag. The border official asked me to step back while he asked Leisa further questions. She had to explain, in Spanish, that she only wrote for marketing and advertising purposes and was not a journalist. The border security officer kept going back and forth with her responses to his superior. They even showed her some Facebook profiles of random blonde women (I guess journalists?) and asked if it was her. Leisa handled the situation very well and kept calm. I was thankful they didn’t take her to a separate room for questioning. After a thirty-minute grilling from the border official, we passed through immigration feeling anxious, and frustrated but relieved to be permitted entry.
Our first stop was San Juan del Sur, a party-oriented town on Nicaragua's southwest coast. For backpackers, the town is most famous for Sunday Funday, a weekly debaucherous pool crawl. Basically, it is Central America's equivalent of Thailand’s full moon parties, but with more cocaine. While it isn’t the most culturally enriching experience, it is a highlight for many backpackers travelling through the region. Ten years ago I would have been there in a heartbeat, knee-deep in the snow, talking some poor souls face-off. Today, as an early thirty-something, I opted to spend my time surfing in the nearby towns, sinking a few beers at sunset and going to bed early.
Due to ongoing political instability and the pandemic, Nicaragua has experienced a sharp decline in international tourists in recent years. According to locals, San Juan del Sur has taken steps to reinvent itself as a destination for domestic tourists. According to our Airbnb host the town had more of a family-friendly feel to it. We were staying the week before Santa Semana, one of the biggest religious events across all Latin America. Preparations were in full swing, and the town was starting to fill up. What the beach lacked in cleanliness or tranquillity, it made up for in festivity. Hundreds of families set up on the beach with makeshift marquees, shitty sound systems and dodgy barbecues. With no public facilities, I could only guess where everyone went to the toilet. We didn’t swim.
On our last evening, we visited the local watering hole, Big Wave Daves. The bar was packed with sunburnt Canadian retirees, vintage surfboards and ‘Fuck Trudeau” stickers. There was a large Canadian contingent in the town, who came to escape their winter and apparently, their president. After a few beers, I got talking to a heavily tattooed gentleman about the perils of Canadian left-wing politics and working as a roadie for Metallica in the 90s. As is often the case talking to middle-aged white men, I found the conversation draining and one-sided. I was also distracted by the bartender, who was obviously stoned out of his mind and struggling to pull beers. It turned out this was the owner of the bar, Big Wave Dave. Despite his compromised state, he had a big presence and commanded enormous respect among his patrons. I never spoke to Big Wave Dave but could imagine him in a Jack Kerouac novel. On the wrong side of the law. A shredder of monster waves in exotic lands. Rejecting any sense of normality. In his own way, free.