Black sand, brown skin

To which I should add 'purple bruises'. Surfing hurts. It hurts, and it's hard. I must have swallowed half my own weight in seawater. I wish I could report that having tried the sport and discovered the many drawbacks I have decided never to get on a surfboard again. Instead I´m counting down the months to a NZ summer and calculating the price of a wetsuit.

One day saw me journey from Leon,Nicaragua, to La Libertad, El Salvador. In kilometres this can't be that long, but it took me six buses, thirteen hours and a pedi-cab. On one of the buses, someone actually had a chicken in a sack. I am glad to know that 'chicken bus' is not a misnomer. The experience of two borders in one day, and the fact that I only saved about $10 over the direct shuttle, convinced me thatit wasn't cheating when I decided to take the fancy international bus on my last journey. I do feel like a little less of a traveler.

It was El Salvador that made me skip over Guatemala entirely. I'd heard before I got there that the people are very friendly, but I didn't really believe it. But I could swear that the instant you step across the border smiles widen and are more frequent, desire to help without monetary reward is greater and tendency to rip you off is decreased. It must be something in the water. I was planning to avoid El Salvador because they've just had an election and I was worried about unrest (the kind that involves firearms; they were in a civil war kind of recently, after all). But I'm so glad I didn't. It is meant to be dangerous, but to be honest I saw less security men with guns than in Honduras, and locals tend to keep the violence to themselves. One hopes.

Playa El Tunco was a pleasantly laid back spot with a decent black sand beach and a right point break. The latter was the location of my attempts to surf, which I will not stop complaining about because I can actually feel my bruises healing as I whine. First I took a surf lesson, wanting to start off on the right foot. My teacher was called Bamba. I learnt over the days I was there that every local surfer has two names, and that it is actually possible for black hair to get bleached-surfer-blond streaks, which looks really weird. He taught me how to stand up on the board,or rather, what I would be doing if I was able to stand up on the board, and took me out to catch some waves. Alright, I thought. This isn't too bad.

That afternoon I gave it a try by myself. It was almost comical. I got knocked over just getting through the waves breaking on the beach. The size of the waves at the break scared me so much. I made a vain attempt to catch a few and just ended up underneath them. The size of the board you learn on means you can´t just dive under waves. When you see the white water coming, you have to either try to catch it or yell 'Abandon Ship!', jump off your board and dive under impending doom. You end up swallowing a lot of water while your board drags at your ankle, caught in the white wash.The tendency of waves to come in sets means that once you get caught once at this spot, you tend to be stuck, emerging from under the wave only to find another one coming towards you with no time to swim away. The 'oh no, not again' feeling is one I would get used to. But that first day, I emerged from the waves despondent, sore, tired, with my lungs full of salt water, and found that my flip flops had been stolen by the high tide and that I was bleeding. I was ready to give up on this stupid idea.

By the next morning, I had difficulty lifting my left arm above my shoulder. The cut on my thigh had blossomed into a tri-coloured bruise. Muscles I didn't know I had ached. I decided I would body-board that day. But the next found me back out there early, with the water glassy, the light soft and a morning flock of pelicans saying hello. I caught a few waves, felt better. I aimed to stand up by the time I left El Tunco (unfortunately this did not happen). I began to feel like I wouldn't give up after all. That day, actually, I got this strange sense of standing at the beginning of a very long path, and knowing that I was going to be going down it and feeling every bump on the way. Why will I be doing this? I couldn't say. But there's something very peaceful about paddling out and waiting for the wave, calm in a beautiful ocean. Most of surfing is waiting really. This is followed by a burst of speed, an oh-heavens-it's-coming-straight-for-me-this-is-it, a paddlepaddlepaddle, then a surge as the wave catches. And if it makes me feel like this now, imagine how great it will be when I can actually surf.

Besides which, there are the cute boys. It's not just a stereotype. It's true. And the laidback lifestyle. Oh, Playa El Tunco was lovely. I met a great bunch of people there: my fall-over-gorgeous French roommates; the eptiome of California surfer from Santa Barbara; a cute Canadian couple, the girl learning like me and complaining every second, like me; Devin, bearded, Pacific Northwest and talking 100 miles a minute.

Twenty-eight long hours of bus travel later,and I am in San Cristobal De Las Casas. Getting into the first Mexican bus terminal was amazing. A bus terminal with seats, and a ticket office with people dressed nicely, and bright lights and clean streets and a bus leaving shortly. It seems so civilised. Oh, I love you Mexico. San Cristobal seems fantastic already. I'm staying in an excellent hostel near the indigenous market. I took a wander down and saw the beautiful costumes and fell in love. So far, San Cristobal is the only town I would consider living in. It's spectacular.