unstuck in nicaragua

The driver got out of the mini van and started speaking in Spanish faster than my limited vocabulary would let me understand. I could tell he had lost his cool, the scratched 90’s CDs that he had blaring on the drive down stopped playing about three hours prior. He was tired of driving down this dusty gravel road when the bitumen ran out and finally he lost his cool when we expected him to go through a creek crossing. I didn’t have much energy left to argue and only had a couple of Spanish words to use. I just wanted to be slotting into three to four foot dredging barrels. The last two days were spent cramped in mini vans, late night border crossings and hustling anyone with a car to get a ride down here. I could tell we were quickly running out ofdaylight. I felt like I was in the middle of ‘you are going to get robbed and pillaged,’ with no idea of how far away we were from our destination or which direction the beach was. Just as I was preparing to spend the night road-side, the stand off finished. We all jumped back in the van and charged through the creek. 

A week came and went waiting for those dreamy surf brochure promises of barrelling offshore waves. Instead of organising our days around the tides and wind, we spent it trying to figure out when the veggie truck would come, exploring rock pools, eating, talking and chilling. After long days of not much, our sleepy heads would hit the pillow knowing that the night guard would keep us safe with the rifle he slung over his shoulder.