By Matt Walker

Nine times I’ve been to Nicaragua, racking up at least 100 sessions over 15 years. And it was always offshore.

The swell might’ve not arrived on schedule. The sandbars could’ve shifted, or shut down entirely. But the winds stayed east, guaranteeing three, perfectly groomed sessions per day. It’s those very conditions that transformed the country’s surf reputation from Costa Rica’s slightly sketchier northern neighbor to Central America’s surest bet. (And growing a multimillion-dollar coastal economy along the way.) So when, two weeks back, I woke to my first onshore day ever, I reckoned I was due. Besides, surface chop was the least of my worries. My greater concern was the groundswell of political unrest that’s been growing the past five weeks. And I was far from alone.

“We thought we’d seen it all,” said Lance Moss, who started Playa Guasacate’s Surfari Charters with his wife, Kristin, back in 2003. “We went through the election 12 years ago, that was crazy. We had natural disasters, like last October’s tropical storm. But these protests are different. It’s frustrating because there’s a travel advisory for the whole country, but the protestors aren’t even focused on travelers. They’re focused on the government.”

It all started in mid-April, when President Daniel Ortega approved resolutions to increase taxes and cut pensions. When the public protested, police responded forcefully, even brutally, eventually leading to more than 100 deaths as of press-time — and widespread calls for Ortega to step down. Since then demonstrations have been more frequent, as the various sides proceed with talks — even meetings with US officials.

Highlights from a pumping May 2018. Vid: Matt Blevins

For weeks, the conflict seemed to be on a slow simmer, until May 30, when thousands of citizens filled the streets and were fired upon by pro-Ortega forces, killing 11. Then, on June 2nd, an American was killed in Managua. But outside the cities, the coastal life continues — except for the “tranques.” As the opposition applies economic pressure by randomly blocking the roads between more populated areas — including outside Managua’s Augusto C. Sandino International airport.

“Protesters basically go to funnel points in the roads,” says Moss. “Or wherever is the easiest place to disrupt traffic and kind of put a little bit of a choke on the economy. But we haven’t missed any transfers. Our drivers are still getting to the airport via alternate routes. And there’s really good network of communication between all the camps to stay a step ahead of the traffic.”

From the moment I landed, I saw both sides. Walking from the baggage area, I saw the familiar face of my driver, Camilo, waving a sign saying “Popoyo Surf Lodge.” He loaded my boards in the truck — then ran straight into a log jam of traffic. In the 15 minutes between his arrival and our departure, protestors had piled rocks in the road, stopping the first couple of busses and cars. After that, there was a half-mile line of vehicles growing longer by the minute.

Camilo whipped out a cell and made a few calls. We met a Surfari driver at a nearby convenience store and started slowly snaking through the city’s signless streets, occasionally stopping to ask for directions. A couple friendly finger points and hand waves and within an hour we were back on the main road, zipping south. Three hours later and and a shortcut ‘round a tiny protest near Nandaime, and we were at the lodge, where I tipped Camilo the usual five-spot.

“See?” he said, shaking my hand. “Es tranquilo.”

Most of the protesters wore masks and motorcycle helmets. A few waved machetes. But I never felt unsafe, because I never felt like the target. And once I was out in the water, I felt like nothing had changed. Except for the lack of bodies. Beachbreaks became private sessions for five campers, instead of 50. One day at Playgrounds, the crowd had dwindled from 15 strangers to just me and the boat driver. Even Popoyo felt empty. After years of paddle battles and hassles, I’d given up surfing the area’s namesake reefbreak a few years back; this time I picked off morning sessions with a dozen guys or less. It almost felt like 2008, except for the cantina serving ice-cold cervezas and the constant tapping of cellphones underneath the palapa.

Or as Lance noted, “If this was 10 years ago, nobody would know anything was going on. But since we have iPhones and Facebook, everyone’s talking about it.”

Still, while the protests were a top topic of conversation, it never felt like a daily concern, at least for us gringos. We joked about running out of Toñas and wondered which chickens might not last the week if food supplies ever stopped coming. To be safe, everyone stayed away from Granada. One camper swapped his flights out of Liberia to avoid cities altogether. But it’s the folks who can’t leave that I worry about most.

Fifteen years ago, most local families were still driving oxen carts and riding bicycles. Today, many own dirt bikes, some even cars — a sign of the newfound prosperity that regular surf trips can bring to an impoverished coastline. And while the protesters’ goal is to make Ortega suffer, it’s their own people who stand to feel the most pain.

People like Jamil. The 34-year-old local ripper started working in PSL kitchen 17 years ago. Today, he’s their top guide. All season, he babysits kooks like me: loading boardbags into Hiluxes and pangas; putting us on the most firing spots; making us laugh with lewd jokes all day long. But catch him before daylight when the coffee’s brewing and the cocks start to crow, a graver face stays glued to the latest news report to see what’s transpired. And what hasn’t. “I worry because I have three children to feed,” he said, shaking his head once Ortega walked out of the first round of talks. “They are my world. And if this keeps up, it’s going to get really hard.”

And by all accounts it will keep up. On May 24th, a McClatchy report implied that these talks are just a stalling tactic while Ortega consolidates power. And even if he does step down, there’s no clear transition strategy. Neither option is a real resolution.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes years, honestly,” Lance said. “Everything in Nicaragua seems to. Ortega’s been in power for a long time. He’s got massive private holdings. We really need to manage our expectations. I just pray people want to keep coming. Because this could be the new normal for a while.”

But then what is normal? On May 28, students took over a college building — leading more clashes with riot police. The next day supply runs got in and out of the city without a single tranque. On May 30, a new protest led to 11 more deaths. With each passing day, the real difficulty becomes not overcoming the latest challenge — but knowing what challenges to expect.

“I believe Nicaragua has changed,” said longtime expat resident, JJ Yemma. “The people want to know that their voice matters. I think dictatorship in Nicaragua is definitely on its way out. And tourists should keep coming. The last couple days I’ve heard several people say that, when at the barricades, [the protesters] saw that they were gringos and immediately let them through with no hassles or money. But one thing we can be sure of is, this place — the people, beaches, mountains, lakes and volcanoes — is special.”

So, for now, smart travelers are preparing for everything, then adjusting their expectations, and even their flight patterns. Some opt to go in and out of Liberia and avoid Nicaragua’s urban areas altogether — even booking a puddle jumper to Costa Esmerelda, a private regional airport right near Colorados. (“It often costs about the same and is a great option,” Moss said.) Others are hiring taxis and drivers to lead them to and from the city. I chose to leave extra early, foregoing a final morning session to avoid the afternoon’s peak protest hours.

At first it felt like a mistake. Not because it’s dangerous, but because it’s so dull. The towns and streets slumbered quietly for the first two hours until a rotunda near Masaya, where a dozen dudes in masks had dragged a tree limb onto the road. When one walked toward us, I started sweating. He stopped at the truck in front of us, asking for “gas money,” then got to our window and waved us on through. Ten minutes later, the branch was gone, and we were rumbling down the same, rutty backstreets Camilo had navigated five days ago. Before long, we were backdooring the airport and he dropped me curbside with three hours to spare.

“See?” he said. “Tranquilo.”

This time, I handed him a $20, not so much for the ride, but for the rough months ahead. Then I told him, “See you in November.”

And as long as this new normal stays normal, I will.