El Tunco is a little surf town with two main roads, a few clubs, a long stretch of beach, and not much else. The closest main town is La Libertad, which is a 30 minute ride by "chicken bus". We haven't quite decided why they're referred to as "chicken buses"... perhaps because they cram you in there like chickens in a truck? Or it may be the fact that it wouldn't be entirely surprising to find someone transporting a chicken or two with them. Either way, these buses are retired (read: didn't pass inspection) school buses from the US that have been painted ridiculous colors and utilized as a form of hectic public transport here. All in all they're fairly cheap and efficient, if ridiculously crowded, loud, and unpredictable.
Anyway, our second night there a few of us decided to cook a family style meal at Papaya. Into the chicken bus we piled, and proceeded to hang on for dear life as we cruised into Libertad. We opted to hitchhike in the back of a pickup truck on the way home, just to round out the experience. Two hours later, about ten of us were dining on veggie pasta, garlic bread, ginger stir fry, and more than a few bottles of wine. Dinners like those are definitely our favorite parts of hostel living!
A few hours after dinner everyone had moved onto a club called La Bocana, right on the beach. It was an equal mix of travelors and locals, and the place was packed. Everyone was dancing away to local pop music (with Gangnam Style thrown in for good measure), and overall having a great night. And then I decided to stomp on a broken bottle. Barefoot.
[SIDE NOTE: As a rule, we never go barefoot unless we're at the actual beach. We see it all the time, even in cities like Antigua, and think it's idiotic and unhygienic how many of our fellow travelers refuse to wear shoes, even in restaurants or grocery stores. Sorry if that offends anyone, but this is our blog so... we win.]
The events of this fateful Friday just added to reinforce that belief. I broke my own personal rule and kicked off the Havianas I kept tripping over as I made a pathetic attempt to salsa with a local on the dance-floor. Everyone else was doing it, why not me? Less than 30 seconds later I was sitting on the side of the club holding a sliced right foot and apologizing to the security guard (who was incredibly sweet and helpful) for bleeding all over his bar. Once I got over the shock of what I had just done- okay and stopped crying, I admit it- I hobbled my sorry butt back to our hostel, where luckily two of our friends were hanging out in the kitchen. Tanis helped me clean and bandage my foot while Greg ("because I have no idea what else to do") made us some epic grilled peanut butter and honey sandwiches.
Unfortunately, this was probably my most memorable event of Tunco. Don't get me wrong, I had a great time (as you'll soon read from Katie's post) trying to surf and meeting some truly amazing people. However, the memories of Kings Cup games with 15 people from 7+ countries (be a gecko!), gorgeous sunsets, and beach bonfires are sadly mixed in with memories of supergluing my wound shut, walking like a Crip, and changing the bandages and athletic tape 2-3x a day to keep the dirt and sand out. Summary of this post: Tunco is incredible, but keep your shoes on!
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