Step off the plane into a world of explosive colour. San Salvador is verdant green, violent red and purple, grey cinderblock, rusted metal. The air is heavy, aromatic smoke, damp. Only after I walk out of the terminal do I wonder whether it might have been wise to organise some transport, some way of getting around, before now. Sweat pours as I drag the board bag outside. It rains lightly, but everything stays wet. Alone, I’m a plum target for the hawkers and the touts who make their home outside the airport. Pretty soon I am caught in an argument, in my pidgin Spanish, about whether Australia has better mangoes than El Salvador.

Eventually, I end up in a taxi. Or an unmarked car whose driver tells me it is a taxi. The fare is paid in American dollars because there is no longer a Salvadoran currency. Apparently, at some point they decided it was best to pack it in and go with the yanqui greenback.

The van rolls through the streets, through towns and slums and city. It’s night when we reach El Tunco, one part of the burgeoning ‘Surf City’ precincts taking shape along the coast. I know we’ve arrived because two men open a gate for the van, dressed in faux-military uniform. The streets become cleaner. We drive past a banner showing the logo of a global surf competition plastered on the side of a cinderblock construction site. Eventually, I find the place I am staying, which turns out to be a converted shipping container. As I step out of the van, there is salt on the wind. The shipping container is hot and full of mosquitoes, but also five minutes stroll to El Sunzal and La Bocana, two of the gems in the crown of the ...