Five Hours in El Salvador

When our plane bumped down in El Salvador and we exited into the airport we were immediately embraced by the warm humid air and the particular smells of Latin America. My cousin and I brushed the dust off our Spanish to explore the options for our five-hour layover (before we continue on to Peru). We decided to pay the small entry fee to the country to get out and explore. A kindly-looking older gentleman taxi driver showed us to his van and we laughed at the disproportionate size of our transport (considering that here they would normally fit 20-30 people in such a vehicle). His name is Antonio, and he drove us about half an hour inland to the small town of Olocuilta. We chatted with him throughout the journey, asking him many questions about his country, his people, his life here. He mentioned that we were not quite in El Salvador yet, because several miles circumference around the airport are zoned to the department of peace.

Pupusas!     photo by Rachel; Sally and Her Teacakes blog

We asked Antonio to bring us to this favorite pupuseria in Olocuilta and he parked next to a small shaded area beside the road where we got out, chose a table and pulled up the plastic chairs. The handful of locals around the place took an interest in the three gringas, curiously watching our every move. We asked Antonio to sit with us and bought him some pupusas too. He gave us recommendations on which were the tastiest. Pupusas are perhaps the most classic food of El Salvador. They are palm-sized thick corn tortas stuffed with various fillings and fried in generous quantities of oil. The ones we ate consisted of rice flour instead of corn and we were told that Olocuilta is the only place where they are made this way. We ordered one stuffed with a type of squash similar to chayote, several of the rellenos ("the works"--cheese and pork) because Antonio insisted they were by far the best, and one that was stuffed with the green buds of a kind of flower that grows in the region (which gave it the flavor of goat cheese and was my personal favorite). On top of the pupusas we dropped spoonfuls of a spicy kraut or kimchi-like mix of preserved veggies that sat in a large plastic jug on the table. The pupusas were delicious. We enjoyed the meal and especially the time spent with Antonio, asking him a flock of questions about his country, joking and laughing.

Soon we were back in the van returning in the direction of the coast. We had been told in the airport by several people that El Salvador had just experienced 8 days of solid rain and so the beaches were not worth seeing because they'd been thrashed by the storm. But when Antonio mentioned that there was an international surf competition happening, I had to go check it out. As we drove toward the coast from Olocuilta, we passed through tropical scenery of dense vibrant green foliage interspersed with cultivated fields of sugar can and maiz. Papaya trees hung with plump green fruits were scattered along the roadside as well as a number of plants and shrubs that were entirely unique and unfamiliar--like a scraggly looking tree with few leaves and softball-sized rounded tan fruits that looked like dinosaur eggs hatching directly from its trunk and branches (a twigless tree with stemless fruits!). Antonio mentioned that the tropical storm they'd just experienced was somewhat unusual in its duration and intensity and that today was the first day of clear skies. As we traveled along the road to the beach, we saw a large group of women and children bathing themselves and washing clothing in the river. Countless articles of brightly colored garments had been spread on the boulders of the river to dry, making the riverbanks look like a festive collage. Herds of cattle slowed traffic as they meandered up the road unhurriedly and with apparent apathy toward the rather spastic maneuvers of some of the drivers. Large thick-girthed and smooth-barked tropical trees stood like the legs of giant elephants. Women selling fruits precisely and neatly stacked in mini pyramids sat and watched passing vehicles. Men on disproportionately loaded bicycles wobbled with their freight along the roadside. Antonio dropped us off near a colorful beachfront walk, which had a slight feeling of abandonment. None of the restaurants were open, no street vendors lined the walk and pedestrians were relatively few. The intense humidity caused the sweat to trickle down my spine and my jeans stuck to my legs as the sound of the waves pulsed gently and perpetually along the fist-sized stones of the shoreline. We passed a cemetery facing the ocean that looked like a mosaic of bright pastel colors, each gravestone and cross carefully maintained.

International Surf Competition. photo by JG

We heard loudspeakers announcing the surf competition and after a short walk found a crowd of people stretched along the narrow rocky shoreline. A pile of coconuts sat beside food stalls and surfers from various parts of the world (I herd mention of Brazil, Argentina, Australia, Hawaii, Germany--?!?!--and a handful of others). The waves were fairly small but looked fun, and we stood to watch the skilled moves of the surfers. I am always interested in what washes up on beaches in different parts of the world and here I found dried-out fibrous mango seeds, coconut husks, various kinds of pits and seeds and large wooden pea-like pods, scattered bits of rubbish and a particular kind of nut that when I pounded it open between two rocks smelled like fresh leather. A severely mangy and skeletal dog stood beside us, raw pink patches of infection adding to the heartbreaking desperation of its appearance. As we walked back to meet Antonio the announcer of the surf competition spotted my cousin and I walking along the rocks of the shoreline form his booth above the crowd and nearly blasted our ears off through the loudspeakers when he greeted the "rubias."

A Brazilian competitor tearing it up. photo by JG

On our way back to the airport my cousin nodded off to sleep while we absorbed the scenery in silence. At one point my aunt suggested I start a conversation with our driver because she was concerned he might be dozing off. So I asked him about his parents, his family, the small community he grew up in. I had learned a fair amount about the atrocities of the war in El Salvador in the 1980s and was curious to hear his experiences but did not feel that there was an appropriate way to broach such a tragic and intensely painful subject. As it turned out, I didn't even need to ask because Antonio simply began to tell me. What he shared with me was quite disturbing and I listened attentively, asking some questions here and there, but mostly just letting him talk. He told me that during the war the very road we were driving along (he gestured toward a few particular spots we passed) would on a daily turn up corpses that had had the head or hands cut off or had been otherwise severely and cruelly mutilated. He told of the genocide and the terror in the villages, and of the many friends, neighbors and dear ones he had lost. He told of specific occurrences like one night when all the inhabitants of his village cowered within their simple homes and oh-so-thin tin roofs as different factions of the military warred outside, raining death from helicopters. He also told of general incidences, like how innocent villagers would be forced by one passing militant group to provide food and water only to be massacred hours or days later by the opposing side for having provided that food and water thereby "assisting the enemy." He also mentioned that the U.S. supplied many of the weapons and munitions during this time of chaos and had trained many of the Salvadorean military personnel at the notorious School of the Americas (where genocide is included in the curriculum and taught as a tactic of war). I watched Antonio's eyes in the rear view mirror and could hardly imagine the pain he had seen and known . . . and how recent this all has been!
 

Antonio, Katherine Jr. and Julia. photo by Katherine Gundling

As we neared the airport I thanked him for sharing his story with me. I told him how so many of us in the United States particularly the younger generations have never known true hardship or danger on that level. I told him how frustrating and heart-wrenching it is to know that our government goes to other places and causes this kind of hardship and terror. I told him how important it is that stories like his are heard by people who have never known what he has known, so that understanding, awareness, compassion and humanity are more at the forefront of our policies and decisions. I told him the more people in my country and elsewhere knew and truly understood such stories the less this kind of cruelty and chaos might happen in this world. I told him I was honored that he had shared with me. And when we arrived at the airport and said our goodbyes with warm embraces all around, I told him quietly that I will never forget.