Thoughts on Entering El Salvador

The entire region of Central America shares many of the same characteristics - the good and the bad - typified by lush, vibrant, fertile lands, coffee plantations, banana fields, and high sweeping sugar canes that sway in the breeze, casting shadows upon the soil in the afternoon sun.

Natural disasters ravage the land from time to time, their devastating effects leaving the earth fragile and exposed; punishing downpours destroying crops, drowning animals and people and driving the weakest from their homes.
The secret handshakes between spine-tinglingly corrupt politicians, “empresarios” (businessmen) and officials are frequently and firmly exchanged here; the omnipresent threat of drug barons, organized crime, and military coups creating a daily need for backhanders behind closed doors.

Not too far from the cities, men and women with wizened faces and hunched bodies, deep grooves carved into their bones from a life of carrying heavy loads, work the land with ox and plough, machetes, and their bare hands; tough skin thickly formed over their knuckles from picking the cherries off of the ripe coffee plants at harvest time.

In these rural areas the menacing threat of crime that hangs in the air in the streets of the cities like the snaking smoke of a cigarette, is replaced by the ever present devotion and unshaken belief in God, with each greeting beginning and ending with "may god bless you". The small, rundown churches are at full capacity on Sundays and a search on the FM for a radio station will only bring up the "hora de oracion" (hour of prayer).

There are so many common denominators in Central America that the reality is that few people think of coming here to a single country. The lack of direct flights to Honduras and Nicaragua make it logistically expensive and difficult and, if you're going to go so far and invest so much time and money, you may as well spread your interests across the region.

Whether it's an intrepid backpacker following the gringo trail, or a foreign company looking to invest, it makes sense to diversify your risk, maximize your reward and benefit from economies of scale. One regionally integrated law firm that we went to interview conveyed to us that very few investors focus solely on Honduras. In fact Central America was the first geographic area to reach a regional agreement; a model upon which the European Union based its foundations.

All this said, however, each country in Central America has something subtly different to offer, maintaining its own flavour, history, colloquialisms and unique way of preparing tortillas. Crossing the border into El Salvador, somehow you can feel the changes in the air.

The bus set off from Tegucigalpa at the ungodly hour of 6.15. I am so used to being awake at 5am now, when the light streams through the cracks in the door, the windows and the barely-there curtains.

The sky was blood red at the top, merging away into a blush pink and orange, like the grenadine in a tequila sunrise, and the heavily made-up and smiling stewardess served a McDonalds breakfast for each passenger, which turned by stomach in the half light, invading the bus with odours of sausage, egg, and a side of “frijoles” (refried beans; a local variant).

We rumbled along towards the border and, in a state of half awake, half asleep, I barely prized open my tired eyes as we approached the entry point to El Salvador at the crossing of el Amatillo. There was a stream of trucks lined up over the bridge as we pulled into a parking lot and waited for the customs officials to appear.

Not a minute had passed before a beaming attendant with sweet brown eyes, jumped on to the bus, smiling from ear to ear. Clearly amused at the lack of space left in my passport and my incoherent state, he handed me my document and said "bienvenido a El Salvador!" (welcome to El Salvador) winking.

There were people bathing in the river and some women washing clothes, scrubbing on a board, in the dirty water; gas fumes and oil from the trucks seeping into the earth nearby. Dotted about were cheerful-looking, brightly coloured stands and "pupuserias", selling corn cakes with “chicharon” (grated pork), cheese and vegetables.

Just a few kilometres west and the whole look and feel is different. It's more colorful than Honduras. The people, the little stores and even the clothing, shines brighter here with loud pinks and dramatic reds and greens. The North American school buses that are used for local transportation, (chicken buses as they are fondly referred to) are intricately and beautifully painted, decorated with flags, football stickers, music groups, and rosaries, Jesus on the cross and signs saying “God bless this bus”, as they hurtle along the road overtaking round blind bends at breakneck speed.

Postage sized El Salvador seems to be more sure of its identity than its neighbour to the east, with a backdrop of volcanoes, from almost every part, over 20 of which are still active. We progress along the highway towards the capital. The roads are definitely better here. The Minister for Transport and Highways (a swaggeringly tall and physically repulsive man with a roving eye for the ladies) just announced that 80% of Honduras's highways have been damaged this year by the winter rains; some routes so bad that long detours have to be taken round little villages and through gravel roads to get passed collapsed bridges and open voids.

There may be less holes and inherent hazards in El Salvador, but the highways are governed with the same lawlessness as Honduras. We pass a pickup truck bursting with passengers, standing, clinging on to the bars, and hanging off of the back, jiggling up and down. An El Salvadorian taxi, your 20c definitely gets you a bit of an adventure on your way to work.

The same attitude applies as to over taking, really they figure that there is room for 3 or 4 cars along the 2 lane highway; they really don’t seem to understand why it was designed this way; the dodgem car approach is far faster and more entertaining, if you can keep your lunch down. Any random or reckless manoeuvre is permissible as long as you stick your arm out of the window and raise your thumb, accompanied by a wide grin.

The thick green trees are overgrown and spill out into the roads creating arches and a thick, green tunnel of trees. Curious topical fruits - jocote - are on offer at small stands, selling corn and liquados, juices and pupusas, dotted along the side of the road. As we stop at a traffic light, the bus is descended upon by old and young, loud and silent, smiling and sad, all selling goods from platanos to bibles, thrust high towards the bus windows on long poles.

We pass through small villages and more muti-coloured restaurants and cafes, shops and hotels. Three men are sitting under the shade of a corrugated roof, sharing a beer, laughing loudly as one exposes a golden tooth and a cackling laughter that nearly sees him fall off the back of his chair. With their contagious cheerfulness and infectious smiles, it's hard to imagine that this country was ravaged by a bloody civil war for 13 years, followed by a brutal dictatorship.

Listening to the “honk honk” of the brightly coloured bus, as the driver extends his tanned arm out of the window, asking permission to pass, it's also hard to imagine the current and constant threat this country suffers from the "maras" (gangs that divide the city up into zones charging territory fees to protect the businesses and lives of the people that live there; fees which if not paid result in the sounds of gunshots in the night and a naked cadaver uncovered at a street market the following day). Poor and ordinary people that suffer the law of the street on a daily basis.

Just a few weeks ago, one of these buses with its laughing and gentle, kind and welcoming people was stopped and set a blaze by a drug gang. 31 people perished. Burned alive in the melting tar and tearing flames that engulfed the bus, unable to escape. A demonstration of the reckless power of the maras and a sign that human life here has little value.

The population becomes denser and ratio of cows to people, less, as we pull into the outskirts of San Salvador. The sun is high in the sky, an eagle flies over head. A old man with a sombrero tilts it towards me as he catches me gazing. It's only been a few hours, but I already like it here.

Al dejar Tegus

En el aeropuerto pase tanto tiempo en la libreria que me reglaron un libro de poesia. Lo estoy leyendo con lagramias en mis mejillas . No me quiero ir. Me siento que rasque el superficie de este pais. Ya me despego y te dejo atras. Las cicatrices de la tierra de se ven menos prfoundas desde el aire.

Roberto Sosa, Tegucigalpa:


Vivo en un paisaje
donde el tiempo no existe y el oro es manso.

Aqui siempre se es triste sin saberlo.
Nadie conoce el mar
ni l amistad del angel.

Si, yo vivo aqui, o mas bien muero.
Aqui donde la sombra purisima del nino
cae en polvo dela angosta calle
El vuelvo detenido y arriba un cielo que huye.

One door closes; another opens

On the bus back from San Salvador to Tegucigalpa they are showing a movie about a plane crash, the night before I fly out of here. I am a ball of emotions. On one hand, I love this part of the world and it breaks my heart to leave this beautiful but troubled country behind. My life is a constant stream of goodbyes. Centroamerica, eres parte de mi corazon y me cuesta dejarte. Esperame que te prometo que vuelva pronto...