Punta del Diablo

I have come to the conclusion that being a professional writer is far more arduous and tedious than I thought. Instead of enthusiastically opening my notebook at a fresh page, the speed of my fingers barely keeping pace with my mind’s restless desire to record every detail and bring to life the sights, sounds, and smells that surround me, lately I have been writing about the benefits of certain statistical software products as managerial tools, the definition of a torque angle (I had never heard of it either) and the obligations of good Muslim women. The latter, I have to say, certainly interested me more, but the technical writing and stiff format requirements of the articles tie my hands. There’s nothing like observing real people, trekking into the wild and luring outback or listening to the softly lapping waves on the shore to get your creative juices flowing.

Today I am allowing myself the guilty pleasure of up-dating my long-abandoned blog. For my few followers, I apologise for leaving you without reading material for so long. Since arriving back in Buenos Aires, all my efforts have been focused on launching my professional writing page (www.christinacomben.com – for those of you who haven’t seen it yet) and working on my first novel, of which I’m about 55 pages in.

It is Sunday, although you wouldn’t really know it. There is little to distinguish one day from the next in a popular beach resort in high season. I decided to take a leisurely stroll over the dunes and to the quietest beach, playa grande, which actually has quite a few people on it today. I’m used to seeing nothing but the waves breaking on the sand and the trees and shrubs that pepper the hills tumbling in the breeze.

I love this beach. Once we bathed here at 2am, splashing in the tepid waters brimming with a shining star dust that had us mesmerised by its glow. Shimmering layers of what seemed like fairy dust lit up our naked bodies and danced around in our hair. I thought they were little bacteria that lived in the water, but it turns out that my star dust is actually a scientific phenomenon called phosphorescence. It occurs when lots of energy is absorbed by a substance and released slowly in the form of light. To witness it and swim in the turquoise froth of a wave at night under the light of the moon, leaving footprints in the wet sand that sparkle back at you like gold certainly doesn’t feel scientific. It feels like magic.

That summer night last year here on playa grande, the beach was ours alone. We lay back nestled from the wind by a sand dune, staring up at a sky bursting with stars. Apparently it’s not possible for two people to see the same shooting star, but we did. “Quiero estar contigo para siempre,” (“I want to be with you forever”) Angel whispered to me, staring deeply into my eyes, which were glistening with tears. We’d only known each other a few days but somehow it felt like a life time. Remembering that night has carried me through many a stressful and heart-racing moment. When we were separated and I was in Honduras, I closed my eyes and thought of the beach; when the gunshot rounds in the night were frequent and unnerving; on the day our car span off the road whilst journeying back from San Pedro to Tegucigalpa and we nearly crashed into a horse, a few opportune reeds and plants luckily softening our landing.

On that particularly frightful episode I actually wondered if I would see any of my friends or family again. I just prayed and prayed as I’ve never prayed before to make it home alive, knowing that we still had hours of journey on a treacherous mountain highway ahead, followed by a loop through the poorest and scariest neighbourhood in Honduras at the onset of darkness, searching for a way out of the rat’s nest of chaotic streets and dilapidated buildings. I certainly wouldn’t have believed that a few months later I would be back here on this beach. But then that’s the thing I love most about life – you never know what’s going to happen or what twists and turns of fate will throw you off your path without warning. Here I am, looking out to the horizon, one year later... engaged to my dark-eyed Uruguayan and anticipating yet another move.

Punta del Diablo in the Eastern tip of Uruguay, almost at the border with Brazil has such a special energy that, if you connect with it, it will draw you back time and again. I reconciled my relationship with my sister here, fell in love, bought land, and got engaged on this very beach. There is a magic in the air that radiates from the rocks, the forest that fringes the perfect sandy beaches, the honey-sweet smell of the flowers and the wildlife that hums in the distance. Apart from the phosphorescence, we’ve seen many a curious insect here. If you’re located too close to the forest then the mosquitoes can be ferocious and the frogs and crickets that throb in the undergrowth like a musical chorus, will keep you up all night with their incessant shrill, should one unwillingly enter your house.

Last year after a huge storm that shook the foundations of our cabin, my sister and I awoke to find a horse in the garden. I’ve shared my room with a species of moth-slash-butterfly-slash-bat so big that it froze the breath in my throat. The locals affectionately call this “batman” and it has a wing span greater than that of both my hands together. When it was fixed to the wall without moving I could just about live with it, but when it made its flapping and erratic darts about the thin wooden walls, terrorised shrieks were provoked in me. We’ve seen snakes and miniature dolphins, a local species of shark, crowds of sea birds that gather together on the rocks and fireflies with large green eyes that light up the night with their beams.

If you can learn to be at one with the omnipresent natural life that abounds here, slow your rhythm down to the rolling movements of the tide, and learn that nothing is ever planned in advance, then this might just be a little slice of heaven. At least that is what I am hoping. Angel and I have decided to move here permanently (I say permanently in the Christina sense of the word). I have actually lost count now of how many houses, apartments, shelters, hotels, tents and countries I have lived in and I have a passport with 87 stamps and half a page of space free that doesn’t expire for another 5 years.

We still don’t have our house defined, as it’s only the 6th of February and looking ahead to March is about as alien a concept to the people here as planning your wedding when you’re still in primary school. We were joking with some local friends about this just last night. I will always have my English (mostly my father’s) impatience to get things done and plan in advance. Maybe not to the same extent, but a diluted version of the wanting everything now and not leaving things up in the air to see what happens. When I spoke to him yesterday he told me that they had already sent out invitations to their anniversary party – in JULY – I don’t even know where I will be living in three week’s time. It’s just a different world.

It is going to be an experimental year. I’ve spent most of my adult life residing in chaotic and vibrating cities with throbbing nightlife, street culture, public transport, pollution, noise, bars, restaurants and a 24-hour kiosk on the corner. Can my accelerated and restless spirit be contained and calmed here, in this corner of this tiny South American country miles from any real civilisation? When the winter bites and the harsh, Sothern wind blows and the cold invades my lungs, the carafe of gas has run out and there’s no delivery until next week... how will I react?

The truth is... I don’t know. But I’m willing to find out. I can work from here. I can write. Perhaps I can even find the peace and time I need to complete my novel and inhale pure air. I wonder if I can cure my insomnia and shake of the layers of stress that I’ve been carrying around for so long. I never mention it in my blog, but so much constant moving can be a little, well, unsettling.

I will miss dining out, sipping on pisco sours and hanging out with my friends. Dressing up and straightening my hair, strapping high-heeled shoes around my ankles and feeling glamorous, taking pilates classes, tennis, and massages; just generally being in the city. And the food here is certainly no luxury; the only healthy alternative will be to eat at home. Having a chef as a fiancé comes in handy here as in the main, Uruguayans are certainly not gourmets, at least not in this part of the country. Perhaps in the swanky, 5-star resorts further south or the better areas of Montevideo, but in the rest of Uruguay their idea of a glamorous meal is serving it on a ceramic plate instead of a plastic package and the only way to cook is with a deep fat fryer.

Almost everything here is fried. Milanesas (meat in breadcrumbs), empanadas (Cornish pasties), and a kind of sweet fried dough known as tortas fritas (fried cakes) are all specialities. It’s amazing the people here are not obese with the amount of hamburgers, hotdogs, and general junk oozing with fat that they eat. The Uruguayan chivito is the equivalent of a heart attack on a plate and comes stacked with meat, ham, egg, fries, potato salad, lettuce, olives, cheese and a few other food groups I’m failing to mention, all smothered in mayonnaise. In a country where they eat and appreciate every internal organ of the cow and do creative things with intestines, liver and kidney, I will certainly miss the sophistication of Buenos Aires cuisine.
But for now at least, I am hanging up my heels and my hair dryer, putting always my jackets, skirts and makeup and trading my cocktails for mate and biscocho. My next few blogs will be posted from a small fishing village with a year-round population that doesn’t exceed 1,500. I’ve been to cinemas with more people than that.

Leonardo

I see him every time I go to the gym. He stands in the doorway nearby and controls the cars that park on the side of the road - although not officially; it's kind of understood that a coin here and there to help the less fortunate and (more importantly, to ensure that the side of your car is not scratched by a passing vandal) is the price of parking in a street such as this.

The first time I saw him, I walked cautiously by, not sure how to assess this handicapped man standing between me and my pilates class. Fully prepared for some salacious comment I tensed up as I passed by, but he just smiled and said "buen dia" (good day); I mumbled the same and walked awkwardly on.

In several visits to the gym now, we've struck up quite a relationship. He calls me "flaquita" (little thing) and always has a smile and a story for me before my class. I don't know how old he is but I'm guessing somewhere in his forties, although the lines etched around his eyes and forehead from squinting in the sun probably add a few years. His breath always reeks of alcohol, yet I never see him with a bottle. His face lights up as I turn the corner – “flaquita, volviste!” (little thing, you came back) and we engage in a light-hearted banter, as if we weren’t two illegal aliens drawn to Argentina from faraway countries and strikingly different paths in life.

He's actually from Peru but you can't really tell from his accent. His wife and kids live far out of the capital and he struggles from his neighbourhood every day with his crutches to one of Buenos Aires’s most affluent neighbourhoods to stand in his spot and look after cars. How rapidly my middle-classed angst and trifling anxieties are reduced to their proper context.

I used to close myself off from the sights and sounds; moving about the city with my MP3 and headphones firmly planted in my ears. I was over-whelmed and irritated by the noise and bustle; the constant, lecherous comments from passersby and the crunching gears of the buses. But you can’t shy away from people forever. Sometimes you just have to let the world in. As threatening or invasive or extraordinary as they might seem; we're all in this together after all.

Summer in the city

The smell of asado wafting through the windows is distracting my concentration. I'm hungry, wrestling with a deadline and the extreme heat is making it hard to focus. If it's true that the biting cold of a European winter puts people in a bad mood, then it's also certain that oppressive heat does nothing to bring out the best in people.

Today the city woke up nasty. Impatient taxi drivers and rushing-to-work commuters pound their horns with heightened intensity and the pre Christmas streets are teeming with pedestrians, less patient than usual; a rowdy rabble of jabbing elbows and sidewalk-hogging window shoppers.

Santa doesn't wear Bermuda shorts in this part of the world. With 35 degrees of heat you would think the red cloak, thick flannel trousers and beard would be reserved for colder climes. There is something slightly absurd about billboards of snow scenes and sledges, when the asphalt is melting beneath your feet.

The city is hot, dirty and draining today and no one has any desire to be part of it. I don't want to go out; I don't want to stay in. I just want someone to feed me grapes and fan me gently as I lie motionless upon a sofa. My father informs me that it's snowing again in their corner of the world; a record-breakingly cold winter before the worst has even begun... I guess you can never win.

The city I love

The broad, tree-lined streets are so familiar to me. I walk along the sunny side and an amused smile dances across my lips as catcalls of "hermosa" and "diosa" remind me that I'm back in Buenos Aires; this decadent and thriving city that draws such an eclectic mix of characters and a people who don't keep their feelings to themselves.

I walk past a "parilla" - a steak house - with plastic green tables arranged, somewhat awkwardly, about the sidewalk. The delicious aroma of meat slowly burning on the grill invades the air. It's only Monday and yet the place is over-spilling with people sitting, laughing, chinking glasses and enjoying some of the finest meat in the world. A jewellery-clad lady with a Gucci bag and over-sized, dark glasses leans back in her chair, observing her dining partner with distain, dropping a coil of ash from her cigarette onto the floor and passing pieces of bread to the kickable canine by her side.

A young, painfully thin woman taps her heel nervously on the floor, eyes darting from side to side, willing the slow-moving waiter to bring the bill so she can rush home and regurgitate her lunch. A group of yellow-haired, sandal-clad gringos laugh loudly as they order another bottle of wine, unknowingly observed by the young boy with the fast hands that's pretending not to look as he circles twice around the block.

A silver haired man sits alone with his coffee. A sleepy smile exposing the crow's feet aound his eyes spreads across his face. As he nods his head he lights up with a soulful expression that seems to say "I know about fine wine and women".

My ankle jars as I step upon an uneven tile that sprays a splash of dirty, stagnated water up the back of my legs. I had forgotten about the broken sidewalks; I must be off my game. I used to have an inbuilt radar that would guide me safely down the street avoiding any crumbling surface, tree root, impromptu construction site or dog faeces.

Ahh Buenos Aires. In any given moment this city can be engaging; captivating; exciting; then suddenly the wind blows and the panorama changes. The streets that were so inviting become dirty, cluttered and hostile. Some days are good; some days are great; other days are just plain awful, depending upon how many buses you have missed or unions are on strike, cordoning off parts of the city and clogging up kilometres of traffic. I have always had a love-hate relationship with this city. It's an organized chaos that somehow works; a rat race that simply draws you in - a place that has become my second home.

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...