From Suchitoto onward, the excitement waned a bit.
The busroad down a dirt road to the crossroads town of Alquilera was uneventful if scenic, including a few towns that were still rebuilding from the war even fifteen years later. After a few hours standing around a dusty sweltering crossroads in northern El Salvador, with no one around but venders who swarmed each passing bus like flies, I was starting to worry my bus wouldn’t come. I also got a chance to examine the tires of the ancient chicken busses rolling past, almost all of which were completely bald. Finally, a bus to the Honduran frontier came, and I crammed myself on with a few dozen farmers carrying bags of grain and feed, and the stereo blasting not Latin music but some 80’s mix that included “Ghostbusters” about three times. I got off the border stop of La Palma a few hours later, and encountered the first gringos and spoke the first English in nearly a week. We all split a hotel room and swapped tales about the ins and outs of backpacker travel on various continents. It was two Brits, one American and one Israeli, all of whom were pretty cool and I stayed with for the next few days into Honduras.
The border crossing was painless again, and the guards refused to stamp our passports, even when we asked! I was a little annoyed to discover that my companions had, um, not exactly declared everything they were traveling with, but I suppose no border agents want the extra hassle of searching bags or the extra paperwork of arresting a few foreign nationals.
The trip across Honduras was beautiful if seemingly endless, and we rolled in Copan a little before nightfall. Copan sits on the border with Guatemala, and its main claim to fame are its lovely colonial cobbled streets and some Mayan ruins about a kilometer outside of town. We even caught the red sox game at a local bar, owned by a twenty five year old American who had bought the place sight unseen about six months earlier. He had moved down to Honduras with almost no Spanish and having never even set foot in the country, he was also getting sued by about three different locals.
The trip to the ruins themselves was moderately disappointing. I suppose it’s hard for much to live up to Tikal for Mayan grandeur, and certainly Angkor Wat where I was not too long ago… Still, the wildlife of parrots and macaws was impressive, and the level of detail preserved in the ruins and hieroglyphics was far greater than any I’d seen in the Americas. I bid adios to my companions, most of whom will be traveling until autumn- Carmel the Israeli will even be in Peru and Bolivia this summer by the time I’m back there traveling!
Antigua Guatemala remains as beautiful as ever, though more gentrified than I remembered. Perhaps my perception of “touristy” has changed in the years since I was last here, or perhaps the place has changed. It can’t be that touristy though- I heard another story about the kid who got robbed twice within ten minutes in Antigua- oh yeah did I mention it was BY THE POLICE, who were basically demanding a wallet inspection/ID check of all drunk tourists (which I’d imagine made his insurance claim more difficult- he probably had to bribe the same cops that robbed him to write up a report to submit to his insurance company) Still, it was nice to be somewhere somewhat familiar, even if my hostel was terrible- dirty, loud, full of coked up Australians partying till 7am- thank god for ear plugs and note to self not to stay in hostel ever again. Oh yeah, and the bathroom door electrecuted you inless you used a flip flop as a barrier!
Had a great hike up Volcano Pacaya, which restored (somewhat) my faith in humanity after such a frustrating night. We drove through dense fog part way up the volcano to the town of San Francisco, an hourlong hike from actively flowing lava. (I cannot believe people live that close to an active volcano!!) The hike was gorgeous through foggy jungle, past farms and long since past lava flows. Just as we made it out of the jungle to an area that was entirely rock, the fog and clouds cleared, giving us a view of the jagged black volcanic rock, (some only formed in the past few weeks) that made up the rest of the volcano and our hike. We could see smoke and lava flowing from the volcano’s peak, and, well, headed toward it. We hiked another half hour across the moonlike surface (why do people describe things as moon-like? I mean, how many of us have actually been on the moon, and yet the description somehow aptly captures something…) The rock is incredibly sharp and tore up my sneakers in no time, of course, after a few minutes of hiking you could even begin to smell the rubber of your sneakers melting on the hot rock. Finally we got up close and personal with some real lava and the opportunity to toast marshmallows over lava. Taking my picture even ten feet from the stuff, it must have been about 300 degrees- it was opening an oven door except the heat doesn’t cease. A beautiful moonlit hike down, watching the sparks flying from the top of the mountain made quite a dramatic end to another great trip.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
El Salvador I
(SUN) Today after class (i'm brushing up on my spanish) i walked to the bus stop with my teacher, who didnt want me to get lost. She wanted to take the bus to the station, but it was only about five blocks- whats the deal with these people in these countries taking public transportation to go 300 feet? I mean, its hot but... We walked though the market, which was a little sketchy, and past some brothels where I did get some kind complements on my eyes.
The town of Juayua where the feria gastronimica (food fair) that i wanted to go to is incredibly beautiful and charming. A classic coffee country of central america town, nestled between three volcanos covered in coffee fincas, blooming with white flowers, and just a small town square surrounded by some sun drenched colonial buildings and a looming white church. The fair itself was great, food stalls lining the central park, the smell of grilling meats and frying cakes and such, and tons of people- though all salvadorean tourists. (though i did see two canadians- the first nortes yet). I had me some grilled rabbit, some tacos and churros, among other gastronomic delights. I missed the bus on the way home, because i was standing in the wrong bus stop, but a santa ana bus came, and i asked but it was an excusrion of old people. They let me sit on the steps next to the open door (bear in mind this is a 30 year old school bus!!) and chatted with the old ladies about my life and about their various relatives who live in the states. Its amazing how many people have friends or relatives or have themselves lived and worked in the US. This one guy i met in the park was so proud of his time there, where he earned 5000$ building houses in las vegas and santa monica. He showed me his working papers (fake) and his social security card (real) and even complained about the taxes! Once the bus was dropping people off, I was in front so was helping all these three foot tall old women off the bus, which everyone found uproriously funny. Another word on buses, which are all ancient american schoolbuses, (painted in insane colors and decorated inside with all kinds of holy charms,) and thus VERY uncomfortable on semi-paved or cobblestoned streets, is that i read in the newspaper here that the government might start inspecting all public buses more than 20 years old. Not a bad idea.
Santa Ana itself is fine, some nice old colonial buildings, but a bit grimey overall. No tourists though, and I've already gotten to know some locals who like to chat with a norteamericano while sipping coffee in the park. Its also funny how far high school spanish can get you- even though i'm more advanced, these very down to earth people literally ask me questions like "what do you like to eat?" and "do you have any relatives?" "what sports do you like?" "what do you do for work?" I suppose this is okay, because they accent here is insane, plus they haev many different words from other latin dialects. In Nicaragua, i thought it was hard because they dropped the end of the word, here the literally drop the beginning AND the end. The trip so far feels like one of those trips you hope for- weird encounters with locals who turn out to be incredibly kind and generous, days passing without seeing another tourist, and those things I really like here. Not to mention the best food in central america and some amazing scenery.
Tuesday:
The day began as usual with purchasing my last cup of 15c coffee in the park, (yes, starbucks is literally more than ten times that) and then attempts to travel all over Santa Ana by bus to find a working ATM machine, which I FINALLY was able to do. Its amazing what a difference just having 50$ in cash makes, I feel like I can now survive until Monday if I need to. Funny how ones perception of life changes with some cash, worries evaporate, all with just 50$. Took the bus to San Salvador, which was both better and worse than I expected- basically your standard sprawling third world metropolis, with lots of fast food places and quasi-Arabic looking gang grafitti for MS13 and other infamous LA gangs that are apparently down here. But I successfully got into town, took a bus across town, and found the Suchitoto bus. I used the bathroom, which was surprisingly clean, and they gave me a ticket, they give you tickets and bits of paper constantly down here- every bus, every site every whatever. On a bus, I understand, maybe they want to check your ticket at some point, even on a five minute city bus, okay, I guess. They even do a lot of coming to collect your piece of paper on long bus rides, and then handing you a different piece of paper. But whats going on with the ticket to the bathroom, will I be in there and suddenly the bathroom inspector shows up and demands to see my ticket? I read somewhere once that all the beuracratic redundancy is a legacy of colonialism, Spanish colonialism in particular where every massive shipment of gold and treasure needed to be sealed and resealed and stamped and approved, and given triple redundant checks to keep it all safe, and that is why there is still the legacy of beuracracy. Who knows, either way, I hope I don't get caught in the bathroom without a ticket!
I got on the bus which soon filled itself to capacity, then beyond as we were pulling out of town through market stalls, weaving past women carrying impossible amounts of fruit or whatever laden baskets on their heads. The venders came through the bus, somehow squeezing past the two or three to a schoolbus seat and full aisles to sell their wares. At first it makes sense someone selling bags of water or sliced mangos, which I really wanted to buy, though was too cramped to reach my wallet (which I hoped also meant too cramped for anyone else to reach my wallet) then it gets a little weirder- shark fin pills, and people literally selling snake oil, then a guy just walking through selling dried packages of spaghetti and pasta. What next women's lingerie? YUP!
Suchitoto is an amazingly charming town, straight out of a movie. Old white colonial buildings with red brick roofs, a backdrop of jungled volcanos pocked with bomb craters and trenches, glimpses at the enormous and impossibly royal blue lake suchitoto down cobblestone alleyways. The women are wearing hand-sewn dresses, the men dressed in cowboy hats, unbuttoned shirts, boots and all seem to have mustaches- so in that case, maybe it's a little more like the west village…. But the kids are playing soccer in the cobblestoned central park, using the gate of the Moorish looking church as the goal.
My hotel is great, though its kind of eerie to be the only person staying there, and there was no one at the other hotel (too expensive) in town either. Its like an old villa with an overgrown central courtyard, complete with rusting wrought iron furniture, and low hanging mango trees that the kids throw sticks at, in spite of the fact that there are mangos all over the place on the ground. They also kept falling on my brick ceiling through the night and scaring me awake until I realized what the sound was.
Its a very liberal little corner of the country that saw much fighting. Lots of handpainted murals about farming cooperatives, for women"s and indigenous rights, against globalization and privatization. The region saw a lot of fighting during the war, and I was hoping to go take a tour of the mountain strongholds with an ex-guerilla, but he wanted more than a day's notice. Apparently you can go out and see the old guerilla camps, tunnels, trenches and field hospitals that are still in the mountains, as well as taking in some rainforest beauty and 300 foot waterfalls. Oh well, next time- Ill have to make do with just the waterfalls today. Also sat inside the church just to cool off- it was beautiful though, white sheets were blowing in the breeze, leftover from easter, and there were literally doves flying around the apse like I was in a John Woo movie or something...
