The Killing Fields

Layne has been working hard finding locations to visit and I have been happy to let her explore the maps. I enjoy driving El Salvador’s roads which only have a few strategically placed speed bumps in front of schools and I can’t argue with that as they brightly painted. So she maps our route and I follow the Blue Line on Google maps. 

As you can see El Salvador is not a large country and Webb told me this a very good idea to compare it in size to Massachusetts so silly me.

Somehow we turned a 42 mile journey into an all day affair even though the direct route clearly is not fast if it takes 90 minutes to drive! 

Out in the boonies we saw a bunch of light poles painted in the colors of the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front. They were the rebels in the 70s and 80s who fought to overthrow the government which depending on your point of view was oppressing people or defending capitalism or both. They came close to succeeding until the US intervened and the country settled down to a long bloody civil war which killed at least 75,000 people officially counted. 

In 1986 the weary combatants tried to organize a peace agreement brokered by the Catholic Church and I turned up with my tape recorder to report what was going on for public broadcasting. Murder was going on I soon discovered seeing corpses in the street and dozens of one legged soldiers relaxing outside the military hospital. Even in those days the rebels used what we now call improvised explosive devices; they just called them mines back then but they still blew young men’s legs to smithereens. 

I was only in El Salvador for a few weeks before I decided I absolutely wanted nothing to do with war. The death squads were everywhere and they tortured and killed as they liked. I was reasonably safe as killing an American was no smart thing but were I to cross some invisible line I could easily put myself at risk of ending up at El Playon. 

Nowadays they call it “Joyos Negros” (black jewels) and celebrate the lava field as a minor tourist attraction by the side of the four lane Pan American Highway. Forty years ago I had my driver take me out here where the bodies were tossed and left to rot. Families were often scared to find and claim them as they had no idea if they might face irrational retaliation. They were most unhappy times and my experience of violence and being shot at had a profound effect on me. 

I think even more profound for me is how quickly all this has been forgotten. Even at the time I felt reporting on the war didn’t do much  good as no one paid enough attention to our reports of murder in an insignificant country. I felt at the time we reporters liked to fool ourselves into pretending we were doing good, but the professional war reporters were I felt simply feeding their need for adrenaline. At this point looking back when the cruelty of the civil war has been completely overshadowed in public memory by the brutality of the gang take over of civil life in El Salvador, I cannot help but feel certain that what we reported did no good at all. The gangs that came after the war were made up of veterans from both sides twisted by their fighting experiences and they were truly messed up people. I was messed up enough by what I saw. Better I suppose to see only a tourist panoramic platform to view lava. 

I wanted to return to El Playon to remember the dead but I came away I fear with a sense of bitterness at the betrayal of their memory. It’s not my business and it seems El Salvador wants to collectively forget its past so I suppose I need to try to do the same. Onward. 

Our detour to the killing fields had very cleverly put us in the flow of traffic going into and coming out of the capital. And Salvadoran traffic is nothing if not aggressive in the chaos that is the capital. 

Google maps has its work cut out as street signs are tiny and one way arrows are rare and not terribly visible and directions are only given to the largest and most obvious destinations. 

Traffic jams in the countryside are rare as there aren’t many vehicles. 

In and around the capital progress is measured in inches and the cut and thrust of impatient commuters is a wonder to behold. 

We saw lines of vehicles stopped for no apparent reason at random just about anywhere. 

And then we got back out into the mountains climbing to 3,000 feet where the clouds descend like mist and temperatures are in the mid 70s. 

All roads are paved even though out here the pavement is a bit of a patchwork and even suffers occasional potholes. 

But it was easy driving to Layne’s next destination for us on a coffee farm with no coffee. 

Finca (farm) Macedonia five kilometers ahead (3 miles): 

They made us welcome on their lovely green grass explaining it’s not yet coffee season and they had none to sell. You wouldn’t find a US place operating like that but around here you shrug and accept things as they are! 

It was a pleasant spot with a pupusa for dinner and a solid nights sleep under a massive rainstorm. 

Which turned a corner of the overnight parking area into mud soup and we made it worse by churning it up in the morning. 

The farm’s little Ford Ranger pick up wasn’t up to the task but they call in the heavy vehicle, a 1980 Mercedes truck. 

Rusty is smart enough to know when to stay on the sidelines. 

Laughter and handshakes all round and within the hour we were on our way. Latin America is not a tow truck oriented society as a whole. Neighbors help each other and liability lawsuits are not the thing. 

We have received a very little news from Panama a country critical to our journey. 

It seems a Canadian mining corporation has entered into a mining contract for open face mining of assorted precious metals and it has come to be seen as an atrocious giveaway of the country’s resources. So there is a general strike underway. News is hard to come by oddly but roads are closed and protestors are in the streets and we are hoping things will be sorted in a month as we have to be ready to load GANNET2 in a container at the beginning of December. 

Overland travel involves some decidedly odd and unexpected setbacks from time to time. 

Suchitoto And The Old Lady

Some people are just shits and the beauty of van life is also its curse. By that I mean you meet unpleaaant people on the road and the great thing is your wheels allow you to leave easily. They also easily take you away from friends and social groups that are hard to form among nomads. It’s a compromise I’m happy to live with.

The pupusa lady on the main square is a case in point. We paused for a late breakfast in a country whose only gastronomic delicacy is grilled pupusas so we taste as many as we reasonably can as next week it will most likely be Nicaragua and I’m not looking forward to that as they have a reputation for orneriness I know I shan’t enjoy.  

I checked out Suchitoto’s church, Layne the Jew is a little tired of them and sat outside with Rusty. This one was a gem with a wooden ceiling and dramatic interior art and exterior magnificence. 

They had the usual statue of my fellow Umbrian St Francis of Assisi whose love of animals is noted by but generally not followed by the good Christians we meet along the Pan  American (All American) Highway. They also had a startling statue of St Christopher patron saint of travelers, a statue more suitable to Halloween I thought as my birthday approaches. 

I don’t think I’d be too keen to meet him on a dark lovely road. Anyway I met my family in the square and herself proposed breakfast. 

As a surly young woman took our order and got her mother to flip our food on the grill I idly photographed the napkin holder showing the old currency, the Colon (The “Columbus”) before they adopted the dollar. The national motto is “God Unity  Freedom” none of which El Salvador has lived up to successfully in my opinion but I still like place! But I’m a tourist, always a tourist, here today and done tomorrow lucky me. 

An old woman, presumably a regular cane in and picked up the restaurant water sprayer and applied it to Rusty snoozing at our table. The owner said hey he’s there ( the customers’ ) dog. But she grinned nastily and said she didn’t care and to prove it she kept on spraying my cowering dog . She stared at me and I stared back as Rusty shook himself off and hid behind me. It’s one of  those moments when you want to let loose but I am a visitor and I don’t want to play the foreign asshole so I gave her my speech reserved for animal abuse occasions of which I see too many down here. 

I prefer dogs to people I said staring at her. They are better Christians than Christians: they don’t rob banks, they don’t rape women, they don’t care how much money you have and they don’t care about the color of your skin and they forgive you endlessly your unkindness. Plus, I add this bit for El Salvador, they don’t rob and kill with guns and terrorize people for the fun of it. I don’t much like people. I finished my pupusa and left Layne to pay the bill. 

These encounters are bound to happen on the road and usually let them go easily enough as cultural imbroglios are part of travel. However we later both agreed we got a bad hit from the place and should have left. Perhaps they were mad at Rusty for sitting under our table, right next to the street dogs, or perhaps they are always shy around foreigners unlike most Salvadorans or whatever. I even wondered if the owner’s daughter is on the spectrum as she almost shied away from us the polite customers. In the event we stayed against our instincts and the regular customer took pleasure in trying to make us uncomfortable. 

I still like Suchitoto and I’d come back to see more of it. It’s a short hop I remind myself to drive here from Mexico some future winter when we are bored. 

I like Salvadoran coffee, mild and sweet but with enough body not to taste like water but some mornings a cup of tea and a piece of weird Salvadoran sponge cake are necessary to settle the nerves. 

A Plan: Hot Tubs And Pupusas

Layne has been hunched over maps and studying the tourism entrails in her phone and has come up with A Plan. It involves circling the capital San Salvador (Saint Savior) and visiting various scenic locations. First up: the hot tub. 

These pictures are dedicated to Richard Machida, late of Alaska whose RV travel in lower forty eight retirement consists of  hunting down hot tubs. 

https://blog.machida.us/?m=1

He’d have died and gone to heaven here. Perhaps literally as  there is a PVC hot water pipe spewing boiling water into the main pool. Hot enough to scald you but around here expect no warning signs, no personal injury lawyers and no apologies if you screw up and don’t mind your own business. I swam the tepid waters quite comfortably far from the heat source. 

There were pools scattered on different levels throughout the jungle but I preferred the big one which I had all to myself and I swam back and forth thoroughly enjoying the solitude at ten in the morning even if it was only three feet deep; it was all mine. Deep enough it was to allow me to mediate as I swam lengths and contemplated my good fortune. 

Naturally Layne went exploring but I stayed in my private swimming pool and let her take her pictures. 

One more dunk in the hottest of four hot tubs and I was out for a final ice cold shower and back to the van where I found Rusty sleeping on his bed.  He is not a water dog annd  even had they allowed dogs into the pool area he’d have sat on the sidelines pondering the stupidity of deliberately getting wet. He was better off in his home dreaming dog thoughts. 

And then it was back on the road, these lovely Salvadoran back roads largely traffic free, smooth strips of asphalt with speed bumps limited to slowing traffic in front of the rural schools. 

Every rule has its exceptions! 

The countryside is lush and green and filled with vegetation abundant at this, the end of rainy season. The volcanic mountains plunge into green canyons, lakes form in the valleys and the place looks like a giant open air botanical garden. 

Layne had discovered the presence of a reportedly pretty little colonial town high in the hills in the north of the country so our plan was to check out what Mexico would designate as a “Ciudad Magica” a magic tourist town. However the shades of night were pressing in on us and our easy mountain drive in what appears to be a very small country was in danger of leaving us on the road in the dark. 

Naturally when I rejoice in the quality of the roads they take a dip and we encountered a muddy diversion around some major roadwork. Bouncing along at five miles per hour as darkness fell was a joy. 

Not sure what the public art was but for us it marked the end of road works and that was good enough! 

Somehow I avoided killing unlit bicycles and motorcycles, I ran over no pedestrians their dogs or cattle and we arrived in Suchitoto in the dark with no idea where to sleep. Oddly enough this was no stress for us and we just knew we’d figure something out with the certainty only fools carry with them as they travel.  

We found a town of narrow streets and cobblestones lovingly restored from its colonial roots and we bickered over the abundance of street parking choices. Here! No, here! Let’s try up the street this is too crowded… Eventually we found our perfect spot. That is to say Layne ‘a perfect spot, as I was sceptical, silly me. 

At first I thought the plaza was too busy with people coming and going.  Layne saw the police station across the square and went to ask if it was okay. They smiled and asked if we were the RV (“casa rodante”) they had seen coming into town…

Rusty needed a walk too and he led us to the nicest pupusa lady on the other side of the square. 

She our altered dinner plans for us grilling a thick tortilla with beans inside (“revuelto”) for Layne  while I like mine with melted cheese and cactus (“loroco”) inside my grilled corn pancakes. 

We retreated to GANNET2 for dinner and as we settled in the nightly thunderstorm blew up clearing the plaza and pounding our tin home rattling rain drops that scare young Rusty. That’s okay as it’s just another excuse to cuddle him before sleep overtook me.