Day 68: San Salvador

Gabe again. Bored yet?

Of course you're not, Oh Faithful Reader!! How could one be bored reading about my incredible adventures, my swashbuckling tales, my fantastic forays into Latino America!! It would be more impossible than breaking the sound barrier on a tricycle, more ridiculous than a clown being served a seafood dinner by the Queen of England, more preposterous than a bunch of monkeys with spectacles painting the Sistine Chapel!!

And so, without further ado, we present yet another chapter in the life of... me.

I left my brother at the Juan Santamaria International Airport, watched as he walked down the long hallway home, wearing a silly yet stylish hat. What fool could have bought him such a hat? Must have a been a fairly foolish fool.

I exited the Juan Santamaria International Airport and hopped the bus back to San Jose, attempting to buy some books at the two downtown bookstores, only realizing later that it was Sunday and they were both quite closed. Already, it seemed, my brother's luck had worn off.

Why, you might ask, Oh Inquisitive Reader, would I make it a point to spell out the entire name of San Jose's international airport, not once, but twice? Would it not have been easier to just write "the airport"? But I did have a point, a reason for doing so. The only major international airport in the country, and who is it named after? Not a President. Not a General. Not a former rebel leader. No, Juan Santamaria is none of these things. He was simply a drummer boy in the army that fought American invader William Walker, and according to legend, sacrificed himself to set fire to a house during a battle which was key to Costa Rican victory. Similar to Molly Pitcher or Crispus Attucks in our historical legendry. Yet Juan Santamaria, illegitimate child and drummer boy of the nineteenth century, is the namesake for the country's most important airport. Costa Rica has always bucked the violent revolution and counter-revolution trend that seems to engulf Central America. And the Juan Santamaria International Airport is the key to understand why.

Speaking of violent revolution and counter-revolution, readers may be aware that there was a military coup in Honduras recently. This situation brought some vigor to my travels: I had to cross Honduras to get to Guatemala, and news reports were that nation-wide strikes, including highway shut-downs, were being called for Thursday (being today) and Friday. I made something of a choice to cross through the country before this strike and whatever violence generally accompanies nation-wide strikes under military dictatorships.

But I had some time. So after leaving my brother to his illustrious airborne travels and failing to purchase any books, I packed my stuff and left the Galileo Hostel, traveling by bus to Liberia. Insert joke here. No, not that Liberia.

Costa Rica's Liberia is a city in the north-west corner of the country. I spent the night there in a sprawling hotel near the bus station, and spent most of my time finishing The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn while sitting at a stone table under a big tree. It was hot and humid, but there was a nice breeze, carrying sweet coolness as well as the sounds of a nearby Evangelical sermon with musical accompaniement. Hopped a bus to the Nicaraguan border. Very full and very hot. I had to stand for the full hour and a half. Border was not too difficult despite the heat and utter lack of logic or organization in the Nicaraguan set-up. And: I was walking behind a woman whose backpack bore a familiar logo -- and I realized that it was the logo of my alma mater McGill University (she didn't quite explain where she got it from and seemed not to understand my enthusiasm). Another bus from the border to Rivas -- one of the famous retrofitted yellow school buses, then a collective taxi to the docks in San Jorge, then a ferry to Isla de Ometepe.

Wait, you say! A ferry! A fucking boat now! Where is this fucking boat going in the middle of fucking Nicaragua?

First of all, Oh Potty-Mouthed Reader, I am dissapointed in your lack of imagination. Just imagine that Nicaragua has sprung an enormous lake right smack in the middle of the country, and that out of this lake has sprung an island of twin volcanoes, and that you are standing on a windy stone dock looking out at this imaginary creation. Except that it's real. Oh, and it's not you there, but me instead. Sorry.

Where was I? Oh yeah, on a fucking ferry. Left my bag inside and went out to the front of the ferry to stare across the lake, to feel the wind and occasional raindrops rip across my face, wiping my mind blank, just standing there, backp pressed against the rough metal cabin, eyes squinting towards the two dark shapes off in the distance.

Spent the day on the island, at a cozy and cheap guesthouse, mostly reading again. A book I highly recommend: The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint. Funny and sad in all the right ways. I was kept company by a chicken, who liked to wander into my room and would run off whenever I sat up or moved on the bed. The light outside got darker, so I went back down to the dock to catch the sunset. Alone, I sat on the concrete dock, watching the sun bleed through the clouds, orange red splashes receding slowly, sky above going yellow green, then dark grey as the brilliance faded completely. The wind blew patterns across the shimmering calm waters, ripples over the silver sheet, fading too, until I could no longer see the wind, only feel it, casually passing through.

Next morning took the ferry back, and then hopped a convenient bus to Managua, the capital city, where I looked to book bus passage to San Salvador. Did so, although unfortunately the only bus departs at 5am. Got a room a block from the bus station in a lady's house. The sign outside said something about a hotel, but inside it was just a house. But it was close, and she promised several times to wake me up at 4am.

I soon realized my dilemma. Do I trust her? And really: Do I trust humanity? She agreed to do the early wake-up so easily, without any thought or doubt, and my experience led me to believe that people who grant difficult requests so easily should not always be trusted to come through. And it would have been very bad if I had missed that bus, because I would have been stuck for the rest of the day, and if the Honduran strikes began on Thursday, it might be very difficult for me to get through to Guatemala. Refer to map below.


I wavered on the whole 'Trusting Humanity' thing. Bought an energy drink with the thought of staying up all night, but then never drank it. I woke up at some point in the night and crept through the house to find out it was 3:30am, so I got my stuff ready and waited. I wanted to hear her footsteps down the hallway to come get me up, her knock on my door and a shuffling of slippers. But it never came. I loaded up and prepared to leave, and as I walked into the living room I realized she was sleeping there -- she woke up and helped me open the doors and gate outside. Would she have gotten up anyway? Or was I right to doubt, and lucky to sleep light? It bothered me for a little while, but the bus ride was relaxing and easy. Even the borders were a breeze, and I didn't see any sign of unusual goings-on in Honduras. Business as usual.

But closer to San Salvador I was faced with another decision. Do I stay in El Salvador for a few days, or continue on to Guatemala ahead of schedule (I am scheduled to arrive there on Saturday, at the house of the lady in Antigua that I will be staying with for my time there). The decision really came down to a weighing of two elements:

MS-13 vs. Pupusas.
MS-13: vicious Salvadoran-American gang that makes the Bloods and the Crips look like the Cub Scouts and the Brownies.
Pupusas: thick corn pancakes filled with special cheese and topped with pickled cabbage and hot sauce.

Last night I lay on my bed, resting my Walkman on a stomach filled with five delicious pupusas, and listened to a George Clinton mini-marathon on Salvadoran radio. After that, there was a lot of 80's music on the radio. One song urged me to "Let it whip", which I am fairly certain I did not do. Another told me to "take the long way home". Which, it appears, is exactly what I am doing.