Both the US and Canadian governments have proposed legislation that allows the ‘authorities’ to read your e-mail.  For ‘security reasons’, of course.  Many people in both countries replied to an internet call-to-protest with an emphatic ‘hands off!’.

We just don’t trust the bastards.

But bear in mind, they don’t trust us, either.  And, if you think the lack of legislation has kept them from reading your e-mails, you are gullible beyond words.  “But, Dave, they can’t read all the e-mails and 99.99999% of them are boring anyway!”

That is true.  Most aren’t worth reading, I am sure.  But they don’t have to read them in the sense that you think of reading.  They data mine them instead.  They have search engines that look for key words, word associations and other weird math-based technigues to ‘flag’ your perhaps-suspicious e-mail for continued follow-up.

Whenever I write ‘Allahu Akbar’ as a suggested exclamation of frustration when encountering delays at the airport (it is a joke), I am being ‘read’ by a machine that sends the e-mail to another level for analysis.  Presumably, after however many security levels it takes, I am deemed just another idiot who thinks he has a sense of humour and I am pulled off the Guantanamo list.

“What’s your point?”

“Be patient.  I’ll get there.  Just hafta ‘set the scene’ a bit more”.

So, the RCMP and the FBI (respectively) cannot legally read all our e-mails, right?  Wrong!  They can if they get a warrant.  And, over the past few years the warrants have been ‘fast-tracked’ so that they can read hundreds of thousands of them and they do.  As I write this, e-mails are read all the time.

“Do I care?  I am just asking dearheart to pick up a loaf of bread.  We aren’t plotting anything!”

I’ll get back to that.  But, in the meantime, consider this: the CIA is allowed to do virtually anything it wants outside the US.  Presumably so can CSIS (Canadian equivalent) do what it wants outside of Canada.  So CSIS can read US e-mails and the CIA can read Canadian ones.  And they do.  All the time.

“Geez, think they compare notes?”

When we were in El Salvador, Sal and I sent at least a dozen e-mails over the week we there.  Likely more.  Not one of them reached their destination.

“So, Dave, you just had a bad internet connection.  Don’t be paranoid!”

Well, firstly, my blog posts all went through.  So the connection was fine.  But, more to the point, El salvador is virtually owned and operated by the US.  They may not be able to easily data mine everything in their own country but they can sweep all of El Salvador with impunity. And they do.

“But why would they?”

Drogs, senor.  Central America is a conduit for drogs.  And we fit the ‘profile’.  If you were going to use an algorythm for ferreting out suspicious characters, we don’t fit such profile perfectly (too old, I think) but we at least fit it enough to be ‘vetted’.  And I think we were.

We also stayed at a ‘cheap, low-profile’ guesthouse that was frequented by eastern European males of a sketchy nature.  They wouldn’t respond to greetings, they wouldn’t look you in the eye and they were in and out in a couple of days. Quite unlike the ‘usual’ travelers one encounters in hostels and pensiones.  They just looked like drug dealers to me.

We fit the profile and we may have also been guilty by association.

And that is why I don’t trust the bastards.  I should not be guilty by association. Guilty by a crime?  OK.  But just by being in the same hotel?  Absolutely not!

“But, Dave, you just made up the story by circumstantial observations.  None of it may be true.  The sketchy guys may have just been shy missionaires.  And, anyway, you were pooping your brains out.  Maybe you were just a smidge ‘mental’ at that time?”

Yeah.  You are probably right.  I can’t imagine the US interfering with the rights of a Central American country before they could legally interfere with the rights of their own citizens.  What was I thinking?

There was a hole in the huge stone breakwater at the Campbell River ferry terminal large enough to drive a car through.  Seemed the weather did it.

We get several weather systems up here in the winter.  The almost prevailing winds are from the Southeast and bring rain, warmer temps and little threat – although the seas can get pretty lumpy.  The second direction is a westerly and it can give a healthy blow and the temp usually drops some. But, because of the layout of the islands and our place in it, we usually remain pretty much unscathed.  I like the westerlies.

It’s the BUTE that kicks butt.  Coming from the northeast out of the fiord-like coastal inlets is a bitterly cold hard wind that often reaches hurricane force.  It’s a real punch in the guts and more than one family has had to move out for a few days or, more often, go without something due to the almost instant freeze up.  Turn on a firehose pumping out a strong steady stream and it will freeze in mid-flow when the Bute hits.

While we were gone our area took a Bute on the chin a few times and it seems everyone had some freeze or storm damage.  We lost a cute little brass water pump and a small plastic water line fitting but that was it.  We were very fortunate.

Having said that, we are also at least 80-90% prepared.  Despite what WorkSafe BC says, you can never be prepared for every eventuality.  Poop happens.  (I’ll get back to that in a minute).  We drain pipes, put things away, have systems that are simple and keep the batteries up with a wind gen.  After schlepping two weeks of supplies and all our luggage up from the beach, we loaded it on the funicular and I pressed the button.  Hummmmm………everything went up the hill perfectly.

Relief.  Delight.  Happiness.  And just a little ‘smugness’ after it all went well.

Yes.  The ravens were on the railing cawing and screeching.  It was not so much a greeting as it was an admonishment for having neglected them for 7 weeks.  At least they waited til we got home.  They actually ‘discovered us’ at the end of the road on the other island and watched us load and travel across first.  Then they went to our place to await our arrival.  We got an earful then.

Surprisingly, Megan and Fiddich had already been re-united with us at that point.  J, our neighbour who cared for the dogs when we were away, had somehow intuited out our arrival and, as we were just loading stuff onto the dock, she showed up with the Supremes.  Lots of wiggling and jumping around.  Dogs, too.

Our great neighbours – the ones who picked us up at the dock to bring us to our island – had set a fire in our wood stove and left dinner for us.  Everyone should have neighbours and friends like we do.

Now – what you’ve all been waiting for – pooping.  Yeah, well, with this kind of pooping, there is no waiting.  It comes, it goes and then it repeats.  Willy nilly.  All day long.  Night time too.  It was not hard keeping the fire going all last night.  I was passing the stove every hour as it was.  Felt like I was passing everything else, too, now that I think of it!

I’d like to give El Salvador a piece of my mind.  I’ve already given them a piece of everything else.  If Jared Diamond is right (author of Guns, Germs and Steel), the next super power is El Salvador.  They are going sneak up on us from behind!

I won’t apologize for the ‘message’ yesterday.  A promise is a promise.  But I won’t be doing that again anytime soon.  Too hard.

I normally write a blog in about half an hour.  Then Sal hands me back the pieces after her savage/vicious/sadistic/Nazi-esque edit and I take another 15 minutes to patch it up.  Basically, it is a quick, what’s-happening-now kinda thing.  Yesterdays took forever.  I am still feeling it.

I don’t have what it takes to write about serious issues.  I gotta keep it light.

Wanna hear about the ‘runs’?  Monty at his finest and most tenacious?

Probably not.  Even I am bored with my own bowels.  Enough already.

Wanna hear about our long slog to get back home?  Nah…..it is much like a blog about a ‘town day’.  The logistics are demanding, the timing, especially so.  Weather is a huge factor.  It is winter and the day light hours are short.  But you know that.

Wanna political rant?  Boy, is there a lot to choose from, eh?  But I’ll save that for time when I have enough energy to vent.  I’ve been venting from the rear vent for too long to have much energy right now.  So, I’ll just promise a tirade in the days to come.  Might even get in two.

Fact is: we have just re-entered our ordinary, everyday-living phase.  I have to do a construct shift from Indiana Jones to Farmer and Mother Jones and I am just in transition.

A friend of mine has MSA.  Multiple Systems Atrophy.  It’s a disease.  Kinda.  The name is really just a descriptive rather than a proper noun-with-medical-science-Latin-roots.  It just puts a name to the symptoms.  It doesn’t describe the cause or even, for that matter, whether it is a disease, a syndrome, a condition, a disorder or what.

The name bugs me.

And, like, what the hell is atrophy anyway? Just aging spelled differently?  Aren’t we all just atrophying in one or two organs or systems as we age?

Regardless, I think MSA is very misnamed.  At the very least it should be called Rapid Onset Systems Atrophy.  It is more accurate and ROSA is a better acronym anyway. 

“He’s got ROSA!” 

Helps with the denial, ya know?

And that nomenclature thing is just the first thing that bugs me.

The second thing that irritates, of course, is that this horrible thing has been inflicted on a friend of mine and his family.

It is gradual, relentless and incurable.  So it is terminal.

It takes about three years, give or take, for things to deteriorate enough for everything to just up and quit.  But systems are noticeably deteriorating on a monthly or periodic basis during that time.  Grieving, suffering and adjustment-to-something-that-cannot-be-adjusted-to really starts upon hearing of the diagnosis and it just doesn’t let up.

It is a special kind of hell.

This is clearly one of those things that one immediately exclaims, “Geez, that is so unfair!”

‘Course, mature people like me might (if they are stupid!) immediately follow that up with, “Yeah, well, life is not fair.”  Glib.  Stupid.  Inadequate.  Insensitive.  Cruel. Definitely non-empathetic, but mature, I guess.

‘Cause life is definitely not fair.

And, worse, it is much too easily said if one is not the sufferer. Or their partner.

So, don’t ever say that.

Having said that, anyway, M and D are being as brave and stoic as anyone can possibly be.  More, actually.  He invented an assistance device for himself and had it built. As I write, he is looking to see if it can be manufactured to help other ROSA sufferers.

It may not seem like it from my description so far but, once you see this disease, you can’t help but see their efforts as heroic.

What can I say?  What can anyone say?  How can one be empathetic?  How can one relate?

And, let’s be honest……….trying to relate or be more empathetic is brutal.  There is a natural reluctance to even try to ‘get close’, ‘to feel his pain’.  It is just too horrible.  I really don’t want to share that pain.  I really don’t want to know.

M is a nice guy, a good and longtime friend.  He doesn’t deserve this and, because of his discipline in caring for himself over the years, no one expected that he would even show his age at this point.  Put bluntly, I fully expected him to outlive me by twenty years.  The tall, skinny abstainers of booze, tobacco and excess usually do pretty good on the longevity sweepstakes.

We Celtic, druid-types, shaped like a potato and inclined to excess in everything but exercise tend to extinguish a bit sooner.

Which is fair, I think.

Think – pasty, white Brit eating ‘crisps’, smoking and drinking beer while watching sports on the telly and you’ll have a sense of my family tree. We don’t deserve to live a long time.

And what would the point in it, anyway?

M, in stark contrast, is more like a tall, white, Clint Eastwood-spirit-shaman, almost-vegetarian type, with a Willy Nelson kind-of-thing going on.  Easy-goin’.  Funny, too.  Smart.  Creative.  And cerebral- if not just a smidge eccentric on that score.

He deserves better.

We’ve known him forty years and, it seems, we met a couple of times even before the early onset of friendship.

Sally and I are both close to him and his wife even tho, because of our lives, our previous jobs, our interests and now the distance between us, we only connect maybe twice a year.

And I am ashamed about that, too.

“Geez, Dave, why are telling us all this?!”

Sorry.  It is just that I promised.

M showed me a u-tube last night about MSA and asked that I ‘pass it on’ to raise awareness.  I said I would.  Please – if you can handle it – watch the video presented on http://www.msaawareness.org.

I understand completely if you choose not to.  This is a bigger challenge than I am capable of handling.  Or even understanding.  One viewing is enough. One friend is too much.

Flew out of Guat City at dawn in an old, flaccid 737 that just felt limp and worn out.  I empathized.  It was a Delta flight and it was only about one-third full.  There was us and, maybe 60 or so Guatemalans.

Five hours later we were in LA.  Just in time for our 4 hour layover in a terminal building that literally vibrated like it was a BC ferry.  I have no idea why this huge concrete monolith hummed and jiggled all the time but it did.

And I was not the only one who felt it.  When I inquired with the ticket taker at the gate, the young woman behind me said, “I feel it too.  I thought it was a minor earthquake but it didn’t stop!” 

No answer.

At 2:30 pm we boarded a brand new, packed-to-the-brim 737 that, comparatively speaking, was like sitting in a new Lexus compared to an old Corolla.  It was pretty sleek.

I am sure it is just a coincidence – as in new vs old.  But there was also a micro-culture shift that was hard not to notice.  We went from one plane to the next and the differences were stark.

In the first, it was a chicken-bus version of an airplane.  And, in it, were the Guatemalans.  It wasn’t clean, the announcements were in Spanish and an accented English and the in-flight service was bare-bones minimal.  I half-expected chickens and really loud Latin music to play the whole way.

On the second leg, the plane still had that new-out-of-the-showroom smell, the service was good, the only language spoken was English and about a third of the passengers were Asian.  I don’t think a single Central American went North with us.

It felt like I was in Vancouver already!

“Dave!  It was just a new plane going somewhere else.  No big deal.” 

You are probably right.  It is just that I am kinda seeing things from a Central American perspective and it just feels like they are getting ‘second hand, maybe fourth class’ treatment.

It’s not like their flights are any cheaper.  They paid the going rate.  And it was Delta/Alaska all the way.

And, apropos of nothing, I suppose, there is a huge contingent of Guatemalans in LA. I dunno…………….you’d just think they’d get better attention………ya know?

I dunno…..call me crazy.  The airlines/airport treat you like dumb cattle-on-the-hoof the whole way but I felt like Grade A Prime on the second leg (LAX to YVR)  and stringy, old cow-for-dog-food on the first (GUA to LAX).

Put another way, Central America seems like it is running on ‘old American infrastructure’ from hand-me-down school buses to really old Boeing planes, from bloated and ugly fast food franchises to even the currency itself.  (El Salvador has officially adopted the US currency as its own and all the other Central American countries accept it as a ‘sister currency’).  I have to say their so-called Democratic system is pretty fourth rate, too.

“Central Americans don’t get no respect, man!”

We landed in Vancouver and literally breezed through the formalities while strolling through the cleanest and most beautiful airport building in the known world (defined as known-by-me).  We were picked up efficiently by our hotel shuttle and marveled at clean air, clean streets, signs-that-worked and roads that were smooth.  We were in awe of the modern, efficient, safe, attractive, smooth, civilized non-militarized beauty of it all.  We were star-struck like hill-billy rubes in New York.

When we got to the hotel I reached over to open the large sliding door that allows egress for us passengers and the driver said, “Sorry, sir, please wait for me to open the door….for safety reasons, sir”.  He came around and placed a little plastic step-stool so that I could alight ‘safely’.

Sally and I burst out laughing.  I said, “We just came from El Salvador, for Gawds sake!  There isn’t a sidewalk in the city that isn’t pockmarked with enough unmarked holes sufficiently deep and large to break your leg and even going to a convenience store is literally putting your life in danger.”

It would take you all day to find one spot in Richmond that might constitute a danger to a blind, deaf, completely-mad octogenarian.  And I am saying that an NHL team walking anywhere in Sal Salvador for one afternoon could not escape unscathed.

Our sense of what constitutes ‘risk’ in Canada is way out of proportion to what risk really is.  You are safer running blindfolded down the Trans Canada freeway here than you are drinking the water or buying a quart of milk down there.  We are safe here.

And it is good to be almost home.

Glad we came to Guat City a day early.  We planned to do so because we were going to check out the city and pick up some gifts for folks……you know…….but things turned out different.  The ‘bug’ hit us again just as we were leaving El Salvador and we need the extra day to re-fill the hollow void that results from an ‘adios’ bout of Tourista.

It’s OK.  It’s unpleasant but it’s OK.  Here’s why…. I don’t fast.  And I never do any of those weird health-food-store-sold enema-type things to ‘cleanse’ my insides.  Basically, I just go traveling every once in awhile.  That does the trick every time.  Trust me.  I’m as clean as a whistle right now – inside and out.  In fact, I am so clean I am pretty close to being able to whistle from where the sun don’t shine.

Travel: a natural way to broaden the mind and cleanse the insides. 

OK.  Sorry.  A bit too much information?  It is just that I think I can get away with all this today because Sal is in no position to edit.  This is my day to say what I want!   Look out!

Well, actually, the graphic image of my insides will have to do.  I don’t really have that much to say…………..well, not much, anyway.

We’re in Casa Quatzelroo a small ‘hostel’ not far from the GUA airport.  It’s clean.  It’s cheap. The people running it are great.  It’s a good place to ‘hole up’  (pardon the pun) and get our…….uh……stuff…together.

And, once again, get a sense of deja vu.  Ya wanna remember what it is like to be young again?  Go stay at a hostel.  Of course, you’ll feel old in the process but all around you are young people doing young people things and, in our case, deferring to the ‘old guys’.  It’s kinda fun.  I half expect to be called ‘sir’.

Denise is helping to organize youth conferences to empower women to blah, blah, blah and to realize the potential of the earth in sustaining us…….(blah, blah)….and, well, a whole lot more stuff described in modern jargonesque type conversation.  She’s a sweetie ‘tho, and I am sure that she’ll get it all done and do a good job.  Seems her project is called Project Seres.  I’ll have to look it up.

We may even collaborate on a few things………

………..but I am too old for youth conferences.

Met ‘traveling Dave’ from Toronto.  Closer to my age but better preserved and spends a great deal less time in el bano than I do.  He’s fun.  Seems that he and I had coincidentally met last year!  On the net!  He runs HitTheRoad.ca, a company that pairs drivers with cars that need delivering.  I wanted to do that and contacted him but they are out of Toronto and so a Vancouver Island vehicle destined for Florida (which is what I was looking for – preferably an RV.  Why not?) was not likely going to happen.  But we exchanged e-mails.  He remembered.  And here we are…………in Guatemala.

As it turns out, we may drive a car to Florida next year.  Sal and I have always wanted to see Kentucky, Tennessee and ‘Bubba’ country.  So now it may happen.  We’ll see.

Strange how things work out, eh?

Diego is the room cleaner and general attendant at the B&B we are staying at.  He’s 21 and more than a smidge over 300 pounds.  Diego works at Casa Clementina every day, most of the day and seven days a week.  He resides there.  The landlady gives him a couple of days off every now and then to go see his family.  His salary is $50.00 a month plus he gets room and board.

He’s a nice guy, friendly, accommodating and always smiling.  I like him.

The other day he heard us trying to find out about which bus, which bus depot and what the schedule was for getting to Guatemala City. “No worries, senor, I’ll take you there.  The landlady has given me two days off and I am going home but I can show you first and help arrange things for you.”

On our way there I asked this big gentle bear of a guy where he learned English.  “I taught myself, senor.  I watch TV and read the books the travelers leave behind.”

So far, Diego’s English is the best I have encountered in the country.  I tell him that with his ability to speak English so well and without an accent makes him a pretty valuable employee.  “Yes.  I am very helpful to the guests and to the landlady.  But I cannot get a better job because I do not have a degree.  I do not have the education.”

“I think you speak well enough to get any number of good paying jobs.  And I should know.  I speak English all the time.  I’m pretty good at it.”

He laughed at my little joke and insisted that no one would hire him.  “Those people (who can speak both Spanish and English) can get good jobs making as much as $500 a month if they work hard.  They would not hire me.  I know that.  No degree.” 

I encouraged him a bit more but didn’t push it.  We got our business done and parted.  I’m never going to see ol’ Diego again.

Later in the same day, I encountered another young man who spoke passable English (not as good as Diego).  Jose’ William was a ‘higher class’  El Salvadorean, also 21 and he went to the university.  We got to talking and he revealed that he made $300 a month at a call centre translating with buyers and sellers of ‘stuff’ from the US and from various parts of Central America.  I gave him some tips, some information that he wanted and asked a small favour in return.  “ Say, Jose’, how ‘bout you do me a small favour?”

He agreed on the spot without knowing what the request was – typically friendly and accommodating response that we have come to know in El Salvador.  I told him Diego’s story.  And I asked him to ‘pop over’ to the Casa Clementina when he had the chance.  “Tell Diego that you are a friend of mine (the old fat Canadian) and tell him about your job at the call centre.  He’ll need you to encourage him to apply.  He doesn’t think they’ll hire him.  He needs your help.” 

JW laughed and promised to do it.  He was very keen to ‘do me a favour’.  I am sure that he will do it.  I am not sure that Diego has the confidence to seize the opportunity.  We’ll see.  I hope.  I left JW my e-mail address.

Still later, when Sal and I had finished dinner at a restaurant that we had frequented before, I discovered too late that my wallet was empty.  I had spent what I had earlier.  The rest was back at the hotel.  I told the young man who was our waiter both times that  that we’d been at the restaurant that I’d leave and come back in 20 minutes to settle up.  He said, “Si, signor.”  And we left.

Remember – Diego’s monthly salary was a paltry $50.00.  And I owed this overpriced-but-convenient neighbourhood restaurant almost half of that ($21.00).  I can’t imagine what that amount meant to our friendly young waiter who lives in an armed encampment for a city.

I got the money, left Sal at the B&B and returned just a bit later than I had estimated.  I looked through the window of the restaurant as I approached.  My waiter was looking a bit worried and his two waiter buddies were scowling at him.  I thought that it might be about me.

As I approached the door I saw that the two others immediately headed off and my guy turned to look at the kitchen as if he wasn’t giving it a moment’s thought.  When I tapped him on the shoulder, he was grinning from ear to ear.  The tip was generous, too.  I am pretty sure this guy is walking around the staff looking pretty smug.

And I, for one, really appreciated the trust he showed us in a city that is clearly lacking a lot of it for each other.

Point of the story: once you’ve seen one big church, you’ve mostly seen ‘em all.  Same for volcanoes (but I admit that they can still get one’s attention when they want to).  A pretty little town, a chicken bus, a few trinkets and a beach……….?  Been there, done it all.

It’s all good.

But, somehow, in some way every trip is memorable and almost always it’s because of the people.  And in that way, the most meaningful way, El Salvador did not disappoint.  Those three young men are not my friends.  I’ll never see them and not likely hear from them again either.  But I’ll always think of them when I think of El Salvador.

It was an interesting day.

As I am sure I have demonstrated sufficiently in past writings, I am extremely fair and open-minded.  Enlightened, almost, ya know?  So, it is with a heavy heart but a clear conscience that I feel obliged to report that the city of San Salvador sucks.

The BIG one!

El Salvador may, indeed, not suck completely if taken in a greater context but, frankly, I have seen enough, I think, to paint the whole of the country in the same bleak terms.  I can’t recommend it.

Put more succinctly, I almost hate it.

The reasons, for me, are many.  But the biggest deterrent is that it is just plain, stinkin’ bloody hot.  Like Burning Man hot.  Like the Sahara-with-trees-hot.

By comparison, Toronto in an August heat wave with full humidity is a walk in Stanley Park in the springtime.  The truly amazing thing is that one of the locals told me, “Oh, this isn’t hot!  March, April and May – now that is when it gets hot.  This?  This is good”.

Bear in mind that we are in the ‘cool’ part of El Salvador – the mountains.  And it is winter.

The other thing I am not enamored with is the impression of violence.  It is not the violence. Seen none of that.  In fact, the El Salvadoreans are amongst the most welcoming and friendly peoples we have ever encountered.  They are gracious, helpful and, to a person, considerate and pleasant. Especially the young people.  It’s not the people.

But…………..well………..it’s the people.  Let me explain………………

Should you go to a neighbourhood convenience store (a tienda), you are likely to first encounter a man with a shotgun standing on the corner.  Similar to Guatemala.  The difference: the Guatemalan is in a uniform, has ID and likely looks half asleep.  Typically, they have a newish SUV nearby with Securidad or Policia printed on the side. The Guatemalan men chosen to sport these weapons of personal destruction are just as often benign looking and/or young.

The ones in San Salvadore, on the other hand, look like they came straight from Central Casting.  No uniform.  Grungy clothes.  Mean-lookin’, gun-totin’, suspicious, edgy and scary-lookin’ hombres.  Usually standing menacingly in the shadows.

Somehow they convey a threat to me that is more personal and meaningful.  Call me crazy.

Neighbourhood Watch

These guys are guarding streets, like city blocks.  It is Neighbourhood Watch but with real commitment.  12 gauge.  They might be backed up by a couple of removable pipes or barrels blocking traffic.  In one case the local ‘sheriff’ has a steel drop-gate stretched over the end of a public side-street.

But, by far, the image that instills in me the greatest fear is the tienda itself.  In some, you can’t walk in.  A large steel gate with a ‘pass-through-opening is used at the entry as the ‘front counter’ at which all transactions take place.  Sometimes you can go into the building but then the proprietor and all his or her wares are behind similar heavy duty steel gates.  The impression is that you are doing a deal through the bars of the cell of the inmate imprisoned there.

Our Friendly Neighbourhood Convenience Tienda

And they are.  It’s horrible.  The lady around the corner has just such a store.  She’s open later than other tiendas – most don’t stay open after dark.  She has two vicious dogs roaming around in the dark space behind the front-gate-cum-cell door.  You ask for what you want and then she goes to get it from an eclectic, disorganized pile of goods, personal items, garbage and odds and sods.  You pass money through the bars and she passes through your purchase.  The guy ahead of me bought one tomato and two single (removed-from-the-pack) cigarettes.  The transaction took at least five minutes.

Making a purchase (from a camera shy storekeeper)

These are not really convenience stores as we know them.  More like ‘stashes’ from a Mad Max movie.

And we are staying in the upscale university area.  The one that has the only park that is safe to be in at night.

Is it safe to come out?

Our pleasant little B&B looks like a fortress and it is.  You have to buzz your way in and the gate through which you pass is heavy steel capped with electrified barbed wire and would stop most vehicles under four thousand pounds from ramming it.  Only a tank could get through on it’s first pass.  Or, maybe a chicken-bus with a full-head of steam. The rest of the outside facade is high concrete walls topped with the ubiquitous barbed wire or broken bottles.

Front Yard in a Box

And it is not the only fortress.  In fact, just about every building presents a solid concrete wall with a similar steel gate with the same or sometimes extra security paraphernalia.  A lot of people keep dogs as well.  They are not seen but they can be heard.  Walking the streets at night is like walking past a prison.  It’s just plain ugly and, after awhile, it gets depressing.

The family of man, eh?

I must admit to not being too keen on the thriving American corporate presence here either.  There is nothing wrong with a Macdonalds and KFC and WalMart and all that.  They deserve a presence, I guess.  But where they are in poor counties, no more local businesses seem to exist.  Where they are, the American cultural influence overwhelms the local one.

And they are everywhere.  I have seen a KFC the size of  a small school with the Macdonalds/Ikea-type small children’s play area attached. American corporations may do a lot of things right but displacement of the culture is – in my view – wrong.  Well, boring at the very least.  The thing is – San Salvador has the largest American style shopping mall in Central America.  It is first or second on the ‘list of things to do here’.

Like I need more Gucci, eh?  Which I can purchase here with US dollars as that is, in fact, the official currency of this country.  That’s right.  The whole country uses only US currency.  And get this…the average wage is under $300 a month with our 7-day-a-week ‘cleaner’  at the B&B getting room and board and $60.00 for a months work.  It is hard to get by in San Salvador.  Very hard.

Now don’t get me wrong.  Even though I will never return willingly to El Salvador, I am ecstatic that we came.  The experience of having been here and done this is way more important than having enjoyed it.  Enjoyment is definitely climbing my list of priorities (along with cleanliness and hot water) but it is still trailing behind ‘something new, something different and a good learning experience.’  We learned a lot.  I am definitely glad we came.

And I am also looking forward to leaving.  So, it was good both coming and going.  Staying?  Not so much…….

The Ubiquitous Barbed Wire

Caught the 9:00 am swampboat express after mistakenly rehydrating with two large glasses of jugo de naranha at the hotel.  We waited 20 minutes and cruised for forty.

Ferry to El Avellana

I was keen to get to the end.  When we got there, I headed for a private corner of garbage and swamp, just behind the rusted hulk of an old pick-up.  I took – maybe – three minutes.

I knew the bus was loading – it started it’s daily run with the arrival of the swampboat – but there were people to load, chickens to position and packages to stow.  And, as a rule, nothing moves fast in Latin America except bullets.

Our bus was the exception.  We had stumbled upon a driver aspiring to formula one.  As I crossed the parking lot, the attendants (all buses have at least one and sometimes two ‘attendants’ to assist the driver with the business of flinging things and people on and off the bus).  I was helped aboard through the back door and, before I could reach my seat, we were off!

Holy Madre de Dios!  This guy floored it and held down his airhorn for at least the first fifteen/twenty seconds.  The villagers scattered, dogs hid, chickens scrambled and we accelerated through the little town to about 100 km an hour before braking harshly for the last speed bump.

But then he was clear and he took the old Bluebird up to about 120 km and hour and didn’t let up for curves, dips or even traffic.  We just screamed past small pickups (two laden with huge Brahman bulls standing in the bed), large transport trucks, other buses, small cars and all the motorbikes that even came close to getting in our way.  It was exhilarating to say the least, frightening some of the time and bloody terrifying more than a few times.  Even the everyday, normally stoic, route-familiar passengers had large eyes and occasionally involuntarily expressed gasps of fear.  This guy was setting a record!

Frankly, I needed a shot of adrenaline and yelled out ‘Yee ha!‘ on one occasion when it seemed that we were momentarily airborne.  This, inexplicably relaxed the passengers and they laughed out loud.  We all did the rest of the thrill ride with grins.

We got to ‘Chicki’  in about two hours.  That was the end of his run and he dropped us at a corner that indicated absolutely nothing.  Just as we scrambled to the curb some guy out of nowhere grabbed half our luggage and, with a smile, encouraged us to follow him down the hill into what appeared to be a scruffy part of Chicki.

Embarking on a Chicken Bus Ride

Of course, we followed like the easy victims we appeared to be but were relieved to see that, after a block or two and a corner we emerged at a small bus depot.  And we were loaded on the bus to the border.  A quick banyo break and we were off.

I opted away from any more liquids.  Two hours would be my bladder’s max.  And this guy turned out to be pretty slow.  Even adjusting for the experience of the first guy, the second guy was molasses.  Nice guy, tho.  He stopped for everyone and gave them a ride for a few hundred yards.  No charge.  If there was one guy waving him down and another 100 feet away, he’d make two stops.  It was excruciating.

Nice guy, tho.

We eventually arrived at the border and that was when this guy’s true driving genius showed up.  There must have been 70 or more long distance trucks lined up for the customs and inspection process.  They took up all of the southbound lane.  So, naturally, our guy took the northbound lane.  The one with traffic coming at us.  The one with big, long distance trucks from the other side coming right at us.

We ducked, we weaved, we squeezed and we squished our way down a broken pavement narrow track complete with pedestrians, bikes, cows and traffic – all flowing in different directions- but with the ‘heavy dudes’  coming right at us. He zigged and zagged for about a mile.  He made it and dropped us at the border.

Crossing No Person's Land Between Guatemala and El Salvador

We got through the border formalities easily.  Nobody there spoke English and we just claimed not to speak any Spanish (97% true).  They did write our names down on a piece of paper.

There was a little ‘town’ site at the border complete with gas stations and tiendas and street mongers. We looked a bit out of place being the only tourists to have ever visited El Salvador but everyone was welcoming and friendly.  Piece o’cake.  The gang of unshaven thugs standing by the first restaurant notwithstanding.

We decided to take it (not being mugged) as a good sign and stopped in for a bite.  We had a chicken dinner for two dollars.  Then, after finding the nearest banyo, we headed for the bust stop, found our bus and began the second to last leg of our journey into San Salvador.

More of the same ‘nice guy’ schedule continued until we reached a bus terminus half way between the border and San Salvador, the capital city.  Then another banyo break and into an air conditioned Greyhound style complete with a Latin Christian-themed movie playing on overhead TVs.  All bus fares were about a dollar and fifty cents.  The air-conditioned, movie buses maybe an extra quarter.

I don’t think it cost us ten bucks total to travel all day by bus.

But it really sapped our energy.  El Salvador is hot.  It’s about 35/100 in the day and 30/90 at night.  By the time we checked in to Clementina’s Guest house in San Salvador, we were soaked through with sweat.  So, we took the only route open – cold showers.  The first one took a bit of will power.  By the time I went to bed (after dinner and walking around) I had taken six or seven ‘quickies’.  And that was to become the least number of showers I have taken during a day in San Salvador.

Eight so far today.  And counting……………..

After we got settled in at El Delfin, Eduardo-the-guide snagged us and we were charmed.  Or dazed.  Same thing.

Anyway, he got us and we were ‘booked in’ the next morning for a sunrise swamp tour on a 14 foot punta/dory made of rough-hewn hardwood planks.

Eduardo knocked us up at 5:30 am.  I was walking through the ‘chickens-at-the-beach’ village at the time when the damn chickens were just waking up! I am going to have to exercise more control over Sally’s impulses.  This was crazy.

Actually, it was kinda neat.  There was just enough light to see the small town come alive.  The first of the shopkeepers were sweeping away the night-blown palm leaves and the evening prior’s trash of beer bottles and plastic.  Most of the wretched, skinny dogs were still curled up asleep on the sidewalks and the air was cool with a hint of mango mixed with swamp water.

Yes, it does get better than this but this wasn’t so bad.

We trudged down the dirt track into the jungle just to appear a few minutes later at the embarcadero – the ‘marina’ made up of boats strewn on the shore.  They were interesting.

Eduardo in his Swamp Boat

The average ‘Chevy’ of punts is about 14 to 18 feet long with the longer ones powered by 9.9 hp motors and the shorter ones pushed by long poles.  Eduardo used a pole.

The swamp is only at a depth of four or so feet right now but, in the rainy season, that will double.  The water was pea-green and calm.

Ferries and Launcha

The other most common boat at the marina is the 30 foot punt-bus that does the daily 40 minute run back and forth from one end of the swamp (Monterrico) to the other (La Avellana) where travelers can connect with a chicken bus that gets them back into the interior.

Car Ferry

But the most interesting boat-barge was the 30 foot by 10 foot shallow, plank-built barge they used to ferry cars and trucks.  This was amazing.  Powered by a 25 hp motor, the barge was controlled by the helmsman sitting at the rear corner.  Most of the passengers sat at the front to catch the breeze.  The truck, car or ‘huge-pile-of-something’ sat in the middle obscuring the captain’s view.  The guy couldn’t see anything except one side and he had to lean out to do that.  Such restrictions did not limit his confidence whatsoever.  The boat literally charged through the swamp at about 5 knots and any traffic encountered had to make way on it’s own.

Monterrico Nature Reserve at Dawn

We left before the day got busy and floated silently out into the still-dark swamp to see mangroves, egrets and fishermen on other small punts hard at work netting small fish.  In the morning mist, we could just make out the silhouettes of the three big volcanoes near Antigua about 50 miles away.

Guatemalan Fisherman

Seems the swamp is home to a lot of life but we didn’t see much.  We did see a small school or two of four-eyed fish!?  These guys leave two eyes above water and two under and, in this way, double their chance of finding something to eat.  And, when they swim, they seem to half fly out of the water.  They were pretty neat.

There was nothing really special about the trip overall but the swamp, the mist, the light and the volcanoes gave one an inkling of being in prehistoric times.  The Plasticine era or maybe the Crustacean.  (Yes, I know that I just made those names up but you know what I mean).

Sunrise (possibly David's first)

We got back around 7:00 am and the town was alive and the heat picking up.  A quick breakfast, followed by a longer nap and we were back in business…………….sitting in the pool.  Cooling off.

“I really wanna see the turtles, sweetie.  Let’s go see the turtles!”

“Sure”, I lied, sounding eager, “do you know where to go?”

“Oh yes.  I checked.  Just 200 meters down the beach past our hotel or maybe past Johny’s place.  Whatever.  We’ll find it.  They say, ‘you can’t miss it!”

I should have known.  Sally’s only flaw: navigation in any form.  My only excuse: the heat was getting to me.

Off we went.

“Let’s walk along the beach, sweetie.  It’s so much nicer.” 

I didn’t take my shoes. It was only 200 yards.  The black sand is like pumice and hot as hell so the way to walk on the beach is either with flip flops or down by the water’s edge so as to keep your feet cool.  ‘Course that means a quick hot-step to the cooler part of the sand which is over about 150 feet of burning black sand but it’s doable and so I did it.  And we began trudging south.

Trudging is the right word for me.  I tend to sink into the sand deeper than does Sal who seems to hardly make an impression as she floats lightly along the surface.

And I trudged.

“Gee, I was sure it would be along here somewhere.  Let’s just go a little further, sweetie.  I’m sure we’ll see it soon.”

And I trudged.

After almost a mile along the beach the pumice-like nature of the sand was making itself known to the soles of my feet.  I am pretty sure I had ‘sanded off’ the better part of the bottom of my foot.

“Ya know, this trudging-thing in the sand is kinda getting’ to me, Sal.  My feet are kinda feeling raw.  I think I’d better head back if I’m to have a chance of making it.  Sorry”

“Oh, sweetie.  Poor sweetie.  Here, put on my sandals.  You’ll be fine.”

Sal’s sandals on me look like Cinderella’s slippers on the largest of the ugly step-sisters.  They didn’t work.

“Well, let’s just get up the beach a bit and go to that nice place over there.  They have a pool and a nice little palapa-like building.  Maybe we can get something to drink?” 

“Sounds good.  But there is still the 100 or so feet of burning black sand to cross.  My feet feel as tender as the inside of my eyelids.  That’s gonna hurt!”

And so I trudged some more. I kept thinking that maybe it was love that was only skin deep. I was definitely going to find out!

Finally I decided to make a break for the palapa!  It was like walking on hot griddles!  I got halfway and wanted to flip on my back like a turtle but one of the women at the nearby pool was so greatly amused at my discomfort, I did not want to give her any more laughs at my expense.  Gawd I hated that woman!  Gawd that short distance hurt!  Gawd!

We had a beer and I tried to walk back.  This time on the beach road about another 100 yards back from the beach.  Couldn’t do it.  Called a cab.  Coulda kissed the fat Mayan guy on the lips when he dropped me back at my hotel and my shoes.

Sally would not promise to keep this story secret so I am blurting it out now.  Easier this way.

But, of course, during all this walking-on-hot-burning-glass-shards, we learned where the turtle refuge was.  Life can be cruel at times.  So we walked back there. This time I wore shoes.

And it was stupid in that tourist trap kinda way.  Lots of turtles but only two sea turtles.  The rest were the kind you buy at pet stores in any city.  The caimens and iguanas were cool but so cool that they were frozen in immobility.  They don’t move much at the best of times and this was a hot humid day in the swamp.  They were settled!

And they were all pretty small.

All of which is OK, really.  At least the ‘refuge’  was working to preserve endangered species and so, despite its modest presentation, the trip was deemed a success.

No cab was required.

But that was enough of Monterrico.  After dinner we decided to catch the swamp-punt-bus to the chicken-bus-stop and head up into El Salvador.

The adventure part of this vacation (not that there was ever supposed to be one) was underway.