Morelia: short video

Visit to the Plaza de la Armas, downtown Morelia April 5. 09

el Salvador Part II

El Salvador Part II

My bloated stomach zone liked the idea of tamales, for some reason, which it what I ordered at Comedor a la Vista. The tamale had great flavor, but at least in 'poor zone' there's just a tiny tiny bit of chicken in the masa. If you're expecting something like what you'd get in the US or Mexico, you'd be disappointed.

Comedor a la Vista might mean 'Eatery with a view.' The view consists of a plain concrete wall across the narrow steet filled with cars, a few dogs, throngs of people walking to and fro, vendors who've spread their goods on the sidewalks over sheets or blankets or upon a makeshift table, discarded paper and bits of trash everywhere. It also might mean you see what you get, since everything food offering is in plain view under glass separators.

After breakfast (yes, tamales for breakfast, or you could have stew, as well as eggs) we set out for Hotel Lenca in Perquin, in the mountains area in the eastern part of the country. It was a rebel stronghold during the civil war that decimated this country from 1980-1992. Reagan poured money into this country to keep the right wing in power; the left wing spouted land reform and other populist measures and in general made us look bad. But given how many Salvadorans work in the US and support families back home, I guess our reputation didn't suffer too much. There's a well known museum in the town chronicling the war, which is a main reason for going there, the other the wonderful hotel run by a former PC volunteer.

Hotel Lenca seen from the street

It took us some three hours to get there. During the chicken bus part of the ride the assistant made a boy give me his seat. The attendant even helped me remove my backpack. There are advantages to residing in geezerdom. My amoebas cooperated, amazingly enough, even during the last hour or so in the back of a pickup truck. We took turns sitting on the hard seats as we bounced along in the cool air.

Hotel Lenca sits half way up a steep hill. I dragged my backpack and intestines up the hill and beyond the office to the rooms. The view is wonderful and inside it's lovingly finished and furnished, and there's loads of hot water.

The next day we walked back to town. Nic noted that Salvadorans laugh at people walking, figuring they are too poor to pay the pickup truck driver his measly 'cora' ($.25) In our case, we just didn't want to wait for one to come by and didn't mind the walk, but a pickup passed going the other way and we endured some jeers. Along the way a somewhat aged looking woman came to talk to us, offering rooms for the night. Her place was quite shabby.

We visited the museum after a short walk through the short town. The entrance fee is practically nothing, especially since a guide was with us the entire time. Not that it helped me all that much. His Spanish was accompanied by a whistling sound of some sort, a kind of thick rural el Salvadoran accent and lots of words I'd never heard before.

Nic and friends did much better. I might beat them on a standard Spanish exam but they've been here a year. Nic didn't understand a word during his first months, but he's flying high now, so I guess if here long enough I'll get used to the way they speak. I would have liked to talk to our guide more. He seemed like a nice fellow. He walked with a limp from his war injury; he fought for the left wingers as a teen during the civil war. Many of his friends and collegues died or were seriously injured during the devastation that gripped not just el Sal, but Guatemala and Nicaragua as well. It was the US and Soviet Union at war by proxy, with many poor and lovely people caught in the middle.

to be continued

El Salvador Part 1

It was 7 am on December 16^th, 2008. The lovely young Mexican American woman from Boulder CO we were chatting with yesterday came by to say goodbye. We boarded the van taking us from Antigua to Guatemala City with the very well traveled Swiss woman who was on her way to South America;

The comfortable Tica bus was about an hour late leaving the City but soon we were driving through mountainous, volcanic rural areas strewn with ignacious rock and cinder, dormant (I hoped) volcanic peaks not far off. The roads are better or at least faster than in Mexico, if for no other reason than there are fewer speed bumps along the way. We enjoyed the views in silence because the dvd player thankfully wasn't working.

At the border immigration and customs came through the bus. Papusas (stuffed tortillas), chicken and other offerings could be found in the tiny booths and tables. The ubiquitous vendors found their way onto the bus offering platanos fritos, sandwiches, water and other beverages. They competed with one another, each in rapid fire conveying the contents of their offering.

As we headed south the landscape flattened and became uglier. It's the dry season in el Salvador. The vegetation is dead or dying and everything along the road is covered in dust. We passed through many small towns with plain concrete structures with corrugated roofs, small 'tiendas' (shops) with friendly sounding names and slogans on the rough concrete walls, many of them general stores selling mostly food. There were lots of car repair shops too, complete with shade trees. On either side there were fields of corn and other vegetables growing in the dust.

The outskirts of San Salvador extend for what seemed like hours. But once at the bus station it was just a 10-15 minute taxi ride to Hotel Simililus near Metro Center, where Nic was to meet us. Nic's our nephew. He joined the Peace Corps, and is just starting his second and last year here unless he re-commits. The Peace Corps houses volunteers at this hotel. Nic was here last fall when he was recovering from his broken leg. He and the staff are very close- he was here over a month. Leti was at the door to welcome us; Nic had told her about our arrival. He called her Niña Leti, (Daughter Leti). 'Niña,' I later learned, is a term similar to 'Miss,' and seems to be in lieu of 'señorita,' while 'Señora' is used only for the very old. Leti called Nic when we arrived. He told us he would not arrive until tomorrow. He was playing soccer with other volunteers near the Guatemala border.

Our first outing in San Sal was for dinner. We walked down the hill to Metro Center, a very American looking shopping center. We felt like we were back in the States, especially given what was on offer in the food court and restaurants, the prices and the greenback - the dollar became the official currency of el Salvador in 2001. We finally settled on a restaurant where we ordered pan pizzas and coca light. The bill came to an astounding $18. We could eat for two days in Mexico for that, and this meal would have been cheaper in the States, and better. While we were there the restaurant was playing Christmas music in English, one a rendition of “I Saw Momma Kissing Santa Claus” by the Jackson 5. Michael must have been about 8 years old. He said “I did, I did!” from time to time. Good grief!

Nic arrived mid-morning the next day, fresh from the chicken buses which go everywhere in this country very cheaply if uncomfortably. We took a chicken bus to have lunch at his favorite 'torta' (sandwich) place across town close to Peace Corps headquarters. The tortas were wonderful, served hot and only $1.25 each, and we sat on the sidewalk on plastic chairs next to the tiny green stand.

There were two or three workers busy filling orders. By way of contrast, a bit later near the dentist's office Nic and I had cappuccinos. They were good but $2.50 each! But unlike tortas, which are everywhere and usually good, coffee in el Salvador is lousy, often instant, so getting a good one turned out to be expensive and rare, despite the fact that coffee grows here. The good stuff is mostly exported.

The lesson we learned here was the two worlds of el Salvador, one very poor and the other quite well to do, the Metro Center/cappuccino world and the sidewalk torta world. Naturally the former outnumbers the latter by a very, very wide margin.

Buses belong to the poor. A ride is $.25, 'una cora' in the local lingo, a distortion of 'quarter.' Many of the buses are old, and often very old school buses from the US (a few are from Canada). They belch black diesel smoke, have manual transmissions that get you going slowly and noisily (especially if the engines are equipped with blowers), but once going they fly! There are newer, smaller and less polluting mini-buses that cost the same 'cora.' Although they run much cleaner and quieter, they are not as pretty as the school buses, which are often highly chromed and fancily painted, giving a special decorative accent to what is otherwise a very dreary place, filled with unattractive shops and dwelling some of which are mere shacks. In fact it's hard to find anything attractive at all.

Nic thinks the buses are privately owned. This makes sense, given how they handle money. There are no receipts or coin deposits. The money goes into the driver's hands, or his assistant's, and into a box or pocket, so there is no reliable way to account for revenues. I imagine the driver leases a route, paying a fixed fee per month, so what he earns is his own affair. The government subsidizes fuel costs, but you are on your own when it comes to repairs. Drivers joke that these buses should not be called chicken buses but egg buses, because they break so easily.

The buses are often very crowded, making me feel a bit claustrophobic so sometimes I stood near the door rather than sit down. On longer rides if you have a seat, Nic told us, you'd often end up holding packages or children for people who are forced to stand. It's a rather friendly environment filled not only with people but packages and the occasional – yes, you guessed it – chicken. People use the public transport for shopping and deliveries alike, so people wanting to sell a small animal, even regular vendors sometimes ride to market with their goods for sale.

At the Peace Corps office (where you can get aspirin, books and the internet), we met Lisa (I think that's her name) who planned Nic's participation in a radio show from San Miguel. This is a weekly program to teach English to Salvadorans. There are enormous numbers of Salvadorans in the US, so there should be a lot of interest in this program. Then we took a bus or two to the hostal where Nic is staying. It's a lot cheaper than the Simililus but has comfortable seating in the lounge. Most PC volunteers stay here when they have to pick up the tab. Nic says there are private rooms as well as dorms, but Peg wasn't interested in moving.

That evening we ate dinner at the Euro cafe. It's just a few minutes walk from our hotel and is in a street crowded with restaurants. I wish we'd known about this area last night. We had dinner for $2.50-3.00 each. Nic ordered a bucket of beers. The order comes in a steel bucket with ice, for about $1.00 each. The price is right but none of the beers have much flavor. Along with the beer comes loud music, but at least it wasn't the Jackson Five. Some of Nic's friends joined us, including Jeannine. I began to wonder if something was going on between her and Nic but then I heard that she is married, so I let my curiosity abate, but something about Nic's behavior was different. He'd been somehow distracted the last time I'd spoken with him, but as it was all none of my business I said nothing.

On Thursday we boarded the bus for San Vicente. I can't remember why we went there but Jeanine would already be there, which seemed just great to me, since she's friendly and a lot of fun. The last bit of the journey there involved yet another form of transport: the pickup. It was a small one, perhaps a Nissan, with a steel frame jutting up from the fenders. For una cora or some pittance we drove, some sitting, others standing as we bounced down the steep hill, our luggage at our sides, my graying hair flopping in the breeze. I hope they have a cover for this thing. During the rainy season it rains every day, usually in the evening, so a cover would be essential to keep you from drowning.

I don't know who San Vicente was, but he cared neither for cleanliness nor beauty if current conditions are any indication. It's one of the ugliest places I'd ever been, trash everywhere, beauty in design prohibited, loose dogs wandering about. Vendors spread a blanket or sheet on the sidewalk, then arrange their goods on them- at least their arrangements are usually attractive. Amazingly the people are spotlessly clean, their clothes all look like they were washed yesterday, and everyone has bathed very recently.

Nic took us to a hotel without a name. It has a shared bathroom down the way a bit over a dirty looking concrete floor. I think Nic said his PC group stayed in San Vincente during training so that's how he knew about this place. Nic is in another room across the way. It was now that we learned for sure that he and Jeanine were, shall I say, getting rather close. It was nice to see but I didn't quite understand the Wendel part. We'd met him and found out he was the husband. Hmmm.

But we were distracted by the amoeba conversation. Wendell told us that PC volunteers spend a great deal of time dealing with intestinal issues. When he first encountered this problem he went to PC headquarters from his site to get some pills. This must have been quite fun given that chicken buses do not come with bathrooms. After a course of treatment you have to go back to the capital for a follow-up visit. Then you get another infestation and do the same thing again. He gave up on the official route for dealing with the critters, and he says everyone does. You just deal with as best as you can, and share your stories with other volunteers over beer. That PC life here. Beer and amoebas.

It wasn't the talk about all this that caused my intestines to go haywire. I've got visitors! My stomach feels like it's twice its normal size, it's painful and I'm nauseous to boot. My mouth tastes like old, very old rancid Fritos. Our visit to a papuseria for dinner did not help a bit. I thought maybe drinking coke would help. It didn't. I suffered through dinner, hungry and sick at the same time, and shuffled back to Hotel La Dumpa. Nic and Jeanine went to their room, the one with its own bathroom.

I got up in the middle of the night. It was that or ruin the sheets. It was pitch black. I did not have a flash light. I managed to find the dirty bathroom in time, and left the light on so I could find my way back to bed. Listening to my stomach noises somehow put me to sleep.

What they don't tell you: Volcan Pacaya, Guatamala

"View from our hotel," watercolor by gary

To Volcan Pacaya from Antigua, Guatemala December 13th, 2008

Guatemala is full of surprises, mostly because people don't tell you everything you need to know, or you don't read the real fine print which could be written vertically in very small letters in hard to see colors. Today we are going to Volcan Pacaya, an active volcano with a flowing lava field.




It started out innocently enough. The van arrived at 3:50 PM, 50 minutes late. There were 12 of us in the zocalo (central park) waiting and wondering. One couple was looking for green van, another a tan one, a third had been told what color to look for, although we'd all bought are tickets from the same agency. Peg and I were told the van would be green- it was. When it arrived the driver hopped out, calling out names from a list. There was one that sounded right so we gave him our ticket, the one that said 'no refunds for any reason,' and 'the van can arrive anywhere from 15 minutes before to 15 minutes after the scheduled time,” with no address on the receipt. So I said it was 50 minutes late but that depends on how you measure it. Could be an hour, could be 35 minutes.

On our way one of our fellow travelers said he was told the trip took an hour each way, another said one hour twenty minutes. We were told two hours each way, two hours to the top. “Two hours to the top” should have was a hint about what was to come but we didn't notice. About an hour and a half later, after driving on some steep mountain roads, skirting the outskirts of Guatemala (the Guatemalans drop 'City'), we could see the smoking peak of Volcan Pacaya, the plume rising lazily in the cool mountain air. We could see three other volcanoes, one with a plume.

On the last leg of the trip the van was climbing a steep and narrow road. We were behind a stuffed chicken bus. I saw a woman's back smashed against the window of the rear emergency door, which opened as I looked on. A young man climbed out of the bus onto the ladder leading to the roof, closing the door as the bus zoomed around the curves, our van in close pursuit; the term 'tail-gaiting' does exist here, apparently, or if it does, there are no enforced laws to discourage the behavior. Then the bus veered down a steep one lane road so we can only assume that the young man made it just fine.

When the van stopped at the entrance we were surrounded by young boys hawking walking sticks; this turned out to be hint two. I must have heard “Walking steek, meester?” 150 times in the first 10 seconds. It was so loud the driver closed the windows that the kids were poking their heads into. He then opened the van's sliding door, pushing the kids back. When we bought the tickets for the journey we were told there would be a $5 charge to get in the park but we hadn't heard the part about paying the 'conductor' but that's what he said we had to do now, and we all did. This was hint three, since he gave us no time to check things out. The entrance fee included the guide, which no one had mentioned to us. Let's call this hint four.

Our guide introduced himself as Antonio. He gave us hint five, and the most important: hire a horse. For q120, about $14, you would get a round trip on the smallish horses that stood around, their presumed owners sitting comfortably in the saddle. No one took him up- why would we want a horse or a walking stick or one of the flashlights the kids were offering - and off we went. This was nearly a major mistake.

We found out why right away. The first section after leaving the base is very steep, very very steep, a 45 degree angle or so. Peg had to stop after at most five minutes of climbing. Everyone was puffing heavily except the guide who again strongly suggested we get on a horse, but Peg was adamant that she would walk up this hill and I was game so it was onward and upward. Antonio said it would level out in another 5 minutes, and then go up and down, and a woman in our group said this bit was the hardest; they were both mostly correct.

The men on their horses were right behind us as we mushed on, saying 'taxi horse,' or 'horse no cansado (tired)' about every 15 seconds. 'Caballo no cansado' and 'buen precio' became common calls.. Sometimes they got ahead of us to position themselves where the trail was steep, especially if we were in cinder fields, since the bad footing made the steep slopes even harder to climb.

We lagged behind when I could not maneuver to keep some people behind us. Antonio stopped to rest about every 20 minutes or so, especially after particularly steep climbs, which must have numbered about a dozen. In the meantime he assigned Angelito to us, whose job was to make sure we did not make a wrong turn. Angelito was no more than 8 years old and never said a word, and never seemed to labor.

After about 45 minutes we passed the 2000 meter sign; that's about 6500' in altitude. Antonio said the peak was at 2800 meters, but the lava flow we'd come to see was at 2400 meters. He said it would be about 20 minutes before we would get our first view of it, and another 20-30 minutes before we arrived at our destination.

The 'taxis' we still watching us, like vultures at a cadaver,. Peg wanted me to tell them she thought it evil of them to prey upon us laboring tourists. But I did not want to create ill will and instead said she did not like horses, in the hopes they would stop annoying us; we might need a ride at some point. It made no difference as the hawking continued.

We enjoyed some fabulous views when resting in clearings. When the price got down to q20, we knew we were getting close. Just a few minutes later, an hour after we left, we got our first view of the lava. A thin red stream flowed from near the cone. As we took in the view the caballeros led their horses on their return journey; six had come so far for naught.

The final march of about a mile uphill the whole way took about 30 minutes, winding through a now cold lava field formed in 2000. The lava had formed a wide variety of forms. Antonio warned us to walk carefully. If you fell the rough rock caused a nasty wound. He was at this location in 2000 when there was a significant eruption. Rocks, steam and gas spew forth. No one was injured, largely because the wind was blowing away from the group he was leading. After that even more tourists came, hoping for more spectacular sights. 'Crazy,' he said, but I wasn't sure if he meant the tourists or himself. Perhaps it was us he was referring to.

When we finally arrived, you could feel the heat of the lava. Large cinders spewed forth from the edges of the flow, cooling as they bounded down the slope. The mass edged almost imperceptibly, silently downwards. In the distance two volcanoes stood silhouetted against the pending sunset, the plume on one clearly visible. We stayed there about a ½ hour, maybe 45 minutes.

Peg ordered a horse for the ride down; her knees would not take the downhill portion. Antonio called his buddy Arturo, waiting at the base, while I snapped portraits of women who traveled without partners and joked with Antonio about cooking hot dogs and marshmallows with long sticks so the 600F degree plus lava wouldn't singe hair and skin.

Angelito was assigned to identify Arturo for us; he stayed with us the rest of the time. Peg climbed on Canela (Cinnamon), who hesitated at the first hill but then moved steadily thereafter. Soon the sun fell. Arturo offered me the choice of being in front or behind. I thought it wiser to avoid the business end of a horse so it was the former for me. Soon it was pitch black, for the moon had not yet risen. The flashlight was strong enough except for the few occasions Antonio directed it elsewhere.

Somewhere along the way we'd been joined by Juan Carlos leading his horse. Peg had been interviewing him while I tried to stay in one piece. I only landed on my butt twice on the way down. One near fall I landed on my hands and bounced right back to my feet. Juan Carlos noted how well I'd recovered from the latest near fall, saying I was very strong ('muy fuerte'). I said most of the time, in fact, I carried Peg down from mountainsides, but since it was dark, I could not do it this time. There were other jokes back and forth, and some discussion of the fact that Carlos' wife, an American, was 16 when they married; Antonio said Juan Carlos was a bit impulsive. Also during the extensive interview Peg conducted in Spanish with little help from me, Juan Carlos told us that the biggest expense of a horse was its original purchase. His purchase price was $1300! He told us that a typical horse could do this trip once a day for about 8 years (less if used more often) before they had to do something else.

By this time we'd caught up with another horse, so I was at the business end of one of these critters for almost half the journey. I could barely see the animal. His handler wore a white blouse so I could see her, though. I passed her during the last two hundred meters. This was the steepest part and the horses slowed to a crawl as they made their way along the concrete path.

We said goodbye to our friendly caballero and his horse, Peg tipped Angelito (still completely silent), and offered him some crackers, which attracted a crowd of other hungry kids his age. We climbed aboard the van, looking for the next surprise to come our way. In the meantime, however, we were thankful to be in one piece and wondering only how much our legs would hurt the next day, and coming to an understanding of why the tour vendors provided so little advice and information about this rather arduous journey- it would be a revenue killer!