The Salvadorian Journal.

"And to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to everything that
creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have given green plant
for food."--God, in Genisis 1.28

I have been to The Garden of Eden where all things co-exist in the pre-serpent harmony.
I have seen paradise.
Banana and orange trees on a canvas of green where mangos rain down to land in small streams lined with exotic purple and red plants.
Splashes of pink and yellow flowers sprinkled among coffee beans, corn husks, and butterflies.
This was the road to Volcan Santa Ana.

I climbed for two hours--in velcro shoes--to to the top.
As I grabbed a rock and hoisted myself up the slope, measuring each placement of my feet, lightning struck. Very close.
"We have to be careful," the guide, a young woman, warned us, "There was a fire up here a few weeks ago from an electrical storm".
I wondered how, exactly, we should be "careful"? Not strap metal to our chests?
We had just hiked straight up an active volcano and were now basically climbing a rock wall to get to the top.
We definitely weren´t going anywhere.

When we stumbled onto the peak the first thing I remember is choking on sulfur.
The second, thinking how worth it everything had been to look down into this mood ring crater--changing its color constantly with its tempermant.

The afternoon before, Juliana and I had gone into San Salvador craving a dessert called Perro Frio. We had been talking about this treat (that is only made at a specific cafe) the entire week.
When our bus pushed into the city through the walls of water coming down the thoughts of chocolate (something you really cannot get in the campo since its base isn´t corn)had complete control of our minds, so--despite the rain--we got off at the closest stop to Cafe la T.
It was five blocks away.

After taking three steps away from the bus our clothes were already plastered to our skin.
Maybe I can best explain San Salvador´s drainage problem by telling you this:
Crossing the street my shoes were stolen from me twice by the current and as I rushed after them I came close enough to being swept away myself that I was, at one point, on all fours clinging to the curb.
Needless to say that when we arrived at Cafe la T we experienced our 15 minutes of fame and were brought towels and coffee before anyone took our order.

Something weird has happened.
I think I made a mistake.

Imagine that 57 days ago I was in a chair at the San Fransisco airport watching people to my left board a flight to Denver and wondering--in all seriousness-what the chances were that I could sneak onto that flight instead...thinking how no one could do anything if I, right then, exchanged my ticket to spend my summer hidden away in Colorado somewhere. Away from El Salvador.

Sunday though, on a truck ride to the beach, I wondered if there ever was a place I felt a better click with.
I live in poverty here, yet I´m now sure I´ve ever been so comfortable.

Nights I spend watching novelas with my 15 year old sister, or reading in the hammock as my hermanito plays chibolas (marbles) on the porch my father was building the day I arrived.
My little sister braids my hair and comes to my work in the afternoon to lead me home by the hand so I can play.
My mother and Diana lay in the bed next to mine before bedtime, though Juaqina actually sleeps in the next room with the other four, and gossip and talk and laugh with me.
My Papa and brother like to talk to me about stories they´ve heard, or try to scare me by handing me carapachas, or telling me "Mela, alla esta Lencho, mira...en su cuarto".

Lencho is the town crazy who dresses in a Chinese fisherman´s hat, a blue sweatshirt, and tan pants every day. Also, he does not shower.
His father used to make him until Lencho came at him with a machete.

There are many stories on what happened to him: his ex wife was a witch who put a curse on him, he was bit by a rabid dog and was never the same after that, his son died and he went insane.
All I know is that he seems pretty harmless most of the time--he talks quietly, and mostly to himself. But I try to avoid him as much as possible because he spends an unnecessary amount of time staring at me.
This is why the men in my family think it´s hilarious to tell me he is coming for me.

As time sneaks away I have more and more trouble remembering my family here isn´t actually my own.
The other day I came home from work (on my own accord, not dragged by Patti) and was informed that my new last name was Ordoñez because I had been adopted by them.
My family here are like real relatives. They make me laugh, get on my nerves, joke around with me, tell me stories, listen to me, give me advice and I throughly enjoy spending time with them.
I have begun to really actually love them.

I have felt subtle shifts in my views on the world, myself, life, love, friends, family since I have been here.
In many ways I feel changed for the better, but if you could see the way I look you would think I am miserable here.

Ironically, my sloppy appearance is something I revel in, because--to me--it just serves as evidence of the unforgettable time I am having.

Almost all, literally, of the clothes I brought are ripped or stained, but it´s from climbing trees, feeding my little brother, dropping grease while cooking, chickens getting into my things.

My hair is snarled, but seeing the country from the back of a pick-up truck and being caught in intense tropical storms make me indifferent to that.

I am covered in scrapes. Proof of scratched mosquito bites, jungle I´ve walked through, the barbed wire fences I´ve climbed through and over while catching rabbits or roosters or whatever has escaped that day.

My nails are dirty with residue from things I´ve planted, playing in the street with the neighborhood kids, left over sand from trips to the beach I´ve taken with the owners of hostals or the radio team.

My shoulders and cheeks have a permanent red tint.
That´s alright, though.
Life can give me its weathered, deep creasing lines.
It can carve my skin with stories of places I have been as long as the paths curve up so people know I have laughed more than cried.

The absolute best times I have had in El Salvador--my favorite days--I wont tell about here.
I don´t know how.
If you ask me about them I will tell you face to face, but some things here--like experiences-- don´t have translation.
Just the sort of way I cannot write the relationships I have built with people here, because they are too complex and beautiful to risk being ineloquent in description.

This I CAN tell you:
Leaving here is going to be one of the very hardest things I will ever do.

Last night was my favorite since I´ve been here.
I loved it for the warmth of simplicity.

At about 5:00pm the coulds illusioned a storm onto every persons part of the brain that produces fear.

As soon as I felt the familiar wind break through the office door and send an eager bundle of baby dust tornados to dance around my ankles I decided it was time to head home.

Walking back the streets were empty, except for the occassional child who would run outside to look out at the dark gray clouds that seemed to come from every direction, heading for the collision course of washing away the one white splotch that lay in the middle of the sky. But as soon as they´d had their glance they would shriek and run back inside.

When I arrived at my house I shut the window to my room, locked it, and began to writing in my journal.
Five minutes later the power went out.

I was going to try to write with my flashlight, but instead I saw the flickering of firelight and followed it through to the other side of the house where the family all sat talking by candlelight.
I sat here with them talking.
A few moments later Walter began playing with the candle wax. First he smashed little spiders that would crawl by, or Cicads. The carapachas. He then would roast them over the flame and cover them in wax.

I was half put-off and half charmed.
He seemed to be doing it with the most caring technique, almost as if he hadn´t been the one who had just ended the insects life, but ínstead was only trying to send it off the proper way-ceremoniously-into another world.

At some point I reached into the wax and made a cross to rest beside the graveyard Walter had now founded.
Patty giggled and somehow the evening spiraled into wax balls, wax statues, wax people, wax houses. Here, by the light of few flames, the three of us sat entertaining ourselves as the rest of the family watched from their hammocks giving us ideas for what to invent next--all the while telling stories, and ledgends.
So peaceful.

El Salvador has begun to heal the places in my soul that I did not know were wounded.

When I was little I believed I could save the world.
The world was El Salvador and the people I loved who were from there.
I beleived that my knowing where people´s papers were meant they would never have to go back, and that (by wishing hard enough) I could end the war.

Now that I am living here, I could never see El Salvador as a place that needs to be saved. And that, in fact, maybe by my realizing this it has actually rescued a part of ME.

This isn´t to say that this country is not full of suffering:

--the women entering the bus to sell pupusas and horchata hoping that--between here and the mile away stop from which they´ll have to walk back--they can make enough money to feed their six children.

--the children that get up two hours before school begins at 7:30am so they can go to the milpa and stock up on corn for the masa their mother´s will sweat away the day turning into bread, tortillas, pupusas, atol, etc.

--the men who can spend full weekend days cutting down, and then chopping up a Palo de Coco so that they can have wood for the next two month´s worth of cooking.

--the parents that feel inadequate because they cannot find work, either due to lack of it or their political affiliations. (imagine what kind of forced political indifference, and even submission, this causes!)

--the young adults who hate the United States for what it has done to their country, but still have it as their life´s goal to cross our border and acheive The American Dream.
(So many people here don´t really understand what life is like for immigrants over there. They have family in the U.S. A child. A cousin, uncle or brother. They see pictures of gaudy television sets and clean carpets and think this life is everyone´s reality. It´s everyone´s entitlement. But the family´s in the U.S are responsible for this false hope. They aren´t sending the letters about the stress of finding the three jobs they´re working, or the difficulty of not knowing the language.)

However, while this country is poverty ridden and corrupt, it is also breathtakingly beautiful.
It breaks your heart in a new way every day--in only a way something you have begun to love can do.

And these experiences, like last night--the baby sitting between me and Patty, each of us with an arm around him, while the family talked, each of us making a different part of the wax man´s body, trying to startle each other in the dark--these things remind me that true salvation comes not from being handed things but from within ourselves. That happiness is our connection to each other.

Why do people here seem the happiest of any country I have been to while they are also among the poorest? They haven´t stumbled across some secret in a self-help book, or discovered the winning lottery ticket.

They´ve been forced by uncontrollable circumstances, by birth and location, to live life the way it was meant to be lived.
Wholly. Simply. Throughly.

The other day I was in San Salvador at a park.
I climbed down a pile of rocks, just to climb back up (on the other side) under a dripping cave wall that looked out onto the entire city.

I´ve been here over a month now and still...
I had to take a deep breath and say, "I can´t beleive I am really here."

Last week I went with a high-school delegation to San Salvador.
This happened because a couple of the students, and one of their leaders, somehow managed to contract amebas that manifested themselves in an unusually short amount of time, leaving them in the hospital two days after they arrived.

With one of their leaders gone I went to help out with translations, city tours, etc.

I hopped in and out of moving buses looking for places to park, raced into buildings to prepare for the group´s arrival, and taught them how to cross the bustling streets: look both ways, pray, close your eyes and run!

I felt like such an old pro that by the time we got to La UCA I just bid the kids farewell on their tour, leaned back, spread myself across two rows of seats, and had myself a nice little nap under the moonroof that was shadowing in light from the blossom trees.

On our trip back from showing the delegation around the capitol we ran into a startling detour.
Literally.

Our big school-bus-disguised-as-racecar, barelling down the road at illegal speeds, smashed into the side of an SUV as it tried to pass the car in front of it.
Instead of slowing down and assessing the damage, the driver hit the gas until we could smell the tires melting in flecks of rubber behind us.
The students, of course, decided to have all sorts of dramatic meltdowns from verge-of-tears to sceaming, “We killed them!”

At their prodding, I asked the driver about the laws in El Salvador in terms of car crashes and was told that the person whose fault it is, is the responsible one and that the other has no obligations. Not even to stop.

This made no sense to me for two reasons.
1.) I know that, for absolute fact, to be complete bullshit, and
2.) Even if I had a law book in front of me that had prooved that to be the case, the reality still remained that We hit Them.

But, when one of the Sophomore`s asked me, “What did he say?” I looked at his concerned face and could only manage the translation:
“Things are a little different in El Salvador. For the next week, try and just forget what you know”.

Somehow, this settled him.

Things are different here.

After going with the students to where Romero was shot, I rode to where we would be eating lunch with the man who had spoken to us at the church.
He had been a preist as well, and a close friend of Romero´s.
I was fascinated by him and as we rode along leading the bus in his little car I said,
"Why don`t you tell me something?"
"Que typo de cosa?" He asked.
"Whatever you want. A story."
"Bueno", he began, "once I was kidnapped, thrown naked into a forest and left for dead..."

When you hear stories that begin like this, from people with smiles on their faces and eyes happier than most childrens, things begin to become a bit blurry.

I can´t see things straight anymore.
Like my identity.
This has always been a fusion of melted together contridictions, but this past week I had an experience that summarized it perfectly:

Two Monday´s ago Julianna and I popped in “Salvador” to watch it with a few Locureros from the radio station.
I`d seen this movie before, but never with Salvadorians.
Seeing it in a un air-conditioned room full of people with dirty hands and growling stomachs is slightly different than when you´re spread across a white carpet, down comforter over you, and popcorn in one hand with remote in the other.

One of the people we were watching with is a young man, no more than a year older than me, Umberto.
At one point in the movie he was watching a scene in which army tanks visciously rumble their way into an unprepared village and savagly open fire on whatever civilians cross their paths.
He chewed at the corner of his dark lip as he stared at the screen.

“Mira Amelia,” he said, without turning away from the images on the computer, “That´s your country´s money. That´s your country.”
I didn´t know what to say. It wasn´t right for me to have to apologize for something that happened before I was born, but that seemed like the only thing I could think of to do.
But, at that moment, I watched a character representing a Salvadorian military man shoot a peasant. “And that´s this country”.
Umberto practically snapped at me, “But trained by your government to kill my people.”
“And mine”. I retorted.
I couldn´t help it. It was a defensive thing to say, maybe not appropriate, but still true.
For the first time since we´d begun talking he looked at me.
“I lived every day with hearing stories of people dying.”
I thought about that.
So had I.

I´d heard those stories every day as I was growing up, as freshly arrived refugees passed in and out of our house. As my Tia´s cooked, and my Papi, Tios, Primos and Mamita talked.
I´d heard these stories too, but I couldn´t say this now. Though, I also couldn´t swallow the truth completely.
“Those are hard things to have to hear.” I agreed.
Those words apparently weren´t enough for him. He wanted to make me understand:
“One of my Tio´s was killed by the bullets your country supplied”.
“One of mine too.”
I had no way of knowing if the bullet that killed my Tio was actually from the U.S or not, but neither did Umberto, and we both knew that wasn´t the point.
After being quiet for awhile longer, another scene passed and he began again.
“Here we feared that night would take everything away from us”.
I remembered that fear.

When I was younger I feared every time I closed my eyes that the INS would come and deport my family. We all knew what this meant. Deported to death.
This was the reason Carolina was always so bossy. This is the reason that when we played hide and seek everyone hid, and no one remembered to be the seeker.
But I knew it was a different fear than what Umberto had lived, so all I said was….
“I´ll never know what it was like to live here then.”
“Me either.”
I stared at him trying to make sense of what he´d said.
“I was in Panama...The whole time, at a refugee camp in Panama.”
I smiled at him. He smiled, and continued with words that seemed to have been with him all along, “It must be confusing as hell being you sometimes.”
I wanted to hug him or cry or something, because this was the first time someone had ever acknowledged the awkwardness of my multiculturalism.
It seemed to me I had been born into my own refugee camp, of sorts. I said:
“Sometimes I think things would be a lot easier if my skin were a different color”.

At this everyone in the room laughed. We laughed not because it was a joke, but because the world is a crazy place and laughing is the only thing left to do if you plan to go ahead and keep on beleiving in it anyway.

After such a Delegation and Self-Reflection filled week it seemed only appropriate to relax to the max, so I returned this past weekend to spend a couple days in San Salvador with Julianna.

We spent it doing city things like spending an unjustifiable amount of money on things we hadn´t intended to spend it on.
We ate the way a person who has just moved out for the first time, and is experiencing the freedom of being a “big kid”, might eat.

Ordered in pizza, breadsticks, and ice cream the first night.
Had to-die-for chocolate desserts both days.
Drank ridiculous amounts of cappachino amaretto´s in cafés as we read, talked, and wrote.
We also went to the cinema twice with Nohe.

Saturday night we were having a beer, discussing philosophies on love, life, self, and peace at a nice little place called La Ventana when a couple men invited us to play pool with them.
They ended up paying for all 3 rounds Julianna and I had, even the one we started without them, and then we headed down the street to hear some jazz music.

Great city weekend but, believe it or not, I began to miss my little community and was absolutely ready to leave.
The night I got back...

I stood outside as one might stand on the edge of a hurricane.

I slowly walked down the street, trying carefully not to move to quickly or attract too much attention, as the lightning above me rippled across the sky.
I was half way down the dirt road headed back towards my casita from playing cards with Nohe, Juliana, and Virgilio when the lights went completely out.

I could see nothing in front of me except when the lightning hovered over my head for an uncomfortable length of time.

"Nohe!" I cried out to him as he slowed on his bike behind me.
"I don´t know where I´m going."
He took my hand and led me back to my house.

Here I stood with my brother Walter and the father, Mario, as the wind picked up the sound of the rain that had not yet arrived.
We all looked at each other silently and began going around the house, locking the windows and putting the chickens away into cardboard boxes in the kitchen.

The dust from the road kicked up and told us to go inside, but we couldn´t.
The lightning was so surreal.
Not until the rain bounced down, kicking mud onto our skin did we finally say goodnight.

That storm ended up doing no damage to my town, but it did sweep away a bus of people, killing the ones whose bodies were found. Some are still missing.

LAST RANDOM FACT OF THE NIGHT:
I have now been here a month. Unbelievable.

Last night I had trouble sleeping.

I went to bed at 8:00 and as I laid staring at the tin roof, I thought of the title, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
I thought, why was the roof hot?
Then I remembered how much lightning there is here, and thought
"Maybe that´s why the roof was hot! Maybe it was on fire!"

And then I heard thunder.

This is what my mind likes to stray to as I´m trying to fall asleep.
Earthquakes, Sunamni´s, and pretty much everything that could go wrong.

With the pounding of the rain outside I quickly dedcided to turn my thoughts to other things, so naturally the next best thing was to try to plan the remaining years of my life.

This prooved stressful when I found myself awake until at 11:43--the last time I glanced at my watch.
I woke up at 4-something AM to rain pouring in on my face.
Quickly I played a game of ping pong with the wind as I tried to shut the window.
Eventually I succeeded in locking it.
Still there was a light mist and know now that there are little holes in the ceiling.

At 7 Julianna came by to get me and she and I rode our bikes (Nohe´ let me borrow his bike for the week) into San Nicholas where I am presently.
It was very messy fourty-five minutes. A splashy, herd detouring, dog escaping kind of trip.

The evening before, in the company of fireflies, I ran around the block hand in hand with the kindergartners--
All of us children enchanted by the night.

Down the dirt path our feet beat in pace with our hearts.
The kids running from the Only-Comes-At-Night witch and me following their laughter, lit with the quick blinks of light, darting and fading like falling stars.

As I came in from San Salvador on Saturday I realized how I have grown to love the heat as much as hate it. It carries with it a pocket full of memories that I can breathe in and have forever.
When it rains the air seperates and stands still, like oil and water, it´s thick and visable.
Distorting the visions of buildings and people in front of you.
The watery air smells sour.

The smells walking to my casita from the bus stop: onion and corn smoking through the cracks in the wooden kitchens, the breathy giggles of children playing in the streets--they smell of coffee and galletas or pan dulce.

Although, don´t get me wrong, I have no romantic notions of living amongst the people here forever.
Every person I meet here will forever have a part of my heart, but...
yesterday I met a Scorpion in the shower.
And also my hair smells like sulfur. And my fingernails the color of the dirt the kids flop over on to nap in.

I am not a rural person, really. I mean, three months won´t kill me--ojala que no, but I want a warm bubble bath and telephone.
I love to read but having time to read 5 books in 3 weeks is a little much.

I´ve always had this fantasy of Cowboys and sprawling Montana ranches. But now I´ve seen real cowboys, and they are not Robert Redford.
They spit discolored things on the ground, whistle at you, and kick their dogs.
The "ranches" are full of insects and grass that makes me sneeze.
Remind me of this if I ever speak to you of Montana.

Yesterday was a very nice day. Nohe came over in the morning and walked me to his house where we spent 3 hours practicing English.
"You´re a very good teacher," he whispered to me. "Very patient." And he laughed, his brain tired.
That was worth it to me.

He is almost a Lawyer, very determined to learn English.
He tells me that to get almost any decent job here you must be able to speak English.
He already has one strike against him in looking for work, he confides--being on the partido of the FMLN.

It´s so incredible to me. This sort of life.
You can be denied a job because of the way you vote. Even if you´re applying to work at the movie theatre.

Nohe picked me a Guayaba out of his tree--well actually he got it down using the pole that used to connect water from the pump into their old shower area.
Now they have a modern facility. Probably the nicest one in town. A head and everything.
Afterwards I spent the day hanging out with Julianna, Jeff and Robert and some other people.

Life here settles in you like a good glass of wine.
It affects you more and more with each sweet breath of it you take in, warming you from the inside out and leaving it´s after-taste with you like a strong, lingering memory...just one more taste.

I know why people come and never leave.
Part of me will never leave.

Yesterday I decided to give to the cause of public transportation in San Salvador.
I did this by getting on the wrong bus.
Twice.

It took me an eventful hour just to get out of the city itself, but once at the Terminal de Sur (where I had to catch another bus headed towards Usulutan) things were easier.
I was shuffled (okay, dragged) to the bus by the hurried driver and then sat eating grapes from the hills that served as my scenery as I waited for the bus to fill. The grapes were outrageously priced at $1, and not just for Americans, but were worth it with the incredible thirst I was suffering. Like coming to an Oasis while crossing the Sahara. Which I´ve done at least 40 times, so I should know.

For the better (a saying that doesnt quite work here) part of the ride I was seated next to the type of man who shows you what a good, protective person he is by warning you to keep your legs together while in a skirt, but mainly he does this so he can talk about your skirt. And your legs.
He kept joking that I would later describe him to people as the annoying fellow that wouldn´t let me read my book.
I wanted to tell him that wasn´t a joke.
But, instead I smiled patiently as he described his big, fat lawyer job and gave me his phone number.
He talked to me about finding Jesus--which happened when left.

After eating tamales verdes de frijol at in the dark, cement house I am living in I went to work and helped clean three rooms for the delegation that is coming tomorrow.
After doing one room I was pissed that I´d offered to help because I´m spoiled and it was hard, hard work.
But then I watched Lorena and her daughter who was helping us, and it occurred to me that the sooner we finished the sooner they could go home to thier family.
So I hurried like crazy and the kids got to go play like all children should be able to do.
In the end I was rewarded with watery, milk colored coconut juice straight out of the coconut. A rambunctious teenage boy had just finished his decent from the tree seconds before I arrived.

In the late afternoon I planted vegetables and medicinal teas in the arboretum with Julianna.

I fell asleep to the sound of flapping beetle wings and soccer in the street, and this morning awoke up to the residue smell of mud and dirty skin.
I didnt have time to take a bucket shower, though, since I had to meet the environmental group.
I was only supposed to sit in and listen, because that´s Julianna´s business and not mine.
Supposed to...

BUT, as of now, my news job will be temporarily riding in the backseat because I am now half responsibible for writing, and partially for conducting, an environmental survery in 50+ communities of Bajo Lempa, at 5% of the residents in each one.
I didn´t mean to get involved, sort of the way I didn´t mean to start teaching English, but things have a way of just happening here.

Just after the meeting I was outside the office with Jeff planning our trip to the beach and volcano for next month when suddenly a massive lizard crawled out of a stick filled drain and began scaling the building.
At first I didn´t know whether to run the way I´d seen them do in Jurassic Park (because this is what I immediately recalled)or to stand staring like in King Kong.
So, I opted for the half run--one leg crossed over the other, in the air-- ready to pivot and take off if the lizard started towards us.
It was unnaturally fast for something so large.

With the end of the lizard incident my stomach was so full of butterflies that, naturally, the only thing to do was eat some cookies so I walked to the shadowy tienda on the corner.
The floors are sticky from children who couldn´t wait to open their popsicles and soda. Sugary gum and hair ties hang from the ceiling like beaded curtains, and it´s stocked with everything but nutrition.
Here Noeah, (pronouned No Hay) who had accompanied me, insisted on my playing basketball tonight on the "court" which has one hoop.
So, those are the plans for tonight.

Catching the bus over the puente into San Nicholas has become somewhat fun because there are two boys that run a pirated c.d stand by the stop, and every time I come they change the music to late 90´s MTV hits.
I´ve begun to play a game where I will mouth the words to songs I like and stay still-lipped with songs I dont.
This is how they decide which songs to leave and which ones to skip over. One of these days I might even talk to them.
But these little entertainments are what makes the day go by.

Time still passes impossibly slow here, but I have the company of my imagination, books, and Juliana, Jeff and Mario.
I´m settled enough that I can now drink the water in San Nicholas and Cuidad Romero without getting sick and my mother has begun letting me wash my own clothes--the same way she does with the dishes--without knowledge.

Sometime this coming week I will be going with the women, and the men who dirve the oxen, to the cornfield that my family just bought a month ago, and helping to pick the corn. I´m hoping that this will lead to helping with the cooking, but I will take baby steps.
This is why we eat so many corn tortiallas, corn pupusas, corn tamales, corn juices and coffee, because neither parent is employed and apart from thier animals their land is the only sustinance they have from which to survive.

I have to get back now to watch Mujer de Madera. One of my two favorite novelas.
Goodbye all.

We visited Cheryl (another volunteer) at her home in Ahuachapan today.

The town she is living in is surrounded by banana & coconut trees.
It smells like heat and oil and pig, but it looks like a painting in a spa or meditation room.
The sort of scenery that is supposed to remind you to breathe. Relax and breathe.
So we arrive:

The roads are dirt and I don´t wear shoes most of the day--in hopes to leave a peice of myself--because I love it here.
We speak to the women of the community whose mouths take the shape of hope as they discuss their lives, jobs, and other things I try to understand (but am distracted by the conviction and resliance of The Salvadoran Woman).

After lunch where I´ve eaten a generous 3 pupusas, thick and gooey and perfect, we take the almost-a-mile walk to the playa.
With everything that´s happening lately, and all the new things that swarm around me persistantly, all I want is it be alone,
but no matter how far ahead down the mosquito inhabited path I walk (paces in front of my group), I am not ever "away".
I can´t be.
Ever.
As long as I have my thoughts,
so instead I embrace it.

When I finally hit the burning sand I keep walking and let myself stop only when I am wet all the way up to the middle of the skirt I have stupidly worn.

The beaches of El Salvador aren´t like other beaches:
When I am here--
I am the girl who wears white seashell earrings, and stands at the edge of the water beckoning the ocean to come and claim its belongings.
When the water comes to the tips of my fingers, brushing them with sand as the floor beneath sinks away, this is when I remember where I am.

El Salvador is like the ocean.
I am convinced that no matter how much time I have to look at it, it will always be an enigma.
This is the way I will remember Ahuachapan.

On the trek back to Cheryl´s family I aquire 12 new mosquito bites. It would have been more had Nelson not abused them off of me--beating them with his rolled up, sand filled shirt.
Slapping at myself has become so habitual that I´m sure I must do it when there´s nothing there at all. It´s a wonder no one has offered me the comforts of a straight jacket yet.

I remember being little and seeing the canopies the princesses in my favorite stories had over their delicate beds.
I remember thinking that you had to be royal to be in posession of such an extravegance.
Now I realize that not only do you not have to be rich to sleep under the protector of Disney´s leadings ladies, but that it´s actually the impovershed´s verison of health care and a lunatic´s only claim to sanity.

On the ride back from Ahuachapan we pass a few decrepate buildings and Javier looks at me:
"This is where, in 1932, the most famous massacre happened."
I know he´s speaking of La Matanza where hundredes and hundreds of indigenous people were killed in the matter of a few days.
I turn with new eyes at the veiw rushing by my window and wonder--how many people were fed by this rich soil, fertilized with blood?
All this brings to mind is that the world turns.
It goes around.
Whether we are dead or alive it goes around.

So that was TODAY.

The day before YESTERDAY it rained in my community of Cuidad Romero.
I stepped in a green puddle of malarial swamp water. It smelled like poop and rotten fruit. Mainly because that´s what was in it.
Imagine my discontent when it wasn´t even refreshing! The liquid was warmer than most Seattle days.
Alas, even though all these bugs and crocodile breeding grounds, that incident (for whatever warped reason) made me recognize that I´ve really begun to settle in here.

The community, which only sprang up really prominently just before the war ended, is so full of history. But I will get into that another day...

The Family I am staying with is great. The house is always full and noisy.
Rundown is as follows:
Mario and Juaquina (the dad and mom),
the brother who isn´t there because he´s in the states like half the country,
Diana (the eldest in house, 15), Walter (12), Patty (6) and Emerson ( 1 1/2).
In addition, the ten plus people that are always there because they are either related or want to watch one of the 4 TV channels we get.

Apart from them there are the roosters (which I am willing to become carnivorous again to get rid of), the cows (which have taught me that it isn´t just children who should be seen and not heard), and the several dogs (that actually, I´m not sure the family is even certain about the ownership of, as all the starving barkers seem to have different names every day).

Mario is the person I talk to most in the house at this point. He´s really open and patient. I haven´t figured out yet what it is that he does for a living, but I´m getting there.

Juaquina is starting to get used to me and I laugh with her a lot, even though sometimes I am not sure what we´re laughing about. But it´s a nice release, whatever the reason. She has even begun to let me wash my own dishes...by pretending she doesn´t know it´s happening.

I share a room with Diana. She is really sweet, and a very interesting juxtaposition of "Teenager", and "Hell of a lot more mature than Amelia Susana Iraheta". I like her very much.

I color with little Patty and Fatima (a cousin, slash aunt...dont ask) a lot. Sometimes I even take walks with them.
Enough children of the village have made use of my arts supplies and their spelling abilities that I now have begun running out of space on my wall of, "para amelia" pictures.
They´ve made me glad I´m not a mom yet, for sure, but I´m enjoying being a friend.

Walter is shy. I think I´m getting him to warm up though. His friend likes to come over and "watch TV" which really means spy on me while I´m reading. Every one is so friendly, though, that it doesn´t even seem invasive.

Emerson is cute. He´s been sick and still managed to be cute. Babies will do that to you I guess.

While I really am enjoying my family, the best things have been hanging out with Mario, Rigo, Juliana, and Jeff.

Juliana, Jeff and I had a really nice Sunday last week where we hung out all day and made dinner at night.
Mario, Rigo, Damaris and Will keep me sane AT WORK.
And the emails from my Mommy, Papi, Auntie Julie, the cousins, and my friends keep me sane THROUGH EVERYTHING.

Back to Cuidad Romero tomorrow. Who knows what this summer still holds.

Love it.
Absolutely love it.

Dont get me wrong. There are some things here that are difficult-like finding proper punctuations on a keyboard, so please bear with me-but overall? Pretty good.
Before I go off on a starry-eyed diatribe I will explain the more difficult- to-bear things.

When I first arrived in La Cuidad Romero there was a period of a few days where a smidge of me hoped to contract a sizeable little case of Dengue Fever that would cause me to be immediately evactuated to the nearest hospital. In the United States.
Some reasons (selfish or not) as to why:

The first thing was my fault.
"Dont drink the water!" they told me at the Crispaz office.
So, like a true Ameican, the first thing I did when I arrived in my campo was drink a tall glass of water.
I was with a horrible stomache ache for two days, but never actually got...sick.

The other things are pretty much par for the course, but still irritating:

--I have been woken up on a routine basis between 4am and 5am by the roosters, and then the cows. The inablility to fall back asleep has made my days longer than long.

--The heat here is pretty much ridiculous. Its thick-pushes you back and sticks to your skin as you walk-threatening your ability to function properly. Its the sort of heat where my bug spray dribbles off me in little beads of sweat as soon as its applied. Which is why,

--At present (on the right side, from the waist down) I have 53 bites from varying insects, mostly mosquitos, that have now begun to fade and itch less.
If anything I missed counting a few that I could not see, so this is not an exaggeration.

--Neither are the vast amount of cockroaches that are in my host-familys outhouse. And my family has one of the better latrines in the community. I took for granted flush toilets and being able to actually sit down to go the the bathroom.

--My shower is a big bucket outside between three tin sheet walls and a blue peice of tarp as a curtain. But the tarp is not high enough to cover my chest so i have to crouch down to bathe myself. And when youre already the gingita that every child comes to stare at, bathing is an interesting situation. I have begun showering at night-when there are more mosquitos but less light.

Other than that though, I am in a pretty stellar mood.

I love walking around the community because im starting to know my neighbors.
The radio station is cool. Everyone who works there is a volunteer and there are only 2 people over the age of 30. Most of the Locures are my age.
Mario, Juan Ever, Juan Luna, Damaris and Will. Those are the people Ive gotten to know most.

The first day I got here was interesting.
They threw me immediately onto the radio for an interview along with Robert, a volunteer that goes to Yale who lives in a different community, but that I will be seeing once a week or so.
The whole interview I was silently vibrating with laughter because I %87.9 have no clue whatsoever what i am doing, and the rest is without-reason confidence.

I havent really started my job at this point because the past week has been spent preparing for the 9 hour festival (a concert and then dance)that happened yesterday in celebration of the radios 2nd anniversary.
The fesitval was really fun for three reasons:

1.) A bunch of communities came out in "buses" which are actually pickup trucks that you stand on, holding on to railings and praying that you dont fall out or crash into something. It was really nice to see people come out from everywhere. There were traditional dancers, there were live bands, revolutionary singers, there was an art festival, and people danced. I didnt... even though the drunk man who tried to seduce me pretty much insisted upon it as the entire audience looked on with laughter.

(I have come to have a different appreciation for laughter since being here. All people in every part of the world have the uniting flaw of making mistakes, but laughter is also the universal syrum that sooths those mistakes.)

2.) After spending the entire week having a hands on role in making the decorations and banners and setting up it felt really nice to see the final results.

3.) I had a gringo-high. I spoke Engligh most of the day yesterday.
I met other from-the-US volunteers (that all live within 3 miles of me, but because of the road situation actually live 25 minutes to 1-1/2 hours away).
There´s Robert, who I already wrote about, hes 19 and very nice. I really admire him because he just dives right into every conversation possible without inhibitions.
And there is Jeff (hes already been here for 2 months and is staying 2 more)who is incredibly good looking in a very conventional, california sort of way but is 30 something, and not immature for his age so has been reduced to the "not my type" category. Plus, hes blond.
They are both very nice, and in a few weekends I am going to the volcano in Santa Ana with them and then to the beach. That should be really fun.
Jeff and I became fast friends-each of us excited about Cal-Standford rivalry, the Westcoast, travel, and anything else that we could talk about as long as we were speaking the native tongue of Gringolandia.
There´s Julianna, a volunteer from Columbia who I also like a lot. She´s super friendly and interesting and my favorite quality of hers, at the moment, is that she also speaks great English. Plus, they also all listen to great music.

Yesterday was also a good day, because in addition to the fellow John-Smithers I actually had a good Radio Mangle day.
My co-workers have begun to really warm up to me.
Mario and I tease each other and poke at each other constantly. Hes like one of my cousins.
Damarius tells me stories and tries to embarass me under false pretense in public ways.
Juan Luna told me he likes the way I think, which is good cause I like his last name so we have a mututal respect.

Overall, these past 12 days since I have been here have been totally theraputic.
Ive begun to let go of some things that I really needed to leave behind.
The pain of nostalgia has begun to heal with certain things, which is really amazing for me.
I have realized that while nostalgia cannot kill you...it can make you not live.

So, thats what I am doing now. Just living.

Next time I write I will tell all about my very nice, big family. But this seems sufficient for now.

I love you all. Especially you, mis padres!

Today we went to where the Jesuits were killed. We walked around the museum and rose garden planted in their memory. I looked through pictures of the post assisination. They were unforgettably graphic. (Later I talked to my mom who informed me that she had actually done translating for one of them several months before they had been killed).

I walked around UCA and got a milkshake and took pictures of the unbeleivably designed classrooms. Open aired half pyramids? I´m gonna ask Jackie Leibergott about getting that started up at Emerson.

We learned about the economics and recources of El Salvador from a very engaging man who is one of the signers of the 1992 peace accords. It was really cool.

I have mentally prepared myself for being in the Campo (which I´m leaving for in about 8 hours) by telling myself that I´m NOT prepared. You can´t ever ready yourself for a situation you know nothing about. Not really.

I´m nervous, but excited.
I´m sure I´ll be lonley the first few nights, but I´m looking forward to the morning that I know will come when I will realize that the nightly tear drops aren´t landing on the ground and turning into plane tickets home. At this point I will remember what an opportunity I have been given to do this trip and make the most of it. Give me a few days, though.

This week of speaking Spanglish and pick-up´s and movies and beaches and pizza and pupusas and history has been fantastic. Relaxing and extremely informative, but not a real cultural immersion.
Tomorrow will be like arriving in El Salvador FOR REAL.

I won´t be writing again until I come back into the capitol--which should be in just over a week.

Until then...adios!

The plan was this: to wake up early, go to La Feria de Semillas, and then to the beach.
So, at 6:45am--before the heat, and after the cold--we piled into the pickup and drove.

On the ride over I had a bandana holding my hair in place and Wind showed its true nature by theiving it from me. (Luckily, I´d had this experience with my Tio Kito and his baseball cap, so I thought to bring a few more).
I also was quite pleased at having thought to bring sunglasses, because one of the best things I have learned in terms of what to pack is that, sitting in the back of a pickup truck, it is your best defense against whatever dirt-tangled-in air might fly up threatining your vision, and in a country this beautiful you cant take that risk.

I dont want to let anything escape me.
The drive was gorgeous. Gorgeous. Once you pass the congestion and trash of the city (which has its own indefinable charm) you sweep past vast, greenly-lush open feilds occasionally interrupted by greener mountains, tan barefoot children resting in the shade, women speckle the side of the road selling fruit and juices, cows being hurded in the lane next to you.
I ride in the back of the pickup for the same reason that--if forced to sit in the front--I leave the window all the way down no matter what the weather.
Can´t miss any second of it.

When we arrived at El Transito (in Usulutan) for La Feria de Semillas it was so, so hot. Like I-have-never-in-my-life experienced hot.
Even when living in the desert.
During the summer.

I was lapping up baggies of water and eating liquidy sweet Mamons by the handful because I thought it was quite possible all the water in my body would evaporate at any moment.

It was fun anyway, though.
La Feria de Semillas is an agricultural fair that is held in a few different areas of El Salvador every year. The best part was watching the children excitedly playing on the swings/slide--growing even more excited when they realized they were being watched.
Cheryl and I decided to give the teeter-totters a go, but it didnt work too well. It was fun, nevertheless.
The men across the street were laughing at us hysterically.
So...whatever we can do to please, I guess.

Im getting used to being laughed at ;) Seriously.
At first it was embarassing but now im starting to welcome it. I´m trying so I´m making mistakes. The more mistakes I make the more indicative it is of how hard I´m pushing myself.
It took me about 5 minutes yesterday to ask a question about Sponge Bob who (along with Che Guevara, Monseñor Romero, Farabundo Marti, and Tweety Bird) is one of the most prominently displayed figures in this country.

When I get frustrated with not knowing things I think about the immigrants that have been coming to the US for hundreds of years with absolutely no knowledge of the language, culture, etc.
Is it scary? Duh. Of course. But its been done. A lot. And at least I have a foundation from which to begin.
Besides, the people here are so patient.

After the Feria de Semillas we took a pit stop at a mercado spilling with over-stimulating smells. Fish, fruit, gasoline, sweat, breads, dirt, meats, sugar. It was crowded and in the harsh heat we could barely wait to get to the beach. After getting materials for our late lunch we had just a half hour or so to go until we arrived at Playa Espino.

Playa Espino, and more specifically where we stayed, was perfect.
Little cabinas just above the black sand beach. A bed on the inside, and two or three hammocks on the outside.
This is where I slept.
Alongside the cabinas was the bathing area where your view was the palm trees leading the way to the water.

Pretty much as soon as we got there I changed my clothes and flung myself into ocean water warmer than my recent showers have been. I stayed there for two hours. Cachetes rojas are my proof.
I read in the hammock and collected seashells.
Rene (the police officer slash cabina gaurd I had a long conversation with and that wrote me a letter on the picture he drew of me) told me how to make jewlery out of them.
The man whose family owns the place showed me their newly aquired 4 day old crocodiles and during dinner we were entertained by a cow amusing itself, free on the sand.

Although mostly it was a good day, falling asleep last night was hell.
I listened to the full length of my cd and still found myself unable to sleep.
Everything I was wearing including the towel I was using for a blanket was still wet.
As I watched the waves tumble warningly onto the beach I couldnt rid myself of the image of this past winters psunamni. I kept thinking how absolutely screwed we would be if a similar thing happened where we were.
Eventually, even with the occassional rumble of the ground in our sizemac area, I was able to fall asleep in 10-15 minute intervals at which point the violent growth of a new goosebump would wake me. It was hard to remember that just that morning I had been so hot.

Tonight we went out for pizza and saw a movie. We all went to go see the Interpreter. Good times. Going to my campo the day after tomorrow where no one speaks English is going to be a major shock to the system.

Anyway, to wrap things up part of me is still homesick for the comforts of middle class North American life--like running water for the entire length of the day, or insectless showers--and I miss my family a lot.
The other part of me, though, it wonders "how do you leave a country like this? how do you leave a country as dangerously beautiful as the act of falling in love?"
And, not to jump the gun here, but I think thats maybe what Im doing. Falling in love with a country thats half of me.

"I suppose there are people that do plan their life, but I stopped doing that a long time ago because my blueprints never get used." --Isabelle Allende, My Invented Country

Yesterday I had such a moving experience.
My entire life I have been hearing stories and watching movies and reading about Monseñor Romero, and yesterday I was taken to where he was shot.
I sat in the church where the explosive bullet tore his body apart from the inside out, and along with it--a country´s symbol of hope. It is such a massive story that somehow I expected the church to be bigger.
We were taken to the little casita the church had given him to live in.
When I walked into his room, with his bed made up the way he had left it and the radio in the corner of his room--the same radio from which he delivered the "infamous speech" I had chills. I have never felt such a strong presence in my life.

I looked at his clothes organized so neatly in his closet and thought about how when he left that morning it was for the very last time.

The clothing and robe he was wearing at the time of his assasination have been preserved (around the corner from his room) in a glass case...the dried blood still disfiguringly printed across the once solid material.
He was so beloved, Romero, that the glass is not even smudged. Not even a finger print visable. Visitor´s hands are clasped behind thier backs or are used to hold their faces together so one cannot see the horrified expressions they would otherwise wear.

Before all of this we went to the Cathedral in which he was buried. He used to be upstairs for the world to see when attending Mass, but in recent years he was moved to the middle of the basement of the church, and then even more recently to the very back of the basement--all quite symbolic of the church´s progression back to the right.
Nunca vamos a olvidar.

After doing all of those things we went to El Centro (basically a permanent street fair where you can find absolutely anything you will need--legal and things of the not-so-much kind) and got mosquito nets for when we start our Campo experience. It was here that a man professed his love for me as I walked by sweatily and suffocating on the humidity and bus fumes.

To top the night off we ate (at a place where I saw some Americans I recognized from the airport and exhanged waves with) and then came back here where we cooked dinner, had a reflection, and then Kristina, Cheryl, Gina, Nelson and I talked about love and relationships until 1 in the morning.

I feel like I´ve been here a month already. The fact it´s been four days seems absolutely impossible. Time passes so slowly here. Life is a lot more relaxed. Not that it isn´t hard or a struggle for many, but that the US suffers from a constant panic attack in which all it´s people run arund frenzied screaming about how there isn´t enough time.
It could be good that time is going by so slow--i´m getting to do so much reading--but with too much time to dwell I´m liable to get homesick for the luxuries of America, and for the people that I love.

Today we went to Just Garments. It´s the only unionized factory in the country. It cost them 3 years and 9,000 workers, a little bit of sanity and a lot of heartbreak to get the union up and running. I could talk about it for an hour, but lets just say that I think I have found my continuing solidarity goal for when I return.

Also, and maybe most significant of anything I´ve done since I´ve been here, we went to the San Salvador museum of the FMLN. It was started by a man named Oscar-something (i think) who was one of the founders of the Radio Ancerena. There was an entire section just dedicated to the almos 12 years of war and it was really powerful and hard. Every picture I viewed I saw my Father, or cousin, or aunt, or uncle. My family was there in each pair of saddened eyes, each hopeful soul and saddened heart.

This country has seen so much. It´s really hard for me as a chela, gringita (who also happens to be 1/2 Salvadoran and full citizen) because I am so full of all these unanswerable questions. I want to know every single thing about the war and if I had my way every person with a story to tell would accost me on the street or line up in front of my house and tell it to me.
However, I think that at some point I´m going to just have to move on from all that--from that idea--because people here have done exactly that. Moved on.
Of course.
Who would want to reminisce about such hard times? I´m sure most people just want to forget about it.
Me, though...I can´t ever forget it because they are the stories that shaped who I am. The direction and values of my life. That´s the difference though.
They are stories to me. They aren´t my memories.

I think I´m realizing that I am going to accept that there are certain things I will never know about my family, and it´s selfish of me to think that I should be entitled to the information. What matters now is the continuing luche por la paz.

PS. We are going to the beach tomorrow for an overnight. Tuesday I leave for the campo of Monseñor Romero of the zone Usulutan. In addition, tonight as I lay in bed descansando and reading I listened to a man doing a particularly interesting Karoke rendition of Hey Jude a few houses away.

Okay, so I´m here. It´s basically my second day (I´m counting yesterday because I got in at 5 am).
My trip--like all events in my life--started out with a bang.

I got in about an hour early. I didn´t realize, however, that I was there early and because I waited outside for about 25 minutes
(and also because there hadn´t been any discussion bewtween myself and the organization I am working for) I had pretty much decided to just take a cab into the city and hope that something happened along the way...like my telepathically channelling my mom to get the address or number for instance.
However, I didn´t need to do that.

As I had just found myself a seat that I planned to sit in and rest from my temporary heat exhaustion for the five minutes before I was to shove my things into a taxi a man approached me cautiously and appeared to be surveying the level of "lost gringa" that I seemed to be.
Was I waiting for someone?
Yes.
Oh! Well then all was well.

He introduced himself and took my luggage to his pickup, threw it in the back, I hopped in and we chatted all the way out the parking gate and for a few miles down the road. Eventually I asked him "que significa GVN?"
It was for Global Volunteer Network, which--actually--is not the organization I was to be working with. That, along with his discovery that my name was not Lauren, sent us wheeling back around to the airport.
After he found poor Lauren (who had actually caught the same flight in as I had so had been waiting 40 minutes or so by this point) I still didn´t see anyone there for me.

So the man from GVN took me AND Lauren into San Salvador, where I waited at his mother´s house where his volunteers live. Here I borrowed a phone card from a volunteer named Lacey and called my mom, who called the Crispaz office in Boston who called the one here in San Salvador and then they called back to the house of GVN.

The right people (Javier and Nelson)soon arrived to get me and as I flung my stuff into the pickup where it belonged I thought, well Amelia--welcome to El Salvador.

Since putting my things down in the room I´m staying in for the next few days (we stay here until the 7th for orientation, at which point we leave at 8am for our respective campos) I have ridden ONLY in the back of the truck. It´s so amazing to see things that way. It engages all your senses in the most unimaginable ways.

Today there was a huge traffic jam caused by buses and cars (that were already piled on top of one another) needing to do U turns on a two way street.
Why?
To protest the anniversary of the first full year in power of a newly elected president--to do this they set tires on fire in the middle of the street. We heard it start. There was a huge pop and then tons of smoke and before we knew it there was this mess of fire in front of us a few cars ahead.
What an experience.
That´s everything here. An experience.

It is said that there will possibly be huge protests here later this month if the CAFTA treaty does not go according to plan.

I´m not nervous, really, anymore.
Not for something dangerous to happen to me at least--although we were told this morning to get used to the ground shaking because we´re all near an active volcano--but part of me is still a little scared.

It´s the part of me that is in all of us, which most refuse to admit exists. It´s the part that fears change.
Something in me is changing.
I can´t put my finger on it but the feelings I have had since being here have been like no other. The days feel infinate and the nights feel too short.
My brain is tired, my eyes overloaded, and my heart--searching. Never have I felt so lost but so comfortable in all my life. And, this--after two days? I haven´t even hit the hard part yet...not being around ANY english speakers...but that will come.

Last night I danced under a green canopy to live music after eating pupusas. Kind of surreal. I´m actually here.

This summer, it´s going to be intense.