El Salvador: The Land of Papusas

After wrapping up my week with Julie and spending a night in Guatemala city doing absolutely nothing in my empty hostel, I hopped on an El Salvador-bound bus Sunday morning and wondered in between cat naps what my first Central American border crossing would be like. I planned to spend the next couple days hiking and couchsurfing in the nation's over-trafficked capital, San Salvador. I heard the paranoid voice of ignorance in me saying, "Tom, do you have a death wish? What the hell are you doing going to El Salvador?" And I'm sure most people I would talk to back home would say the same things to me. After all, there were over 4,000 homicides last year in the tiny country and the country is as famous for its gangs as it is for its hearty, greasy cheese and bean papusas. Still, I felt drawn to prove myself wrong.

On Sunday, I got off the bus in Santa Ana, El Salvador's second largest city with a population roughly one-tenth of that of the capital. Much to my surprise, the country did feel different than Guatemala. The sidewalks were wider and without potholes and four-foot cement cliffs, the streets were well-paved and well marked, there were strip-malls along the highway - it felt like a cross between Guatemala, Miami, and Tucson.

In my Lonely Planet guide, the book claimed that El Salvador's greatest asset - even better than its surfing - is its people. Not yet overwhelmed with foreigners, my binded travel buddy told me that people would not try to rip me off and would be incredibly warm and helpful. Well, I guess there are always exceptions. The first person I met was a cab driver - the only one in sight of the block where my charter bus dropped me off. He grabbed my bags, threw them in the drunk, and hurried me into the car. I asked him to take me to a hotel my book had recommended, and he said it was in a bad part of town. He said I should go to one in the center of town where it was quieter and safer. I agreed. Looking at his display of quarters and pesos pasted all over his glove-compartment and his dashboard, I realized I hadn't asked him how much the ride would cost. He said, "Usually it's $15, but I'll only charge you $12," and yes, I mean actual dollars. They use the American currency in El Salvador. It's like paying for things at home, only cheaper. I told him that was pretty pricey, and he told me it wasn't. I don't know if I convinced myself I didn't understand him correctly or if my idea of prices was just skewed after a week of over-spending my Quetzals with Julie, but the price didn't worry me... even though it was what I just paid for the 3 hour luxury bus ride across the border. Like a sucker, I paid the $12. Inside the hotel they told me that was WAY too much, and they even brought the driver inside for a little group discussion. He offered me a dollar and I told him to keep it. Like my soon-to-be travel buddy Paul's father tells him, "Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment." I paid my stupidity tax and told myself I'd learn from it.

With a couple hours of daylight left, I decided to walk around the city and see if I could find myself some of these Salvadoran papusas that I had heard so much about. Being a Sunday evening, everything was closed except the cathedral and the central park. In contrast to the deserted streets of the city, the park was alive with activity. People sat watching other people sit to the tunes of street vendors verbally advertising their greasily appetizing products: over-loaded hot dogs, hamburgers, and chicken sandwiches on fluffy loaves of french bread served with a side of fries. I bought a newspaper and just sat there for a bit, enjoying the fact that parks here are places that people actually go to.

Later that night, I met a few German travelers and the aforementioned American, Paul. Though I had found some papusas already, I wanted to be social so I joined them for another round of the stuffed tortillas and one of the native brews, Pilsener (pronounced here Peel-seh-ner). It's amazing hearing people's travel stories. Two of the Germans have been working in Argentina for two years and Paul, turning the big 3 O this week, has been to and across every continent except for Australia and Antarctica. His journeys include living, working, and studying in Argentina for 6 months, a trip from Beijing to Cairo, a year in Israel, a semester in Morocco, and now a journey from LA to Panama. Throughout all of these (with the exception of the study abroad) he has found ways to get people to pay him to travel. Oh, and every stereotype about Jews being master bargainers holds true with him, and it is downright impressive.

Monday, Paul and I had planned to hike through the Parque Nacional Cerro Verde, a supposedly beautiful park with three volcanoes and a lake. Unfortunately, we didn't know the last bus to get there in time for the mandatory guided tours was at 8 A.M. We ended up going to the Lago Coatepeque, a beautiful, tranquil crater lake that is far away from the so-called "Gringo trail" (but so far, El Salvador on the whole seems pretty far off this path). We sat on a wooden dock with a thatched roof, sipping beers, while Paul played travel master and I the apprentice. Good conversations, decent enough beer, and even a quick, refreshing swim in the choppy lake.
Back in town, the city surprisingly died at 8:30 as we drank a couple more beers in the park with a couple of those tempting chicken sandwiches.

This morning, both being San Salvador bound, we found a bus together. Our journeys would split as I got off a bit before the city center in Santa Tecla, where Amado my 54 year old couchsurfing host lives. Through his profile, Amado seemed like an intense yet interesting guy. The first thing you will read in his profile is his mission: "Show travelers El Salvador is not the sinister, sordid place, invented by Western journalists, and film makers to win prizes, and make more money." Then he gives a very detailed and itemized list of misconceptions people have and why they are, in fact, misconceptions. I thought that only good conversations could result so I messaged him.

In his response message, he gave me very detailed directions, in English, about where to find his house. I followed them to a T and, lo and behold, they did not steer me wrong. I reached through the black iron gate on the street and rang his bell. Far from the firecracker of a man I expected to encounter, Amado appeared older than he was and a bit fragile. I would soon discover he has Parkinson's.

It was still early in the day and I wanted to check out a couple of museum's downtown before they closed. Amado gave me a map, drew directions on it, wrote down the names of the bus lines I needed, and walked me out to the bus stop. San Salvador is surprisingly nice. The roads are first rate, both well paved and marked with traffic lights. Unfortunately, with high quality roads comes high speed cars and the capital is infamous for its car-pedestrian collisions. Luckily, I survived my game of Frogger and made it up to the MARTE museum of modern art. The museum had two galleries in its white, spacious, and air-conditioned rooms on three floors. There were some great paintings from the civil war years here, as well as a couple more abstract pieces that I liked. I realized very quickly - as I always do in art museums - I have absolutely no idea how to look at art "properly." I went to another small gallery and a small, house-sized museum with art and disturbing photographs from the war years.

After a long day exploring the city, I struggled to stay awake on the idle bus sluggishly crawling through traffic. I told Amado I'd cook him some dinner as a way of saying thanks and he graciously agreed. In the closing market, I bought everything I needed for some pineapple fried rice, and I must say, every Salvadoran I've met after the taxi driver has been wonderful.

Over dinner, Amado and I talked a bit about Couchsurfing and life here in El Salvador. I told him that one reason I like traveling is because there is a lot of confusion back home about how the rest of the world is, how it seems to be one big scary place full of people suffering and only looking to get the best of you. With his hands shaking uncontrollably every few minutes as he tried to eat, he told me that El Salvador is like the rest of the world. There are those who have, and they control how much those-who-don't-have get. Here, there is a lot of violence, but he said I'll never see it. It's impoverished gang members killing other impoverished gang members. He never sees this happening and he lives here. Just like in the States, problems exist without being seen. I'm just glad, however, that my initial fears have been proven, so-far, to be wrong and am hopeful that I can give this country that I'm quickly growing fond of a better reputation.