Salvadoran Stories

Dinner with Amado

We sat at the table, Amado and I, amidst surrounding the shelves, stacks, and towers of books. Some were in English and others in Spanish. There were popular fiction titles like The Road and Life of Pi, dictionary piled on top of dictionary, How-To guides, cookbooks, Spanish literature, and a copy of The Complete Gay Man's Guide to Physical, Sexual, and Mental Well-Being. The news mumbled in the background as I failed to replace the clinging of our forks with conversation. I tried asking about a number of topics - family, Couch Surfing, El Salvador's reputation, etc - but Amado, as usual, would only mutter an disinterested "Si" or "No" in response and that would be it.

I arrived on Tuesday, following Amado's very meticulously and precisely laid out directions from the bus station. I reached through the gate and rang bell #6, as he had prescribed, and I waited anxiously not knowing what to expect. On Couchsurfing.org, Amado's profile was probably the most intense and well laid out I had ever seen. It had detailed preferences for who should message him (no dirty, lazy, long-haired hippies or old people, please... my words, not his), a list of misconceptions about El Salvador and his responses, and even a couple sentences on how not to eat tortillas here (they are as thick, fluffy, unfoldable and unstuffable as he had described). Even his profile picture made him look intellectually sophisticated - a man who knew what he thought and had no qualms about sharing it.

Much to my surprise, the 54 year old retired high school teacher looked more like he could have been seventy. He gave me a quiet "Bueanas tardes" and a feeble handshake as he slowly led me to his door. I had to ask him a second time, "Are you Amado?" and he simply replied, "Si," the first of many Si's to come.

It was hard not to notice immediately that, when Amado spoke, his write arm would shake uncontrollably. He noticed me noticing and told me, midsentence, "I shake but I'm okay." I would later be told that he has had Parkinson's since 2001 and, within the past year, the disease has progressed to the point where he could no longer teach. Now he spends his days, as his profile said, reading, watching TV, and surfing the internet.

I spent the first afternoon exploring San Salvador, and then came back to cook Amado my specialty dish - pineapple fried rice. Online, scores of people had left comments for Amado raving about his hospitality and commentary and he must have hosted hundreds of people before I came; I was awaiting some good conversation. During that dinner, however, it was business as usual. I watched him as he tried to steady his disobedient right hand and guide his food to his mouth. He seemed uninterested in my presence and I wondered if I had done something wrong.

After a day of popping in and out of the house between a trip to the Parque Boqueron to see the volcano's gigantic crater and a trip to the center of town, I decided that I'd try the dinner thing out once again. So there I found myself, surrounded by his books, with my plate of spahghetti and my homemade tomato sauce sitting in front of me, and once again failing to get the conversation to catch flame. It started promising with a "Muy rico, Tom," but that slowly faded into the clinking of the forks and the occasional slurp from a wine glass.

I asked about the day, his family, where he had traveled to. He would respond, but seemed to have no desire to hear anything about where I was from, what I was like, why I was traveling, etc. Then, randomly, he blurted out that doesn't like disorganized people. Two Swiss travelers were supposed to arrive yesterday, and, without saying a word, they failed to show up, causing Amado to miss the half-price matinee. Then, back to the slurping, chewing, and clinking.

Then, I asked if he had ever been married and he replied, "Soy gay." I'm gay. Then, like a chicken bus with a full load, the conversation slowly gathered speed. "You're gay?" I confirmed, and he repeated himself. This brought up so many questions in my head. Was he lonely? What does his parents think? Does he have a boyfriend? Do his neighbors know? In my Lonely Planet guide it said that gays were highly looked down upon in El Salvador, hence they had to adopt the word "gay" from English; the only other alternatives were offensive. Somehow, this little revalation was something worth expanding on for Amado.

His family did not and does not know that he is gay. They don't ask and he doesn't tell. His father has alzheimer's at the age of 90 and, though he still recognizes Amado as one of his children, he cannot tell which. His mother is in good mental shape but is physically wearing down. His siblings are just busy. One of his friends from here married a Mormon man in Utah, and they had been inviting Amado to visit for quite some time. He had denied and denied, fearing to willingly enter into that pocket of anti-gay conservatism, but ultimately accepted. He pulled out a card and showed me pictures of his trip to Utah. It had finally felt like we had connected on something.

The conversation continued and he told me a bit about his Parkinson's, mostly the details I mentioned before. What I didn't say was that it affects his memory too. He told me that many times people come to visit, leave him feedback, and he can't remember who they are. He laughed - one of the four times I heard him laugh at anything - and told me how he simply wrote that "He was a good guest" for a guy that stayed with him. With him so distant from his guests and apparently without the ability to remember them, I wondered why he was so generous with sharing his house.

After dinner, I went up to my room and he settled, where I always seemed to find him, on his couch, lounging in front of the TV in his PJ pants and robe. Today, when I woke up, that's where I found him once again. I asked him how to get to the San Andres Mayan ruin site, pulling out the map he had given me.He gave me quick directions before resettling into his groove on the couch and once again wrapping himself in his silence.

Denny in the Park

One of the things I will miss the most when I go home is the town squares that I've seen in Guatemala and now El Salvador. During the day and into the dwindling hours of light, these parks are filled with women and men, young and old talking with each other, kids playing with parents, siblings, and friends, vendors wandering by selling newspapers, atol, and ice cream, and some people just sitting for the sake of sitting.

After visiting the ruins and Monsenior Romero Center, I decided to chill out and write for a bit in the park two blocks from Amado's place. I sat in the shade of palm trees while two street vendors each played their favorite Reggaeton hits. I changed benches to avoid the sun and, as I sat down, another man had spotted the bench. It was no big deal, however; we shared it.

It was a couple of minutes before he asked me a question. I didn't understand. He asked again. I didn't understand again. "E'ta e'tudiando aqui?" Are you studying here? Apparently, Salvadorans don't say s's, making my diffulties in understanding Spanish that much more difficult. Surprisingly, the conversation would get smoother and, unexpectedly, quite personal.

His name was Denny, a skinny Salvadoran man with tan skin, brown eyes and a whispy right-to-left part in his hair. Though he looked younger, he's 35 and works construction, although right now there's not much work to be found and he has more time to just hang out in the park.

Denny was confused by what I was doing here. Was I working? No? Then why was I here? Once he learned I didn't have family, the conversation took a turn for the personal. It started with the topic of responsibility. With kids and a wife, there's less you can do. You have to feed them, pay for a house, bills, etc. Denny had three kids and a wife; from early on it was clear he longed to be a bachelor.

The way he spoke was very localized, dropping many s's and r's and using at least 15 phrases from my newly purchased Streetwise Spanish, my new dictionary for Spanish slang. Somehow, I kept up decently with the conversation/confession.

Turns out, Denny has had a mistress now for 11 years, a woman who used to live next door. When she got too old (25) and was still single, her father encouraged her to marry. She did, and moved out. When she moved out, Denny bought a well in her new town and started selling water, giving him an excuse to see her. They still went out "like boyfriend and girlfriend," despite the whole being-married thing.

As of late, however, the shit has hit the fan. Suspicious and rightfully so, his wife has moved out to live with her mother in Santa Ana, a city two hours from the capital. He feels their absense, he told me. I asked if he loved his wife. He said yes, but more as if she was a daughter. The spark is gone.

In small barrios, neighbors watch and neighbors talk. Unfortunatley for Denny, the other woman, Sonya, lives in a barrio and people have been starting to talk. After 11 years of forbidden romance, she has cut ties. Denny told me that even to this day when he sees this woman, it still makes his heart race.

During the conversation, Denny's glance would change. Usually, he would be looking me in the eyes, as he let these stories pour out. Occassionally, like little magnets, they would be drawn from one side to the other as a cute Salvadoran woman would walk by. And still, other times, they would grow vacant, lost, and stare at nothing. The last would happen when he talked about the present.

The topic finally dropped, and I told him how I liked the parks here. He responded with a story from his friend living in the States. The friend was shocked to find that the parks are empty in the States, that people don't go sit and chat, or just sit for the sake of sitting. I reaffirmed the story. Denny couldn't imagine it.

We sat in silence for a moment. The sun began its descent, casting an orange glow over what its rays could still reach. Denny got up and we said our goodbyes. I sat there in the remaining minutes of light, and looked around to see the benches around me half-occupied by men alone with their thoughts.