War Relics and Border Crossings

Perquin

On Friday morning, I packed up my things, shared some Salvadoran sweet bread and coffee with Amado, and then departed from his labyrinth of books. Wearing my new hiking backpack on my back and my little Jansport on my chest, I didn’t know if I should feel vulnerable or well-armored; it was more the first one. My next stop was a little mountain town called Perquin in the northeast of the country. Perquin was the FMLN’s (the guerrilla army) headquarters during the 12 year conflict. I heard there was a cool museum there, some decent hikes, and the monument to the infamous massacre that took place at El Mozote; it seemed like a way to combine a break from the cities while getting up close and personal with the country’s recent history.

I flagged down the 42B microbus and maneuvered my bulbous self to the back of the bus where I met a young Salvadoran named Stanley. I took the bus past the Savior of the World monument (a big pillar in the middle of a traffic circle with Jesus on top with arms spread), past the park Cuscatlan, and all the way through the crowded market streets and past the cathedral. As always, exactly as Amado had said it would be. I hopped off the bus in the triangle where I was supposed to, but didn’t know what bus to take. As I was asking, a little, silver-haired woman with as many wrinkles as she had years came up to me and asked me for some change. I pulled out three nickels and said, “Perdon,” – as is, according to Amado, custom to do when giving change in El Salvador. She insisted I take her blue pen in return to make it a fair transaction. I graciously did so. I hopped on another inner-city bus to the bus terminal where I would catch my next ride to San Miguel.

After playing frogger and crossing five lanes of traffic, I managed to flag down the “Super Especial” bus to San Miguel. I sank into my seat and chuckled to myself as I watched Jean Claude Van Dam and Dennis Rodman team up in one of the worst/best action films of all time (I’m pretty sure it could’ve classified as soft-core porno as well with the amount of sweaty, slow-mo, Van-Dam-working-out-in-the-nude shots. I tried to peer out into the scenery through the barely opened curtains to watch as we circled the volcano San Vicente. The man next to me had the same idea and opened up the curtains. For some reason I expected El Salvador to look pretty dry and amber, and it did. With a volcano to see at almost all times, however, it was still damn impressive.

I had decided a couple days before that – no matter how awkward I felt or stupid I might sound – I was going to try and make much more random conversation with people everywhere – on buses, in the market, on the street, in a bar… literally everywhere. I worked up the nerve to speak. His name was Arnoldo. He was a middle aged guy who spoke in a soft and gentle tone, though it was tough to hear with all the ass-kicking and explosions blaring on the TV. The conversation started pretty basic – I’m from the States, I was in Guatemala volunteering, I have a week in El Salvador, etc, etc. But somehow, the conversation got a bit more serious, in a good way. In contrast to almost everyone else I talk to here, he understood why I was volunteering and traveling and even thought me wise for doing it. I shared with him how I hope my travels and writing can connect people from different places and even encourage them to learn more about the world.

We started talking about what mattered in life, and he told me a little story that I’m going to share. There was an ambitious young man who wanted to do well in life. He heard of a sage renowned by thousands who lived in the mountains. The young man went to see the sage, but was disappointed when he got there. Far from the mansion and the ornate furniture he had imagined, the young man found the sage in a tiny room, with a little bed and a humble desk. “This is all you have?” the young man exclaimed. “Let me ask you a question before you ask me anymore,” responded the sage, “Where are all your things?” The young man replied matter-of-factly, “I’m traveling. I don’t need my things.” “Well,” answered the sage, “I too am traveling.” Arnoldo gave me a did-you-get-it look and, for once, I didn’t miss the moral/punch line of a story.

We parted ways in San Miguel where it was HOT. Close to a 100 degrees hot. I sat in the front of the over-crowded chicken bus bound for San Francisco Gotera with my bags clumsily resting in front of me. I sweat more in that bus ride just sitting there than I had all together in the past two weeks hiking combined. In Gotera, I was herded into the back of a canvass-covered pickup with a surprisingly comfortable bench. We took off and began our climb into the mountains. An hour later, we rose above the heat and made it to the little town of Perquin. After dumping my things off in my six-bed single at the Hostal Perquin Real, I quickly jogged up the street (there were only about three in the whole town) and tried to find the Cerro de Perquin, the highest point in town.

The gate had a sign that said $.50 nationals and $1.00 foreigners, but there was no one at the booth. Thinking it was for the museum and not the trail, I entered anyway. Along the ten minute walk to the summit, there were signs pointing out bomb craters and trenches that were from the war. I planned on doing the war stuff the following day, so I just continued running up to the top. Aside from the 50 ft tall communication tower, it was beautiful. On the back side, you could see the mountains going off into distance and disappearing in Honduran territory. On the opposite side, a clear view of the horizon was obstructed by some pine trees but you could still see to where the world ended behind a giant volcano which I don’t know the name of.

I waited up there for an hour, just alone with my thoughts. Growing up in Jersey, I was never too acquainted with nature and now I always feel on edge when I am alone in the wild. It’s probably from watching too many horror flicks. I sat there with my thoughts and made peace with my uneasiness, ignoring the scraping of the rusted and worn corrugated tin scraping against itself and focusing on the blowing of the wind and changing colors of the sky. There were just enough clouds to give the sky some character, but not enough to ruin the view. It was hard to believe that such horrible things as I would soon learn about could happen in such a beautiful place.

El Mozote

On December 11, 1981, the special government army battalion Atlatclan – trained in the US School of the Americas – raided the tiny mountain village of El Mozote in the department of Morazán. Suspecting a guerrilla presence in the village, they crowded the children into the church and the men into the convent next door. Young women were dragged to the hills where they were raped and violated in ways that should be unimaginable. The estimates of casualties range from 750 to over a 1,000, but there was only one survivor. She was found days later hiding in a cave. She told horror stories of soldiers bashing babies against trees and tossing them up in the air and skewering them on bayonets. Though there’s no way to confirm these disturbing accounts, the mass graves were uncovered 10 years later and forensic evidence concluded several things. One, the bodies had all died and been buried at the same time, discrediting the army’s argument that the FMLN had been depositing bodies periodically. And two, the weaponry and bullets found there were in large part manufactured in the United States.

Not really sure what to expect, I decided that I wanted to go to the site, like many others, and pay homage to the victims. I took a pickup from Perquin to Arambala, a nearby town that was said to still be donning the scars of war, where I had to catch a bus. I think I thought it would be a wasteland out here, but even the occasional bomb crater I saw was covered in grass, a sure sign that life goes on.

There’s not much in El Mozote. The bus dropped me off in the center of town. To my left, there were a few houses/papuserias/snackshops. To my right, there was the stone town plaza, the rebuilt church and the monument on the left. I walked over to the monument, a statue of four silhouettes – two children, a mother and a father all holding hands – in front of a wall with plaques holding the names of the fallen. There was a grave next to the statue that was covered in roses and Gerber daisies.

A young man walked up to me and asked if I would like a tour. I said yes. His name was Eduardo and he was only 19 years old. He began telling me about the monument – the names were those of the murdered, the grave was of Rufina, the survivor, etc. He then rattled off a couple stories, such as the baby on the bayonet and the mass executions. We walked over to the Garden of Reflection, a tiny garden on the right side of the church filled with roses. He showed me the names of the children murdered and found in the church on golden plates lining the wall beneath a stone mural of children playing. At the front of the church, there was a strip of bricks that were from the original adobe church that housed the execution. Then, we walked around to a couple of old homes, now just a roofless collection of concrete walls pock-marked with bullet holes. And that was it.

With another hour to kill before the bus came, I went into one of the houses/papuserias and decided to have a late breakfast. The kids were distracted from the Honey, I Shrunk the Kids TV series by the presence of a sun burnt, blue-eyed gringo. I sat there in the brick, wood and tin house feeling a bit unsatisfied with my visit. I appreciated Eduardo’s tour, but what he told me 1) I already knew and 2) anyone could have told me. El Mozote didn’t carry the same weight I expected it to. I walked away from my Auschwitz tour moved and terrified of what ordinary people are capable of; that was not the case here. They had the words “Nunca mas,” never again, written on a plaque, but the present here just felt so disconnected from the not-so-distant past.

Back in Perquin, I decided to check out the war museum they had in town. Though it only has four rooms, the humble museum is jam-packed with interesting pictures and war relics, including weaponry, bombs, and a downed helicopter. There was a Salvadoran named Roberto getting a one-on-one tour, so I decided to make the group a little bigger. He showed us homemade, baseball-sized bombs the guerrillas used that were then made and used by the army to bomb farmers’ livestock and crops to blame the FMLN. He told us stories about how they trained, how they cooked and ate beans out of their helmets, and explained how the weapons were used.

Throughout the tour, Roberto’s wife had kept telling her husband it was time to go to which he’d respond, “I’m coming,” and then not go. Outside, he was taken around to see some cars and I decided to chat it up with his wife. Her name was Alba, and she told me they both had fled the country in 1989 and moved to Houston, where they are still living. She asked what I was doing here and I gave her my usual spiel. We kept talking, a bit more about the war. She said it was such a shame. All that, and nothing looks different to her now. There are still 12 people getting killed every day and the much of the country still lives in poverty.

We parted ways, but I started thinking more about El Mozote. After Alba’s comment, it all seemed cruelly ironic. Has anyone learned from these atrocities? Or did everyone just get sick of war and want an end to it? I started fearing that maybe the lessons of El Mozote were still unheard, tucked away in the mountains along with the echoes of its victims’ cries nearly thirty years ago.

12 Hours, 10 Buses, 3 Countries, 2 Borders and 1 Sucker

I woke up, unsure what time it was or if I had really slept at all. The howling wind throughout the night had threatened to blow the whole hostel over, but it remained intact when I awoke. I turned my computer on. It was 6:06, plenty of time. I lay in bed, protected from the brisk mountain air by my sleeping bag. I looked around at the five empty beds in the room and how the chipping walls didn’t quite reach the wood ceiling while I made my plan of attack for the day: I wanted to make it from Perquin, El Salvador through the southeast of Honduras and down to Granada, Nicaragua before sundown.

After shoveling down a quick plate of eggs and beans and saying goodbye to the travel guru Paul – who just happened to show up the night before – I grabbed my bulbous bags and waited outside for the bus. Siamora, the hostel owner, came running out to tell me that if I wanted to make it to Nicaragua in one day, I’d have to head south, not north. Trusting her, I let the bus pass by and grabbed the next pickup (ride #1) heading back the way I had came two days before.

On the pickup more curious or startled little kids stared at me. When I said, “Hola,” they didn’t react; they just kept staring, confused or intrigued. In San Francisco Gotera, I was shuffled on to a bus (ride #2) as the attendant took my bag and threw it down below. The woman in front of me had two parrots chilling out on her left shoulder as she planted her face on the seat in front of her. I got dropped off at El Dieciocho, or The eighteen, a random intersection with nothing but asphalt, dust, and a few vendors on the side of the road waiting to raid the next bus. I got on (ride #3), thinking the bus would take me all the way to the border, but it was not so. After an hour of passing farms and a couple groups of vultures pecking at dead street dogs, we reached the next stop where I had to quickly jump on yet another bus (ride #4).

After a few minute bus ride, we were shuffled off and were bombarded by guys with their three-wheeled taxis offering us rides to the border. I decided to walk. Going to El Salvador, I decided to not take the local buses and play it safe with a more expensive, direct bus. It made crossing the border much easier. In Honduras, I walked with the crowd through the dusty street tucked in a mini-canyon and made it to migration. A few guys holding fat wads of bills flocked to us and I picked out one to give me enough limpiras, the Honduras currency, to get me across the country. This time, I didn’t get ripped off to badly, at least no worse than I do with my Wachovia checking account ($12 to take out $200… that just doesn’t seem right). I got my passport stamped and continued onward. The two countries are divided by a pretty dried up river. Once I stepped foot on the bridge, I was blasted by the wind and almost lost my footing as well as my hat.

In Honduras, the border area – aside from a few little snack shops, a couple eateries, and a bunch of taxi and bus drivers – looked pretty vacant. Very windy, too. I quickly found a microbus (ride #5) heading straight to the Nicaraguan border. The windshield looked like it had caught a foul ball, something that I saw a lot of in Guatemala. Knowing that I would not have to worry about anything for the next two hours I quickly fell asleep, even despite the monotonous Buh d-Buh reggaeton beat blaring right behind me. The tiny bit of Honduras we drove through looked pretty barren; nothing but barbed wire fence protecting farmlands belonging to nobody.

Suddenly, there were a few more shops and then there were other vans. We were at the Nicaraguan border. I realized I did not know what the exchange rate was for Nicaragua and then realized that I would probably walk away the sucker once again. Before setting foot on the ground we were stormed by guys sticking out stacks of bills, grabbing our arms, and insisting on carrying our bags to their little three-wheeled bikes/taxis. I refused and refused, until I saw the Salvadoran I met in the microbus getting on; maybe it wasn’t the dumbest idea. Wrong.

I hopped (ride #6) on the shaded bench on the front of a backwards tricycle and was carted to the Honduran immigration office. My chauffeur, Alexander, told me all the guys there were crazy. I thought, You’re just as crazy. He eagerly grabbed my bag and lugged it to the window. It was all happening so quickly. His buddies/co-workers busted his balls and one followed him. We were back on the bike. We were going over a bridge, while I sat there like the fat-spoiled gringo and he huffed and puffed to get us both uphill in the beating sun. He chatted with my amiably. We were in another office. I paid immigration the $7 fee I knew I’d have to pay. Outside, he told me I had to change money now. I knew I did, but knew it wasn’t going to come out good. In my book, it said the rate was c$18 to 1 USD. They offered me 16. I figured they needed the money and it was only 20 bux that I was exchanging. Then it was $30. Then I was back on the bike in a dirt lot with a few buses. He asked for all my limpiras from Honduras, I laughed at him. Then he kept insisting. He was desperate. His friends circled and insisted too. Someone through my bag on the roof of my van (ride #7). I gave him 100 limpiras, or $5. Then 1USD. Then they wouldn’t go away. I got in the van. He opened the window and begged me for more. And then, we were on the road. I remembered Paul’s words from exactly a week before, “You look like a sucker. It’s the big eyes. You look too innocent.” I still feel like a sucker. But with these kinds of experiences, I can’t imagine myself staying a sucker for long.

Nicaragua looked poorer than Guatemala. I didn’t think I’d notice much of a difference, but I did. The countryside was empty and flat, save for the occasional pile of garbage on the side of the road. Houses were few and far between and were not only made of brick and tin roofing, but looked dilapidated as well. An old woman with her hand stretched out for an offering walked towards our speeding van. The people on the side of the road looked worn, as if the heat had gotten to them. Over the flat, farm fields I could see the perfectly conical volcano San Cristobal reaching for the sky. My first day in Guatemala, I remember being mesmerized at the rolling mountains touching the clouds as we ascended the hills towards Xela. In Nicaragua, the black volcano seemed so dramatic, if not out of place compared to the flat fields around it. Picture a volcano just sprouting up in Kansas.

After who knows how long, we got to the bus terminal in Chinandega where I ran to the man shouting “Managua Managua Managua” and got on the converted school bus (ride #8). Managua’s the capital. Thirsty I called out the window for a bottle of Fresca, and the woman pulled out a bag of ice, broke it up, then poured the glass bottle into the plastic bag, threw a straw in, tied it up, and handed it up to me through the school bus window. We took off. The scenery seemed the same: trees lining the road with fields behind them. Then, just minutes outside of the capital, we got our first glimpse of Lake Managua with the giant volcano Momotombo and its second cone, aptly named Momotombito, guarding over it.

In the city, I didn’t know where to go. Alexander told me the buses to everywhere all left from the same place. It wasn’t the first lie he told me. They told me, “Get off and take the 14. Go go go!” So I hurried off the bus at a random bus station.

The second bus to show up was labeled 114, so I hopped on (ride #9). I got on and every seat was full. Shit. The aisle was about as wide as one leg and with my huge bags I was as big a nuisance as I could be. I plopped the big guy down in the aisle, but then someone wanted to pass. I lifted on top of my head, trying to keep my footing while the bus jerked back and forth as the woman squeezed by. Cursing to myself and at the people who would not move to let me get by, I wedged myself to the back door. A local radio DJ told me to get off exactly two stops after him, so I did.

Lo and behold, across the road there was a parking lot full of microbuses, so-called expresses to Granada. I got on (ride #10), and quickly grabbed a seat. I gave it up to a pregnant woman who was left standing. Nice guy or sucker? The bus ride was supposed to take 45 minutes. We spent that time in Granada picking people up. It was like a St. Joe’s high school dance with everyone grinding up on everyone else, whether they wanted to or not. They did, however, play some sweet tunes. It must’ve been best of the 80s because there was some “Just like a Prayer,” “She’s a Maniac,” “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and my buddy Manit’s favore, “Never Gonna Let You Down (or something like that).”

At 7:00, we made it to Granada. I found the hostel I wanted to stay at and checked in. He told me the room was $7 or c$143.50 (c$ means cordoba). I told him that didn’t make sense, thinking it was 18 to 1. He told me it was 20.50 to 1. Fuck me, I thought, Sucker Tom. Whatever, you live and you learn. Granada – well a bit outside of it – is where I’ll be for the next two months, and it seems like a pretty lively place to be.

I don’t know what my internet access is going to be like once I move into the volunteer house, so updates may be a bit less frequent. I’ll let you all know what the deal is as soon as I can.