San Salvador: last entry to this blog

When I decided to have a blog on San Salvador I planned on narrating the city as I experienced it. As it happened, I ended up telling the occasional story on an irregular basis. I could have told a lot more stories, introduced way more characters, draw with words new landscapes and ironize on the ones that said nothing on El Salvador (example: La Gran Via Mall). But I didn't. I felt that the more I was there, the less I was part of the city. The longer my stay the less I belonged but the friendlier solitude became. This unspoken distance between the city and myself changed my life. Probably forever. 

I can list a few things I will miss (birds singing, car alarms going off, the rooster that woke me up at 5am /sometimes 3am, the chicken wandering the streets of my "urban residential"  neighbourhood, my friends I could always count, the sometimes overwhelming collectivism and even the conversational preaching...) but is not missing what makes a relationship with this place meaningful. Is quite the opposite. From day one I noticed I wasn't closing my eyes to register future nostalgia. I was living the moment and adding stories that I expect would unfold without my conscious intervention. So my memories are not nostalgic but kinesthetic. I have San Salvador in my skin, in my legs, in my hair, in my nose... I don't miss cause it became an unrecognizable part of me. Probably this city used me o possessed me to become an outsider itself.  Perhaps San Salvador escaped through me to avoid remaining in post war americanized transition. In doing so, this city made me escape as well. That's why I couldn't say good bye. 

Now back in Toronto, San Salvador feels like a dream. As if nothing ever happened. 

But it certainly did.

dancing men

I took my colleague Abdel downtown right at the time he was feeling a bit claustrofobic in safe/residential/walled/malled San Salvador. We walked down Paseo Escalón for about 40 minutes until we got to Café de Don Pedro, a 50´s style cafe where people hang out for a drink and a Ceviche while listening to 70 year old marimba performers. Two things I love about this place: the shoe shining service and Naomi the waitress.

The shoe shining service at Café de Don Pedro:
As you approach the patio a couple of shoe shiners greet you inviting your shoes for a shine. Men stop, take their shoes off, leave them there and sit bare foot. It is simply beautiful to see all these men having a beer on their white socks. Note: only men get their shoes shined

Naomi:
She simply greets me as if I were her niece. She hugs me, asks about my sister and my brother in law, tells me about her son. She literally makes me feel home...

So, Abdel loved the place. His sister and brother called while we were having lunch and got a bit of the marimba which probably calmed them from their fears for the country.

We headed downtown right after our lunch at Café de Don Pedro. We wandered around to the rhythm of nativity scene noices, vendors, kids cries, laughter, music, more music, religious speeches, political campaign jingles, narrated soccer, porn screams, made in china toys, fire works and cathedral bells. There was a wedding at the Cathedral which was fully decorated with plastic and paper flowers (gorgeous!).

After walking and walking through the strets and the open market we decided to go to a bar for a drink. Ok it is not a bar, it is a club and it opens 24 - 7 (at least that is what I think). We got in: Abdel´s cover was 2 dollars and mine 1. Beer: 1 dollar! yep...

We danced and we also did some people watching, or dance watching. Compared to other clubs uptown (which means west), men dance more than women. Everything moves bottom up: the way men move their feet determines the whole body movement to the rhythm of the music. A very samba-like style. But just for men... I wonder if it has something to do with men having their shoes shined (or shone?).

about war

Inside out

Photo taken by me

For some of us war is a narration, a story, a photography, a theory. It is an object for our eyes to imagine death through someone else´s experience. For some of us war is an object even though it has occurred close (and even closer) to our homes. Several essays have been written to closing the gap between war itself and the history of war. The one I have in mind is Sontag's "Regarding the Pain of Others" on war photography. Inspired by her, I´ve decided to write about Salvadorean's war from what I've heard. I am not going to narrate the history of war (I am sure wikipedia does a better job) but tell a couple of stories as they happened to found my ears. 

War in notes:

During the war, a friend's house was taken by the guerrilla hence she and her family had to seek shelter elsewhere. Right before leaving, my friend's younger sister wrote a note to the guerrilla saying: " Please take good care of my doll". A month later the family returned. The little girl rushed to her room to find a reply note saying: "your doll is a well behaved little girl, but she missed you"

My friend's mother read neighbours the note. As it happens, one of her neighbours whose house was also taken, received a note in response to one she was writing to her ex husband right before leaving. Her note said "You haven't taken full responsiblity over our child's expenses." On the same paper a guerrilla member wrote: "I fully support you. You should definitely sue your ex partner. It is your right". 

People in the neighbourhood reported no losses in their homes...

Would you give me a ride?

During the war my neighbour was driving her car to the university. Two guys stopped . They got into the car. One of them took the drivers seat, the other went to the back. She moved to the passenger's seat. "Where are you going" she asked. "Not of your business" they replied. "Would you take me to class?" she asked . "Just if it is on the way" they replied. Then silence... After 5 minutes of driving around they stopped the car, told her they couldn't take her and asked her to step out. They left. Two days later they called her to inform the car had been left at McDonalds (there was just one McDonalds in the 80's). She picked it up. And that is the end of the story. 

Good Times

A cab driver was telling me about war times. He said "Those were good times for me" "everyone needed a cab so I had tons of work " "Everyone was so afraid that nobody wanted to drive" Then he smiled. 

"We don't want to remember war" 

A woman: "Why remember? "Lets simply get over it!" 

Another woman: It is not trendy to talk about the war...It is over...BORING

A teenager: I have no idea of what Mozote means (Mozote: The biggest masacre during Salvadorean Civil War)

A politician: It is time for us to forget the past 

Another politician: Doing investigation on war crimes won't be of any good for Salvadoreans

Another woman: I won't take that course at the public university. The campus is all dirty. It reminds me of the war. And it scares me.

War is war

and for war

we are still human 

so human

Nothing else to say

highways are better in El Salvador ... probably that is why people walk in Honduras

Main Plaza

Copan - Honduras

Comparing Honduras and El Salvador:

Honduras pupusas (stuffed cornbread - kind off) are smaller.
There are more convenience stores or pulperas in Honduras.
Honduras has less imported stuff (american or chinese).
There is more choice in pirated music in El Salvador.
Jesus adds and Jesus-inspired radios are abundant in both countries.
Food is mainly the same: fried beans, tortillas, avocado, nicaraguan cheese however; there are less fast food chains in Honduras than in El Salvador.
Desserts look nicer than they taste in Honduras.
Men (young and elder) wear hats in Honduras, more so than in El Salvador.
Mountains and trees are more impressive in El Salvador.
Honduras is less americanized than in El Salvador.
There are more Mayan traces in Honduras than in El Salvador.
There is life, social life in the plazas and streets of Honduras towns.

Highways are better in El Salvador.

BUT WHAT ON EARTH DO I KNOW

just a joke... solo una broma

Here is a conversation I had today (it was actually the third time I had had it)

She:  Men do ease the struggles between women (2 women especially)

I: mmm I am unsure

She: Yes, it happens all the time. If there are two cranky women snapping at each other, a man usually eases the vibe (she adds examples...)

I: I don't like that. If it is true we should change it otherwise men become mediators... I don´t think someone (men or women) should have this role just because of his or her gender. (I actually didn´t say this. I just said the first four words.)

She: Well just accept it... It happens everywhere... 

I: What happens everywhere?

She: Men ease the tension between women

I: I resist

She: Gosh, I better leave ... we probably need a man in here hehe Just a joke

---------------

Esta es una charla que tuve hoy (y bueno la he tenido ya tres veces)

Ella: Viste, te lo dije: Los hombres apaciguan la mala vibra entre 2 mujeres

Yo: Si?

Ella: Seguro, pasa todo el tiempo. Si hay tensión entre dos mujeres, la presencia de un hombre cambia la energía

Yo: No me gusta mucho eso. Si eso es cierto, hay que cambiarlo porque sino el hombre pasa a ser el tercero que media...¡que mamera!... No creo que una persona deba tener ese rol solo por ser hombre o mujer. (la verdad es que no dije esto, sólo las primeras cinco palabras y el punto)

Ella: Sólo acéptalo. Pasa en todo lado y todos pasamos por eso. 

Yo: ¿Qué pasa en todo lado?

Ella: El que un hombre calme la tensión entre las mujeres

Yo: Me resisto!

Ella: Mejor me voy porque sino me pegas. Aquí hace falta un hombre..jejeje. Fue una broma

Lo escribí en mi piel / I chose to write it on my skin

Mi piel resiste todo y lo que resiste rechaza, borra, pela... Lo que me queda es lo que queda.
Lo que queda es lo que se puede decir, lo que hable sin voz.

Me llevo un pajarito salvadoreño conmigo

My skin resists everything and what is resisted is at the same time rejected, erased, shed. What remains is what stays.
What stays is what can be said, what speaks without a voice.

I am taking a salvadorean bird with me,

Zompopos

Following ants in my bathroom. The big ones that show up every hundred regular ones are called zompopos. Zompopos collect leaves and travel in long lines. I follow them at nights, before going to bed...

cloudy eyes

An undated photo of Rufina Amaya, a notorious survivor of the El Mozote 1981 massacre, at an undisclosed location El Salvador. www.daylife.com/ photo/0arXf5u3IQ35l

I had a meeting with several community based organizations reps currently involved in developing rural tourism capacity. Amongst these men and women was Pacita: a woman and survivor from El Mozote massacre (1981). She left when she was eleven and returned a 15 years later to find nothingness. She came back with her newborn and her parents and macheted her way back to settle, to make of El Mozote an inhabited place one more time. Due to the lack of resources and the roughness of the place, Pacita left her parents in El Mozote and returned to the city to make some money for her re-return. Three years after she returned for good. This time, she organized some women and formed a study group on the History of the War. Against all odds, she was determined to keep the story alive, to remember the death of 500 men, women and children, to always remember for memory to remain history and for history to remind us of war. These women are now local tour guides who share turns to tell the story. They also share child care. Pacita also works in the milpa (crop growing), sells crops at the closest market, takes care of her 85 year old father who has prostate cancer (just like mine) and knits.

Her daughter´s name means “cloudy eyes”. I thought it was a sad name until she said more about the name's origin: “...in a cloudy day everything feels fresh and crisp ....” I couldn't help but feeling the sense of relief hidden in her daughter's name. The idea of life (daughter) after death (war) followed immediately. Then I stopped my thoughts and returned to her, to her story, to her name.  

Pacita´s name means Peace.  In diminutive 

Buena Letra, mal gobierno, mala mujer... Perfect hand writing, bad government, bad bad woman

Ayer fui al aeropuerto a recoger a mi mamá en el carro de la oficina con Rafael. Rafael no es sólo mi amigo, es quien se encarga de ponerle ruedas a todas mis ideas para salir del aburrimiento. En el camino le pregunté de cómo aprendió a manejar. Me dijo que desde pequeño se subía a los buses y se sentaba en el asiento de adelante a observar. A los 14 años puso en práctica sus observaciones en un mini austin que tenía su papá. Así llegamos a hablar de su papá: Un señor que solo cursó hasta tercero de primaria y que trabajaba en una empresa de ingenieros como peón. Un buen día uno de los ingenieros se lastimó la mano y no pudo escribir así que les preguntó a los peones ´si alguno de ellos sabía escribir. El papá de Rafael fue el único que había aprendido y entonces fue elegido para ayudarle al ingeniero a redactar una carta. La letra del papá de Rafael es tan bonita que todos quedaron sorprendidos y el ingeniero le pidió que trabajara en la oficina. Asi fue como el papá de Rafael ayudó en varios trabajos de oficina incluido el apoyo a los contadores. Con ese trabajo pudo comprar el mini austin que Rafael manejó por primera vez a los 14 años. Y no sólo compró el carrito, también se hizo de su terreno y de un par de casas. Pero la bonanza llegó a su límite cuando la empresa de Ingenieros se retiró del país por el tema de la reforma agraria, la mamá de Rafael se fue a Estados Unidos y el señor de buena letra se quedó sólo. Cómo la soledad no le vino bien, se consiguió una cipota, es decir una jovencita que, según dice Rafael, sólo le interesaba el pisto (dinero). Es así como la cipotilla (o jovencita) se le llevó todo, hasta uno de los terrenos. El papá de Rafa vive sólo.

Para Rafael la culpa de todo la tiene la cipotilla. Para el papá de Rafael la culpa de todo la tiene la reforma agraria. Y yo me quedé pensando en a quién echarle la culpa.

Luego llegó mi mamá...


Yesterday Rafael took me to the airport to pick up my mom. Rafael is not just a friend, he basically puts wheels to my ideas to depart from the land of boredom. On our way to the airport I asked him what the biggest car he is licensed to drive is. This led us to the subject of how he learned to drive. When Rafael was a kid he used to take the public bus and sit right at the front to observe how the driver conducted it. When he turned 14 he put into practice his observations by driving his father´s Austin-mini. Thus, we got to speak about his father: A man who had only been in school until 3rd grade (elementary school) who worked for several years in a Civil Engineering Company as a “peon” (labourer). One day, one of the engineers hurt his right hand and needed someone to write a letter for him. He approached the “peones” (labourers) and asked for someone who knew how to write. Apparently, Rafael´s dad was the only one that knew how to read and write so he delivered the task. When he finished writing the letter, the engineer showed it to the rest of the office: he was astonished at this peon´s hand writing. Immediately, this man was given an office job where he helped everyone including the accounting people. This is how, he got the Austin – mini that was driven by Rafael when he was 14.Besides the car, his dad was able to buy land and build his own house. Things changed for bad when the company left the country due to the agrarian reform. Rafael´s dad lost his job. Then the war hit the country and Rafael´s mom immigrated to the US. Loneliness wasn´t something to look forward, so Rafael´s dad got involved in a relationship with a much younger woman who, according to Rafael, was only interested getting a sugar daddy. After a few years, the younger woman left taking a few things with her and leaving Rafael´s dad alone.

Rafael thinks the young woman is the one to blame for his father´s poverty and loneliness. His father thinks the agrarian reform is the one to blame. Who is the one to blame?
My mom arrived,
But that is a different story

fenceless doesn't mean free

In the early 80's, the Colonia Escalon (the neighbourhood where I live in San Salvador) was free from all those wired walls that cage the outside. 

In a  conversation about everything, a friend and neighbour told me her house didn't even have a fence. I tried to imagine the undivided landscape, and felt nostalgic for those times that I can only access through words (times that are a fiction to me). The images made me inquire to the rest of the MARA (mara doesn't only refer to the violent gangs but it is also a salvadorian slang for group) about their childhood. I'll try to reproduce the thread of the conversation. 

Me: In Cali and Quito, where I grew up, I used to play on the streets, hide and seek and all sorts of things. I remember climbing trees, playing football (ok soccer), playing hide and seek and biking with my friends. Boys and girls always out. When we played indoors, we span the bottle. I guess that is why, our parents preferred outdoor games for us. 

She 1:  No, no... I wasn't allowed to go out unless I had a chaperone. It wasn't because it was dangerous. I couldn't go out by myself cause I am a woman. What does spinning the bottle mean?... 

She 2: ...I only went out with my cousins when we visited them out of town. That was the only time where I actually went out to the movies with my peers. 

She 3: I was always home, helping my mother. I didn't go out very much, only to church or some school events  with my mother. 

She 4: Going out with boys was something I did after 18. University times. Well, sometimes with cousins we would do stuff. But not too much on the streets. Well my brother and cousins would play outside. But not the girls. 

Five women at the table, talking about pre-Salvadorian war times. Through their stories I learned that around the time the war started,  fences started to cage the  (until then) free houses.  Then fences were replaced by walls, then walls were topped by wires, then wires got electrified (sometimes they are not electrified but they have a that sign says so), then an armed guard or two were added to the entrance, then the sidewalk became a place to park cars. In a way, society is stratified by the level you reached in the process of walling houses. However, regardless of how electrified your wires are, the outside world is a forbidden place for girls. Even then...

She 3: I don't let my girls out. They help me home. They are 16, 18 and 21. The street is not a place for girls. 

She 2: I only let them go to the mall. But I drive my girls there and pick them up. 

She 3: Yes, it is a dangerous place. 

.....

So, what happens if you are out there? 

So far nothing has happened to me, except for having a bike accident and having to drag myself to the sidewalk to avoid two cars. None of them stopped. 

I've decided to take my cast to the mall today.