OK, so the blog has been suffering. A lot has been going on, but no excuses – I’ve got my work cut out to get it all in. So I’ll start with something that was fun, the min-vacation Finn and I took to El Salvador, Nov. 12 – 16. Fellow volunteer Mark was going to go too but…well, you’ll see…
At 11:15am Wed. Nov. 12, I leave Tara and Annette (volunteer nurses) to finish surgery in the Quirófano with Dr. Cerna, and Finn, Mark, and I embark on the surfing trip we planned some time back. From the Ranch we take a bus to Tegus, then a taxi to the King Quality bus station. An aside about the buses. The local buses are mostly school buses, chicken buses, I guess because once in a while you see a passenger holding a live chicken wrapped in a plastic bag. The buses are cheap, crowded, loud, and slow. Personal space is nonexistent or at least understood very differently. Reggaton blares from front speakers below cursive proclamations of “God loves you” and no smoking signs, while entrepreneuring locals board frequently to sell bread, bracelets, medicine, the Word of God, anything. This particular bus was no exception.
Checking in at the desk at King Quality, Mark realizes he forgot his residency paper. This is a big oops. Now we are in scramble mode – Finn is visibly perturbed, smoking a cigarette, and I can’t help but laugh – we've got to get that paper here in 90 min or Mark can’t get on the bus, a near impossibility. So begins a mad flurry of calls, Chris my roommate running all over the ranch to the Portón, the Hortaliza, and Talleres to get the paper to the Padre, who was headed into town, and the Padre goes to meet Mark at Cerro Grande. Long story short, Mark doesn’t make it. He plans to take the early bus Thursday and meet us in San Salvador, and Finn and I depart on the KQ bus (international coach, pricey, and comfortable).
After a few hours of very scenic travel we get to the border, and now I’m in trouble. The residency paper alone isn’t good enough for me to leave the country say the immigration officers, two stout, plump Salvadoran women in neat white and black uniforms. However I’m in luck: I went back to the States in October, and by mistake, my passport has been stamped with another 90 days of uninhibited travel. The officers have a chuckle and begrudgingly let me pass. Finn already has his residency card and no problems. We continue on, crossing our fingers that Mark will make it ok.
The next morning in the capital we have time to kill before Mark is scheduled to arrive. San Salvador is cool. The city is smoggy but much greener than Tegus, with parks and boulevards lined with trees in some places. I want to go to the Centro Monsignor Romero and see where the six Jesuit priests were assassinated. Finn is an atheist and has no prior interest or knowledge, but he is a good pal and likes history so we go to the museum, aided on the way by many friendly San Salvadorans. One woman, Mari, took us on the right bus and showed us where to get off, chatting the whole time about the city, the sights and dangers, and our work. She even gave me her name, address and email and said to look her up if we ever needed anything. Unbelievable. As we get to Universidad Centroamericana, a UCA student picks up right where Mari left off, walking us into campus and pointing the way to the museum. The Salvadoran friendliness continued to amaze me throughout the weekend.
At the museum (surreal) we find out Mark is stuck at the border. Puta, no me dejaron a cruzar, he writes. Puta is right. Nothing else to do, Finn and I continue, feeling a bit sad that Mark won’t be joining us. We take a bus 1 hour to the coast, to the surf town of La Libertad, and so begin the toughest leg of the journey.
Maybe my biggest realization in El Salvador (after the cheap goodness of authentic pulpusas and honest Salvadoran amiability) was that surfing is HARD. After two full days hitting the waves I had little to show for my efforts besides a cut foot, broken board, burns on my stomach and chest, and an undiminished desire to try again. The ocean beat me up bad, so I had to be content with the smallest marks of progress. In our beach motel we met an old New Jersey man back to relive the surfing years of his youth he spent in this town years ago. He gave us some tips and pointed out that these were expert waters, so we took solace in this fact and chalked it up as a learning experience.
Saturday night we went back to dirty downtown San Salvador and Sunday bused it home on the cheaper Tika bus. The only hiccup was a huge FLMN parade we had to fight through on the way. All in all a great trip and break after a few busy weeks prior.
At 11:15am Wed. Nov. 12, I leave Tara and Annette (volunteer nurses) to finish surgery in the Quirófano with Dr. Cerna, and Finn, Mark, and I embark on the surfing trip we planned some time back. From the Ranch we take a bus to Tegus, then a taxi to the King Quality bus station. An aside about the buses. The local buses are mostly school buses, chicken buses, I guess because once in a while you see a passenger holding a live chicken wrapped in a plastic bag. The buses are cheap, crowded, loud, and slow. Personal space is nonexistent or at least understood very differently. Reggaton blares from front speakers below cursive proclamations of “God loves you” and no smoking signs, while entrepreneuring locals board frequently to sell bread, bracelets, medicine, the Word of God, anything. This particular bus was no exception.
Checking in at the desk at King Quality, Mark realizes he forgot his residency paper. This is a big oops. Now we are in scramble mode – Finn is visibly perturbed, smoking a cigarette, and I can’t help but laugh – we've got to get that paper here in 90 min or Mark can’t get on the bus, a near impossibility. So begins a mad flurry of calls, Chris my roommate running all over the ranch to the Portón, the Hortaliza, and Talleres to get the paper to the Padre, who was headed into town, and the Padre goes to meet Mark at Cerro Grande. Long story short, Mark doesn’t make it. He plans to take the early bus Thursday and meet us in San Salvador, and Finn and I depart on the KQ bus (international coach, pricey, and comfortable).
After a few hours of very scenic travel we get to the border, and now I’m in trouble. The residency paper alone isn’t good enough for me to leave the country say the immigration officers, two stout, plump Salvadoran women in neat white and black uniforms. However I’m in luck: I went back to the States in October, and by mistake, my passport has been stamped with another 90 days of uninhibited travel. The officers have a chuckle and begrudgingly let me pass. Finn already has his residency card and no problems. We continue on, crossing our fingers that Mark will make it ok.
The next morning in the capital we have time to kill before Mark is scheduled to arrive. San Salvador is cool. The city is smoggy but much greener than Tegus, with parks and boulevards lined with trees in some places. I want to go to the Centro Monsignor Romero and see where the six Jesuit priests were assassinated. Finn is an atheist and has no prior interest or knowledge, but he is a good pal and likes history so we go to the museum, aided on the way by many friendly San Salvadorans. One woman, Mari, took us on the right bus and showed us where to get off, chatting the whole time about the city, the sights and dangers, and our work. She even gave me her name, address and email and said to look her up if we ever needed anything. Unbelievable. As we get to Universidad Centroamericana, a UCA student picks up right where Mari left off, walking us into campus and pointing the way to the museum. The Salvadoran friendliness continued to amaze me throughout the weekend.
At the museum (surreal) we find out Mark is stuck at the border. Puta, no me dejaron a cruzar, he writes. Puta is right. Nothing else to do, Finn and I continue, feeling a bit sad that Mark won’t be joining us. We take a bus 1 hour to the coast, to the surf town of La Libertad, and so begin the toughest leg of the journey.
Maybe my biggest realization in El Salvador (after the cheap goodness of authentic pulpusas and honest Salvadoran amiability) was that surfing is HARD. After two full days hitting the waves I had little to show for my efforts besides a cut foot, broken board, burns on my stomach and chest, and an undiminished desire to try again. The ocean beat me up bad, so I had to be content with the smallest marks of progress. In our beach motel we met an old New Jersey man back to relive the surfing years of his youth he spent in this town years ago. He gave us some tips and pointed out that these were expert waters, so we took solace in this fact and chalked it up as a learning experience.
Saturday night we went back to dirty downtown San Salvador and Sunday bused it home on the cheaper Tika bus. The only hiccup was a huge FLMN parade we had to fight through on the way. All in all a great trip and break after a few busy weeks prior.
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