Pangs of Class Guilt

They’ve said awful things about it, I’ve always wanted to come here. Not sure if it’s from meeting all the illegal immigrants in Los Angeles, or the pupusas these Salvadorean mothers once prepared for me over five years ago…or…the brutal headlines of the Salvatrucha maras. The gangs are notorious in Los Angeles, extensively tattooed from face to arms, known for their gruesome and grisly murders. And then, going to South America so many times, I saw this wet country from the airport, a stopover, one time when a team of Taiwanese water engineers who chat with me. They didn’t speak Spanish or English, and managed to enjoy their time in El Salvador. So I’ve always wanted to find out for myself, what is El Salvador. Alone.

Suchitoto, the church outside. The name means “Place of Birds and Flowers”

Entering the country from the Panamerican Highway through Honduras there’s nothing particularly striking about the tropical leafy landscape. Cool breezes. Squat houses, very poor houses, a lot of rusting corrugated metal roofs and houses made of cement and sometimes wire fencing. Muddy. Dirt floors. Everyone is barefoot, and carrying around guns: security, officers, even normal people walking around with a semi-automatic on their waist. Without the company of my friends, I am reliant on the company of Salvadoreans, who are noticeably very hardworking, diligent and…honest and kind! I’ve been warned by privileged Salvadoreans never (ever!) to take the public bus. So, I took the public bus. Just to see.

I take very calculated risks. I choose my seat on the bus carefully, and I’m aware that my physique compels machismo chivalry that keeps me safe for the most part. Most people like to hear me speaking Spanish to them, older women instantly protect me like a mother. You know what I notice? As a percentage of the population, more people are amputated and with deep scar tissue from machete cuts than I have noticed in any other Central American country. BY FAR. I mean, parapeligiac strong men with both legs ending at the thigh. Legs that stopped at the ankle, beat up. Missing arms. Grotesque. The civil war which had displaced some three million abroad was obviously unspeakably brutal, but then, the people: remarkably kind and getting on with their lives, even courteous and sweet to me. Very fair, too, I haven’t once felt cheated, harassed or misled.

Upon arrival, El Salvador is a country that makes me grieve. Makes me angry, makes me responsible, and it’s the many settlements of dwellings made of corroding metal and cement blocks. Trash everywhere, and lacking potable water supply and constant electricity. The first impression is that of sorrow mixed with a twinge of admiration. People packed standing in the back of trucks, while rain pours on them. Like other parts of Central America, people suffer from obesity and poor diets.

…And of course, as life turns out, the hotel name that was recommended and I booked reservations for, happens to be a gorgeous Spanish hamlet overlooking forested cliffs and the great Suchitlan lake. There are fluorescent butterflies that are several inches across, and vibrant beetles. I’ve got the spacious upstairs to myself, three rooms with antique furnishings, comforters, bathtub, hot water, elegant ceiling fans in every room, a veranda hammock to overlook the lake, sitting desk to write my private letters. And a fully-equipt Spanish-tile kitchen with electric stove, oven, microwave, and mahogany dining table. I don’t even have to worry about charging my iPod, laundry is taken care of.

I’ve paid $40 for the night. Suchitoto is a world apart from real El Salvador, idyllic stone roads, mango trees, and the occassional drunkard passed out but generally the old colonial flavor.  In this sanctuary I cannot help feeling irremediably guilty for my privilege, so unfairly class conscious. And the only consolation is that at least the money is going into Salvadorean hands, and at least I made it by myself to get to know El Salvador. But even so, it feels flagrant and prolifigate—some 2% own some vast 90% of the country’s riches, and I cannot erase the images of the poor’s living standards: Snarling traffic, gucky markets, thirty-odd vendors climbing on our bus to sell apples or tortillas or candy, crowded streets and putrid smells that remind me of urban recesses of China.
El Salvador is relatively well-paid, people earn far more per week than neighboring Guatemala, Honduras or Nicaragua. But what amount people earn in dollars, is not reflected in their standard of living. It will take time to understand, but people are more industrious, more resilient, yet poorer. (Comparatively, I now find that the impoverished population in Chiapas, Mexico rather whiny, complainy, and lazy for having relatively many natural resources and riches. Chiapanecos on average seem to not to appreciate what they have.)

San Salvador inspires me. It packs heat. Salvadoreans deserve better, especially in housing and infrastructure. If I become an interpreter, and leverage China’s massive industry with Latin America, I will want to fix this.

 

Scribble

Spent two days swimming in a turquoise volcanic crater in Laguna de Apoyo, here are my writings from bed:

“Mirador. Santa Catarina, Nicaragua. Crawled up at 5:30am and stumbled up without breakfast, two and a half hours into jungle mud, rocks and tropical fauna on a steaming hot Central American morning. Laura and I, navigating rocks and slippery edges, so muddy was the trail that Laura completely took off her shoes and went barefoot in mud. It’s hot, sweaty, with fleshy thick leaves dripping warm rain dew. We heard some birds, some wildlife but mostly our own heaving exhaling in the early morning. The pathway was steep and savage, our energy quickly depleting as we continued forward. When we got the very top, drenched in sweat, the greatest reward wasn’t a view of the crater lake nor the volcanoes—it was the autumn wind that rushed past, like a wind tunnel between trees.”

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“Crater’s Edge. Laguna de Apoyo, Nicaragua. The six kilometers of fresh water lay before us sprawled in its cobalt beauty. Swimming in it with friends, the cool water feels so nice, kicking past the thermal vents and the lakebed dropping ten meters and deeper. There are calm, orange and grey colored fish just below the surface, and gathering around the dock. Sometimes, with only us in the whole big crater lake, the sulfured water was so unstirred that the upper torso would be warm and it would be cold waist down. Swimming in the water, I am so comfortable with my body. I notice it is so able, so healthy, so glowing with the vigor of youth. A magnificent mechanism, totally utilitarian, a golden tone of a slight tan, no wrinkles except those on my toes from being in the water a while. I swim to the edge of another lodge, submerge myself to touch the rocky limestone floor, and exhale into bubbles coming up. I breathe deeply, feeling the gradation of cool temperatures glide against my skin. Backstroke, staring at the thundering grey clouds, embracing the stream of water between my kicking legs. It starts to rain warmly and pour over the lake—all the drops look unreal–and I am aware I am in a special moment in life. Awake, energetic, and so alive. Oh let me not take this for granted. Let me savor this. Such vibrant blue and clear waters, such pristine swet water. Hair dripping down my back. I submerge again, sink my head under the peaceful surface, to hear the reverberating echos under the prismatic surface of the placid lake, fishes I have never seen before. This is heaven on earth. I hope my weekends always stay as idyllic, and my heart remains childlike for a long time.”

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PS: No recent “Spanish Words of the Day” as I am trying to learn the local accent, and all these new words for normal everyday things, as well as slang in Central America.

 

Noble Heart

This is an excerpt from a book that I particularly admire:

Zengetsu, a Chinese master of the T’ang Dynasty wrote the following for his pupils:

Living in the world yet not forming attachments to the dust of the world is the way of the true Zen student. When witnessing the good action of another, encourage yourself to follow his example. Hearing the mistaken action of another, advise yourself not to emulate it.

Even though alone in a dark room,be as if you were facing a noble guest. Express your feelings, but become no more expressive than your true nature. Poverty is your treasure, never exchange it for an easy life.

A person may appear a fool and yet not be one. He may only be guarding his wisdom carefully.

Virtues are the fruit of self-discipline and do not drop from heaven of themselves as does rain or snow. Modesty is the foundation of all virtues. Let your neighbors discover you before you make yourself known to them.

A noble heart never forces itself forward. Its words are as rare gems, seldom displayed and of great value.

To a sincere student, every day is a fortunate day. Time passes but he never lags behind. Neither glory or shame can move him.

Censure yourself, never another. Do not discuss right or wrong. Some things, though right, were considered wrong for generations. Since the value of righteousness may be recognized after centuries, there is no need to crave immediate appreciation. Live with cause and leave results to the great law of the universe. Pass each day in peaceful contemplation.

 

Going Going Gone

In a country historically known for its Sandinista campaign and literacy education for the poor, today’s nicaragüenses are retrograding:

Teenage pregnancy is rampant and cohabitation without marraige is common. And today, a young 22-year-old started chatting me up and wanting to share her story of the city, to the ends of asking me to buy her newborn some formula powder. But she didn’t want just anything for her baby, she wanted to take me to the supermarket, and not just any market, the most upscale market in town. Pretty soon, I discovered she expected me to buy her Gerber’s formula and baby food, she wouldn’t accept any other brand. I started telling her how formula wasn’t actually a good replacement for breast milk, that I would buy nutritious food instead. She took me to the organic refridgerated section, insisting there wasn’t normal fruit stands in the town (there are.) Uncomfortableness started creeping in when she asked me to read her the labels in Spanish and explain them to her… it turned out that, like many young Nicaraguans, she was illiterate. And she couldn’t have normal fruit because she didn’t have a blender. Then she wanted cookies, of which I told her that while I was happy to help out with a few things for friends and acquiantances, that I shouldn’t be made to feel like a sponsor patron. After she went away empty-handed I felt bad for the rest of the day, thinking about how the some of the poor feel so entitled with the foreigners they see.

Personal Note: Hehehe clever: Borracho Obama. John McCaña. Only in Nicaragua have I been so impressed by people’s wry wit and a country’s exquisite tropical beauty.

 

Epiphanies…

Here in Nicaragua, we’ve stepped back into the 1800s Colonial life. I want to begin wearing Panama hats, such is the lifestyle of the cool temperature, the breezy fresh air, and the plantation trees eveywhere. Land is plentiful, the richest of soils to sow anything you wish. Brick tiled roofs are crooked and imperfect in its full charm, roosters with full red plummage. Torn palms and leafy orchards shade the fertile undergrowth. Vines and bromeliads dripping from tall branches. From a glance, Nicaragua looks like the Tommy Bahama catalogue.

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Random Moments of Recognition and Wisdom:

Enlightenment 1: Christina and I were playing a game, to guess the nationality of passerbys based on their clothes…without hearing them speak. Because German men often wear shorts with sandals with socks in them, huddling the whole family together. Israelis often looked hippie and traveled in packs of low-budget style. And Italians often went to lengths to look really casual cool, especially with flashy sunglasses and they lounge around outside a lot, especially if sunny. But we noticed that whenever a person was dressed eccentrically, with mismatched local and foreign clothes, and especially men who didn’t mind effeminate colors and cuts (would be dressed “gay” in most societies, with their pants in flowing fabrics just mid-calf and in tones of pink or orange, clutching a slinging bag) they were always unequivocally French. We even asked to check. Now why is that. This is a supposed culture known to be persnickety about the tailoring of their clothes, and yet abroad….

Enlightenment 2: My parents were right about language. They used to say that regardless of circumstances, everyone was going to treat me Chinese because of the way I looked, so I had better know Mandarin well before I become an insulting embarassment to the culture… especially because it was going to be a major language. I remember arguing about the fact that just because someone had certain features doesn’t mean they ought to be judged by their stereotype, but I kept speaking Chinese anyway. Almost two decades older, they’re right. I would feel humilliated if a non-Asian person knew this language more fluently than I do, and now that I’m speaking Spanish, it does embarass when I’ve got to step in as the obvious Asian foreigner and speak on behalf of fumbling Chicanos. And even worse when I have to explain their history to them. Very bad impression.

Enlightenment 3: Germans aren’t really that hard-working compared to their infamous reputation, it’s just that most of Western culture says that because most Western countries confined to that little corner of Europe are comparatively lazier and less punctual. But it’s relative. I’ve never heard Canadians, Pakistanis, Japanese or Polish people think Germans work harder than the average. I don’t know. I think they work about normal…

 

Crime in Central America Should Have More Class

Quotes of today that made me think:

“You know. All of your actions and decisions today affect all your future generations…your children and your grandchildren.” –Michael

“Yo, no sé de los demás, pero yo siempre estoy en contra de los estados unidos.” A Honduran taxista who explained why he loved Mexico and hated the US.

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One thing that confronts many inexperienced gringo travelers (and some experienced ones) is the rampant occurence of petty crime: slashed bags, dishonest room maids, debit card fraud, you name it. In a single instant, all your money, your belongings, your memories stores in notebooks, cameras, and half-writen postcards are gone. Worse: your drivers’ license, your passport, visas, credit cards and all those documents that are a griping pain to replace–if you can get out of the country at all–are grabbed.

So when it happened to Claire, here in Central America, we ruefully laughed about how one of the hallmarks of a civilized society was the honest and considerate theif.

“Take my money, take my things, fine. But at least leave a single credit card and my documents!” she cried, “in England they’ll throw your bag somewhere so you have retrieve it later. It’s not the money, it’s the headache of getting it all back!”

“Yeah,” added Clementine from Stockholm, “I had my camera stolen on the beaches of Tunco, El Salvador, along with everything. They could have had the decency to leave the memory card so I could keep the pictures. Bastards!“

I had to laugh a little. I remember when my bag was stolen once in Cambridge, MA, and imagine my delight and surprise when the thief actually mailed back all the contents to my address minus the cash. (S/he found my address through the school directory.) Priority mail, too. I lost about $400, but that act of thoughtfulness in fact made me feel warm and fuzzy inside…like the sense that American thieves care. So we traded stories that night, between the US, England, and Sweden…as imperfect as our societies may be, we do raise proper and decent maladjusts and not the barbarian pickpockets and bag-slashers who had made Claire’s life miserable, who didn’t even have the courtesy to select things that were useful to them and leave the rest alone!

“Yeah, because I gather most people can recover from a stolen camera, but it’s the memories!” joked Mike, from Manchester. “You know if they’re going to take the camera, I’d be like, ‘Wait, wait, hold on, I’ve got a few blank memory cards in my bag, let me just replace them and off you go, just give me my old card back!’”

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And thus, I concluded that while I didn’t like crime, the sort I despised the most was the stupid, delinquent crime that plagues some of the uneducated recesses of the masses. It was infinitely preferable to have highly organized and smart crime orchestrated by sophisticated operations (as opposed to the Beavis and Butthead variety.) First, because if there are huge sums of money being made by organized crime, mostly it doesn’t affect the average person who has nothing to do with the perpetrators. They don’t waste their time causing havoc among innocent passerbys because they know they can squeeze more extortion out of bigger jobs. And second, with the brilliance executed by organized crime rings (such as the Ocean’s 11 variety) you can actually admire their wit and intelligence, and even if you lose everything, you’ve lost it to someone more deserving, a rival worth talking about. Like losing to a Grand Master Chess Champion, it has dignity in it. And mostly the mara gangs in Guatemala, El Salvador, (or in Los Angeles and New York) are these kinds and if you know what you’re doing, they won’t bother you. Am I right?

But no, sadly, in many parts of the world, even the corruption is so blatantly retarded that not only do they have a higher failure rate and yield less bounty, but once one crime victim alerts the others, you’ve basically created a racial profile which is unprofitable to all involved. Why are people so short-sighted and narrow-minded?

I mean, people, don’t be stupid: if you’re going to steal, do it right!

—–

Note to self: I have noticed that of the American travelers I meet, they seem to 1) believe every single thing and 2) know nothing at all about the region they are traveling through. It’s a shockingly dangerous combination of ignorance, gullibility, and over-confidence.

In addition to repeating histories of Central American countries, I also find myself the person who is always translating and negotiating for groups of people at transport stations.

 

El Viajero

Remarkable, how this part of Nicaragua looks like the fertile savannahs of Tanzania. It is plains of verdant green and wide spaces with thatched huts, backed by mountains of azure that rise into the misty fog. It looks like a dream: warm, lush, verdant forest green and then lemongrass colours as far as the eye can see. Tropical rains come suddenly and showers the trees with its gift of warm water. Tierra desconocida, but so beautiful that it draws me to return again and again.

Nicaragua: land of volcanoes and vast lakes, largest country of Central America, and perhaps the place to breathe deeply and think of things because the earth is so fertile and productive your imagination becomes incensed. Nicaragua is the wild rugged west, child of the Sandanist revolutionaries, to killing fields, the dictatorships, such rich history and a place I could spend months relishing in…exploring. Tasting Nicaragua.

I feel so healthy here, vibrant even. Alive. My body pulses to the landscape with invigored energy to climb its volcanoes, to taste its downpour rain, to walk its colonial streets. Just being here, (finally here!) riding on the back of trucks, and feeling the warm Caribbean air on my skin, from coffee estancias to banana plantations. Visiting friends. There is a magnificent sunrise deep inside my soul radiating. I just love how this smile is barely kept from my face:

I am young, I am glorious. I am.

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Spanish Words of the Day: “halcón” falcon / “grandulóna” big guy / “pocilga” pigsty / “arcilla” clay

 

Wanderings

The part of Honduras bordering Guatemala was verdant green forests with Copán being far more impressive and charming than anything I could reasonably expect or demand. It made such a favorable first impression of Honduras. Along the way,  I have met the most respectable and most intelligent of El Salvadoreans, able to engage in politics and discuss ideals of family values, which is very different from Chiapas, Mexico.

Unfortunately, the ugly beach town  and the people of La Ceiba on the Caribbean coast took it all away, and after being price gouged and pushed around and handed choices of seedy cement hotels that weren’t worth their price, with suffocating humidity and trash everywhere, I am starting to believe that the Garifuna culture is one of my least favorite Mayan groups, and anywhere this Afro-Latin sect is gathered with pumping reggaeton and an idle laziness combined with overpriced services and drunkards all over the place…are the places I do not want to hang around. Even the Caribbean in the Honduran Sea is kind of brown and turgid.

(Check this out, there is even a warning on my internet cafe computer: Aviso, se exhorta al no uso de pagin as  web de pornografia en vista de que este lugar es visitado por niños y podian estar expuestos a tales programas en perjuicio de su formación integral.) GROSS…I’m so going to have to scrub my hands with soap after this. 

So backtrack to Tegucigalpa, and onward ho to Nicaragua.

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Interestingly, in some parts of Central America the Spanish is so strange. First, in addition to all the different vocabulary for all the basic things due to local Mayan influence, you have to use the formal ‘usted” a lot more, and even a form of ‘vos,‘ in which you end the verbs with a D. It sounds like Spanish of the Golden Age, back when all men were caballeros and women were damas, and I am glad I read classical Spanish literature so I can say ”venid pra ‘ca,” or “que decís?” or “¿conoced a este lugar?” and it sounds totally fancy and formal except for the fact that people are still pretty ignorant and illiterate around here and can’t spell anything correctly, so “bien benido al karebeño!” I can even use the verb ‘coger‘ again!! Imagine a mix of Elizabethan/Shakespearean with Ebonics…in Spanish. 

A lot of people speak English as well as Spanish due to US political and economical dominance of local Central American industries (today’s newspaper headlines reads: “Crisis en Wall Street Golpea a Honduras,” the welfare of Central America is inextricably linked to the US because of its exports of raw coffee, bananas, sugar, and some other controlled raw materials, and therefore US dollars are accepted as local currency) but even so, I have found that speaking fluent Spanish means you know what’s going on and they won’t rip you off as much. 

Today, I’ve had a lot of time to think. I really miss home. Took a few photos which I will post up later.

 

She loves it

“¿Viajas solita solita?” the guys thought I was brave, “¿¿Solita solita solita??“ –I had missed the bus and wound up thumbing it a portion, and taking a lot more detours through Guatemala to get to the border. On one van I was crammed with a bunch of kids leaning on me…three guys hanging out the car door while we drove across the verdant tropical landscape, we were swerving and I was within one inch of my life. Guatemalan drivers are gutsy, trying to beat each other on blind turns.

Ah but trip was gorgeous. The soul of Central America. Forests and millions of shades of green. A ghostly fog that veiled the landscape lighly over the hilltops. Snap snap. Tropical forest, dried fields of harvested corn, and tall trees against fertile mountains. Snap. Cowboy hats and two ladinos talking man to man atop a hay stack. The emerald shadows of palm fronds and stately cattle roaming. Snap.

Cobán, Honduras. It’s the most charming little town when you finally enter. I feel so alive, the extensive ruins and underground tunnels were magnificent and I can close my eyes and imagine the Mayan civilization walking here, the noblemen playing pelota, in the flourishing tropical fauna. We ambled through the forest and got bit by a hundred mosquitos, and saw macaws and heard monkeys calling from far away. We crawled on the ancient stone edifices and touched the remnants of a great civilization. The sweat of the humidity in our breath. Better are the Honduran people…they are so sweet, and genuinely more honest and harder working than their neighbors to the north… maybe a little less so than El Salvadoreans. Oh yes, I’ll be back.

 

Another Day

I saw some jacaranda trees amidst the hanging potted fern today. And I remembered Aprils years back on the college campus when all the trees were raining light purple flowers for weeks, the breeze would rain jacaranda flowers eveywhere and under the trees, and the grass was covered with crushed soft purple. Those were timeless moments.

…In the hot afternoons, I am reading one book on the historic USA involvement in Central America… and another exemplifying Zen philosophies and teachinges. On one hand, reading about North American intervention and political stronghold in a region that most Americans barely understand. The other book, a collection of oriental parables in which tranquility and composed response to loss and disappointment. The combination of reading both is a feeling of enlightenment and wisdom, not just in aggregating knowledge but how we respond to some of the most cruel and brutal violence that man is capable of. But also maintaining moderation and integrity in the midst of atrocious chaos.

And its funny, whenever I start to be cynical and negative about life, it always seems that there are examples of goodness that pop into my life. That people really do help you out, that strangers do care about you, that examples of kindness are never far.

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Good Links:

• 7 Ways To Have The Greatest Day of Your Life
• History and Nature of Male Friendships