On the Outside, Looking In

When our time was up at Costa del Sol, we were more than ready to move on. We needed a break from our break.

Sure, the beach area is nice. But we felt isolated from the very thing we came here to find in the first place. I started to feel guilty just for being here.

Before we left, we noticed a boy who parked his bicycle on the beach and began walking toward us. He had trinkets to sell, and quickly zeroed in on my dear wife.

I'm not sure if Michele actually liked the stuff he was slinging, or if she just felt like giving him a break. But she took the bait and bought a couple of bracelets.

This would be the one and only time we were ever approached like this at Costa del Sol. You're much more likely to be mobbed with hucksters in places like Cancun or Costa Rica. But El Salvador remains mostly unspoiled by the ugly engines of consumerist, ticky-tacky tourism. The daiquiri-swilling gringos have not yet arrived here in masses.

But I can tell it's just a matter of time. This country - the land, the coast - is too beautiful, too breathtaking. I'm a real estate agent, and I see too many broken-down shacks here that offer exactly the same jaw-dropping views that fetch millions in California or far west Austin.

El Salvador, I am told, has changed tremendously since its civil war ended a dozen or so years ago. But it looks to me like the changes are just beginning.

There will be a bright future here, for a few. And yet I'm certain the inevitable boom in El Salvador tourism and real estate will be of little benefit to the vast majority of its people. That's how things have always worked here.

When it came to the quite fascinating subject of El Salvador, I was a typically clueless American up until a few months ago. I couldn't have even found this country on a map. But as we planned our trip, I started reading up.

Today, I know much more. Maybe too much.

Horrible things happened here more than two decades ago, and I'm sad to say U.S. fingerprints are all over it.

There I was in a Louisiana classroom those many years ago, innocently learning the alphabet and trying not to wet my pants, blissfully unaware that El Salvador's poor and their church leaders were starting to organize against an oppressive system of feudalism.

While my top concern was whether Momma would be willing to spring for an Atari, Ronald Regan was gravely warning the grown-ups that evil communism was on the march in El Salvador. He - that is, we - spent millions of our tax dollars on guns and bullets to help the Salvadoran government's military kill its own people.

Before the war was over, over 80,000 civilians would die.

Even today, Uncle Sam still pulls the strings here, imposing his will on Salvadoran elections to ensure the ruling ARENA party continues its dominance.

The people of El Salvador can't control who's in charge of U.S. policy, yet so many of those decisions have a bigger direct impact on their lives than on our own. In this context, it seems particulary cruel that most of us who can vote don't bother. Very few are even paying attention.

Back on the beach, the kid with the trinkets lucked out again. Another woman at our hotel wanted a few necklaces, but was low on cash. She asked the kid to follow her to her table at the resort so she could grab her purse.

Walking together, they approached the line between the beach's sand and the resort's rear entrance. The kid came right up to the threshold, and then abruptly stopped.

The woman looked back at the boy and waved her arm, signaling him to keep following her.

"Come over here," she told him, still waving her hand inwardly. "My table's right here."

Nervously glancing over at the rifle-toting hotel guard, the boy didn't budge an inch. He knew the rules.

In this corner of Central America, there is a clear, bright line in the sand between the haves and have-nots. That line is much clearer, much bigger and much wider than in the United States.

There's a good reason why the wealthy few invest in thick exterior walls topped with razor wire and hire guards armed with assault rifles. In the pursuit of economic prosperity, the vast majority of people in El Salvador are just like that boy on the beach who sells trinkets from his bicycle: They are stuck in a system that perpeptually keeps them on the outside, looking in.

Bovines on the Beachfront

You don't see something like this every day at the beach. Michele and I were minding our own business, frolicking along the Costa del Sol beachfront. And then we noticed something odd in the distance. A herd of animals coming straight for us.

It's those local cows again, the ones that seem to roam freely all over town, seemingly belonging to no one in particular.

Yet about an hour or so after this photograph was taken, they appeared once again, this time walking in the other direction. It's as if their afternoon walk was done, and they were ready to march right back home. Maybe they do belong to someone, after all.

On its return trip down the beachfront, one of the cows got its horns caught up in the resort's volleyball net. After a minute or two, it found its way out and moved on.

Mardegueo's Estuary Tour

So there we were, stuck inside the well-secured walls of Hotel Pacific Paradise, still one full day away from joining our volunteer group in San Salvador. We started to wonder exactly what we would do with ourselves with all that spare time. You can take laps in the pool and sip pina coladas only for so long.

We asked the lady at the front desk if there were any good tours available. She suggested we check out the tour of the estuary that runs just behind the beach area of Costa del Sol. We shrugged and said, what the heck. Let's do it.

We're glad we did. It turned out to be an unforgettable experience.

The lady from the hotel (one of the few there who could muster a little bit of English for us gringos) kindly accompanied us for the 5-minute walk from the resort, across the street, and over to the boat launch. She was also nice enough to translate back and forth until we could settle on a price for our tour, which ended up being $35 total.

Mardogueo Ruelo, our guide for the afternoon, didn't speak a lick of English, and our grasp of Spanish is still abysmal. It didn't matter. He looked trustworthy enough. We crawled into his boat.

Motoring through the estuary, we felt a constant cool breeze on our face, and were thankful that Mardogueo's boat was covered, which helped shield our skin from the blistering sun.

Mardogueo seemed to know the area like the back of his hand. He was obviously proud of this estuario, his own personal slice of El Salvador.

He didn't care that we spoke almost zero Spanish. Several times along the way, he would point something out and give us the whole spiel in Spanish. We understood maybe 10% of what he was saying, and it was all my fault. Rueful thoughts began to race through my head: Dammit, I should have paid more attention in high school Spanish class back home in Shreveport. Why couldn't Mrs. May get it through my thick skull back then that I would really NEED to learn this language? Oh, I wish I had known then....

This would be one of the first of many, many times on this trip to El Salvador that these haunting regrets would race through my mind.

The estuary views were amazing. We saw a distant volcano. We saw a few of the locals hanging out by the water and taking a swim. Some kids were kicking around a soccer ball.

We felt like we had found something special, something not every visitor to this place gets to see. As the rest of the tourists basked in their purchased paradise alongside the fancy hotel's privately-owned beach, we were now clearly getting an insider's look at how the natives enjoy this beautiful area.

After about ten minutes, we had gotten quite far across the estuary into unrecognizable territory. A tinge of discomfort ran down our spine as we realized Mardogueo was stopping the boat. Worse yet, we also realized he was telling us to get off.

"Where is God's name is this man leaving us?" I asked Michele. She looked at me and shrugged.

We were about to find out. We had no choice. We jumped out of the boat, out shoes splashing in the shallow waters on the edge of the shoreline.

It appeared we were getting out in an area that offered not much more than a cluster of thatched-roof shacks.

A young woman appeared and invited us to take a seat at one of the plastic tables. It dawned on us that we had landed smack in the middle of another modest eatery, much like the pupusa stands alongside the road outside our hotel. But this one was situated along the water, offering a killer view. By golly, it was time for lunch. And Mardegueo had hooked us up, big time.

The woman's name was Alba. And like nearly everyone else in her wonderful country, she very graciously suffered through our clumsy attempt at conversation in Spanish. We settled on a plate of pescado frito (fried fish) and a few drinks. Before scurrying off to whip up our order, Alba invited us to enjoy the hammocks, a couple of which were conveniently hung within mere steps of our table.

As we lay in our hammocks, we looked up and took notice of the very intricate handiwork involved in putting together these thatched roofs. We couldn't take our eyes off the elaborately woven detail. It was beautiful.

And then the fish came out. Hoo boy, what a meal. We shared this one plate, and it was plenty. For those keeping score at home, those are fried tortillas on top of the fish. The entire fish was fried, head and all. When you're done eating the meat on one side of the fish, you just flip the thing over and eat the rest. There was some pico de gallo on the side, along with some fluffy rice and a sliced lime in the middle. And in the little blue cup on the side, lots of salt in which to dip each bite of tasty fried fish. A great combination. We were quite impressed.

Midway through our fish feast, we looked over and noticed Mardegueo never left us. He was catnapping in another hammock about twenty feet away. When it was all over, Alba charged us less than $5 for everything, and our guide woke up, loaded us back in the boat and continued the tour.

He guided the boat to another interesting part of the estuary -- an island where a large number of beautiful white birds were nesting throughout the trees.

The whole tour was fascinating, and lots of fun.

If you happen to be in the Costa del Sol area, we would highly recommend giving Mardegueo a buzz for a tour of your own. His cell number is 7323-3860.

If you can't speak Spanish, just be sure to hand the phone to someone who can. But once you're in the boat, have no fear. You'll be in excellent hands.

Sneaking Away from Paradise

As we milled about within the well-fortified walls of Hotel Pacific Paradise, I started to get a little antsy. What exactly were all those armed guards and curly razor-wires protecting us from? What kind of mortal danger awaited us on the outside?

The curiosity was killing me. I couldn't stand it any longer.

I turned to my beautiful wife, and sweetly suggested that we sneak out. This is exactly the kind of bone-headed decision my mother was worried about.

The whole idea of making a break for it started with a conversation over dinner. Our kind hotel waiter, Santos, mercifully granted my request for a side order of tortillas -- the very thick, greasy, corn-based version that is common all across El Salvador, but hard to find in Texas.

Pointing to the awful, gummy American-style dinner rolls they trotted out with our meal, I asked Santos, "Would you eat that?"

"No," he smiled, then pointed over to the tortillas. "Comemos las tortillas." We eat the tortiallas.

I decided right then and there -- it was time to sneak out. We needed to escape from this "paradise." We wanted the real El Salvador, to eat what real people on the streets were eating.

We were ready for pupusas.

Pupusas are to El Salvador what the tamale is to Mexico, what rice is to Korea, what barbeque and breakfast tacos are to south Austin. They are the staple food of this country. They're thick, hand-made corn tortillas usually stuffed with white cheese, or sometimes even pork, beans or chicken.

My mouth watered just thinking about it. It was time to make our move.

In the dark of night, we snuck out of the hotel compound (OK, OK, really, we didn't have to "sneak"), past the armed guard stationed at the gate, and walked directly across the street to a place called Pupuseria Yessica.

A stern-looking middle-aged woman stood behind the griddle, eyeing us suspiciously. She spoke no English, and seemed to be in no mood to deal with ignorant gringos.

"Yessica?" we asked.

"No," she finally cracked somewhat of a smile. "Me llama Marie Elena."

Yessica, it turned out, was the name of her young daughter playing nearby, perhaps the girl who would someday take over this pupuseria.

We weren't sure exactly what to order, but somehow it all worked out. It wasn't long before Marie Elena started churning out the pupusas right before our eyes.

She made each one by hand, carrying out every step of the recipe in a methodic rhythm. First, she'd grab a small handful of sticky prepared masa, throwing the ball against the palm of each hand a few times. Dipping her fingers in a nearby bowl of water to keep them from sticking to the dough, she then formed a ridge in the middle of the masa ball and stuffed some cheese into it. She then carefully folded the edges of the circle over toward the center to cover the cheese before finally flattening out the concoction and frying it on both sides.

The pupusas came off the grill, hot, greasy, filled with steaming melted white cheese. Just a humdrum culinary staple of El Salvador, and yet my eyes are popping out of my head with anticipation.

Michele and I happily gorged. And there stood Marie Elena, watching proudly as her American guests moaned and grunted their approval. As far as Marie Elena was concerned, the ice was now broken. We were in. The language barrier was shattered, and we suddenly became very welcome visitors.

I also became officially hooked. Where have these pupusas been all my life?

We snuck out again the next night, determined to score yet again on my newfound jones for pupusas. I was horrified to find Marie Elena had taken the night off. We walked about a quarter of a mile down the road, and were happy to find Pupuseria Rosy.

Rosy is the head cook and namesake of this modest roadside eatery, and it's not just Rosy's business. It's also home for her, her husband, and her three kids (really cute kids, all pictured below).

As Rosy cooked, her husband decided to try out his English on us. He'd been taking lessons over the past two months, and was happy to practice on someone. For a guy with only two months' worth of lessons, he was pretty good.

Then it was time to eat. And Rosy's pupusas were fantastic.

Pupusas are traditionally served with curtido - a pickled cabbage relish containing hot peppers - and a warm, spicy tomato sauce.

After our first few bites, it started to rain. Then it rained harder, then even harder. Rosy protected her propane-fueled griddle from the blowing rain by moving it a little further in. She also pushed a few of the wooden tables closer toward the middle of the dining area.

We noticed Rosy's husband had disappeared. "Donde es su esposo?" I asked.

Rosy said he works at a marina just down the road, and when bad weather moves in, he has to get over there to make sure everything's okay.

And then, just when it seemed it couldn't rain any harder, it did. Michele started getting nervous.

By the time the thunder, lightening and blowing rain had subsided, we had gone through eight pupusas, two orange sodas and two beers. Rosy's total bill for us came to just under $5.

We thanked Rosy and said adios to her three wonderful, precocious kids.

The quarter-mile walk back to our hotel was in total darkness. Michele held my arm tight, and told me she was a little scared. Our eyes squinted far down the road toward the only visible light - that of the brightly-lit hotel sign at the front gate.

As we walked down the wet road, we noticed the sounds of several upbeat voices echoing through the streets, each one coming from the open doors and windows of pitch-dark buildings that appeared to have no electricity.

It was another reminder of the poverty-stricken world that waited outside the fortified walls of Hotel Pacific Paradise. And we knew we hadn't seen anything yet.

Land of Assault Rifles

One of the most interesting things about this country is the assault rifles.

They hang off the shoulders of cops, private security guards and military personnel, and these guys are standing around everywhere you look. They're in the street, on the beach, and in front of the stores. The fancy beach resort we first stayed at even had these mean-looking dudes posted at the front gate around the clock.

I've offered a kind-hearted "hola" to many of them, and they would smile and say something polite back like, "buenas dias." Most of them seem nice enough. A couple of the heavily-armed young men were even nice enough to pose with me and Michele at one of the orphanages we visited. (Why the hell are these guys posted at an orphanage? We were told they were guarding some of the kids' valuable supply of HIV medicine, plus this particular children's home was pretty darn close to a maximum security prison. Good answer, I thought.)

I sort of learned by accident that these menacing-looking gun-toters are actually the best people to ask for directions to the nearest eatery or whatever. They're more than happy to point them out using one of their free hands.

A retired flight attendant and frequent visitor to El Salvador told me over lunch one day that it's actually much different these days. Several years ago, she tells me, the sight of these rifle-strapped men was much more common in El Salvador. I can't imagine that.

Pacific Paradise

Our Salvadoran reality trip came to a sudden stop when the cab took a right turn onto the long driveway leading to the Pacific Paradise Hotel resort.

Seeing this place for the first time was a disorienting jolt from the very different world that clearly existed just beyond the front gates.

For $75 a night, you can take laps in the spacious resort pool, have your waiter bring out an overpriced plate of mostly Americanized food, or simply sit and stare at the privately-owned beachfront, as you sip a $4 pina colada. It's a grand trip to the other El Salvador.

On this particular day, we felt very alone. Where were all the other guests? Who knows. There were always only a couple of familiar faces each time we sat outside. It was only on our last day at Pacific Paradise when a tour bus suddenly showed up to dump a busload of American-looking guests, finally breathing some life into this very pristine but lonely place.

First Impressions

Before we got started with the actual "mission" part of our journey, Michele and I decided to fly into El Salvador's main airport, near the capital city of San Salvador, a couple of days early to get our bearings and take a look around.

Our local guide suggested we take a 45-minute taxi ride from the airport to Costa del Sol, one of El Salvador's resort beach areas.

The whole cab ride was a jarring, fast-moving blur of fascinating images. Ramshackle food and beverage stands lined the roadside almost during the entire 45-minute trip, their roofs consisting of either cheap scap metal, or thatched-together palm tree leaves. We would discover that this is a common roadside feature all across El Salvador.
We also noticed a large number of bicyclists and pedestrians, people who very likely had no other mode of transportation.

And we were surprised to see so much livestock -- cattle, horses, pigs -- seemingly roaming free along the streets. "Who owns these animals?" we wondered. "Do they just always know to stay close to home, or are they somehow community property?" In some places, our driver had to stop and honk, waiting for the animals to clear the road.