El Salvador with Mama

Mama (Bucher’s mother) arrived for her annual visit full of plans for the two of us to make a three-day trip to El Salvador like the one we made to Guatemala some years ago. Surprisingly, we could get almost no information about the country anywhere in town. The Salvadoranean honorary consul here is the proprietor of a liquor store who, judging by his daily appearance, drinks more than he sells. With some difficulty, he focused his bleary eyes on me when I went in about our visas. He mumbled that no one had sent him any pamphlets recently…not for two or three years. He did manage to give us the visas, which, much to our surprise, were actually in order. But as an asset to tourism in Salvador, I think old José has to be counted out.

The library was able to dig up two or three books, vintage 1924, that mentioned Salvador and I skimmed them to get a little geographical and historical background. Finally one of Bucher’s friends produced a quite invaluable book on the country written just for tourists…not a pamphlet, but a full-size book. This gem gave lengthy background on the country plus some data on arts and crafts, summaries of natural scenic spots, and a little information on the towns and villages.

So off we flew, without reservations, without even the name of a good tourist agency, but with Endless Faith.

The flight down is lovely, first along the British Honduras coast, with the blue and green and aqua bay below, dotted with mangrove islands and coconut cays, the reef, and then finally, from Honduras on, endless ridges of mountains all the way over to San Salvador, the capital city.

 

Health, Immigration, and Customs were quick and simple. Once inside the rather large airport lobby, I enthroned Mama in a high-backed, heavily carved, leather-cushioned chair to watch our suitcases while I went to the airport’s branch bank. I changed our money at the pleasant rate of two and a half Salvadoranean colones to one U.S. dollar. Next, I asked at the airport’s government tourism office for some information.

Out of nowhere appeared an eager man with excellent English who seemed determined to whisk us away to his hotel. Since we already had been advised which hotels would suit us best, I was not to be swayed. But he wasn’t one to give up. He tried to call a tourist agency for us, but when I threatened to escape while he was telephoning, he made do with simply giving me its name. Then he called us a cab and told the driver to take us to each of the hotels in turn and, as soon as we had seen that they weren’t the kind for obvious gentlewomen like ourselves, to take us on to his own hotel. As soon as we were safely under way, I explained to the driver that we had no intention of doing anything of the sort and simply to drive us to the Astoria.

When we alighted at the Astoria, we found that every room was filled with basketball players there from all over Central America for a tournament. They kindly called our next choice, the Nuevo Mundo, where we were promised a room.

The Nuevo Mundo is right in the center of San Salvador, somewhat old fashioned but gracious, with excellent service and fine meals. It is owned and operated by Mrs. Van Buren, a charming French woman, widow of a Dutchman, who escaped ahead of the Germans during the war and moved to Salvador where much of her family lives. She was an elegant lady, graciousness personified, and couldn’t have been lovelier to us. She not only changed rooms so that Mama would have only one flight of stairs to climb, but also visited with us. She even gave us a card to her club, one of the elegant ones Salvador is known for, so that we could have one evening seeing the elite of Salvador, whom you simply do not run into otherwise. Landing at her hotel was a great stroke of luck.

 

We arrived at noontime, had lunch, and then set out for the tourist agency to which my enthusiastic friend had directed us. We found out later it was the best in town and it certainly was a fine, substantial-looking place. Since we already had moved into an hotel, we could not take one of their package tours, which included hotel accommodations elsewhere. But with the help of the young man at the desk, we worked out two and a half days of touring, which actually let us see much more than their package-deal managed. He was in something of a jam trying to find a guide for us, and tried several before one appeared.

I feel sure that our Enrique is a fine guide. He couldn’t have been more thoughtful, a better driver, or more pleasant personally. But I bet that he is not usually sent with English-speaking tourists. He speaks adequate English, though I think he doesn’t understand it as well has he speaks. He could understand me perfectly and I could go into Spanish when necessary. But in all the time we were with him, I doubt he and Mama ever understood one word that the other said. On the few occasions that they tried to converse, I was almost convulsed because the answers to questions never had the slightest relationship to what had been asked.

I had to repeat every word Enrique said. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by making him think his English was inadequate, so I explained my repetitions as due to Mama’s slight deafness. (I explained in Spanish, so I didn’t hurt her feelings). It was fascinating.

 

The first afternoon, Enrique drove us all around San Salvador. It is a large, modern, clean, lovely city of, he said, around 200,000 people.

We had heard much about the handful of vastly wealthy families in Salvador and the peonage of the balance of the population. So we were not prepared either for the large, attractive middle class, or for the miles and miles of stunning public housing for the “poor workers,” the “poor teachers,” and the “poor civil servants,” to quote Enrique. Much of this housing consisted of charming-looking duplexes in lovely grounds, terraced on the side of a mountain. Each housing group had recreation grounds, ball grounds, picnic area, outdoor dancing area, and usually one or two or three swimming pools. Enrique said a family living there paid thirty colones (us$12) per month for a home and would own it at the end of ten years.

We did see the most ramshackle hovels, too, but quite obviously the country has done more in recent years to try to equalize life than is generally mentioned in the press.

The city of San Salvador is situated in a valley surrounded by mountains and dominated by an extinct volcano. Enrique told us that Indians have moved into the crater and have their homes and tiny farms there, getting out to the rest of the world by trails winding up to the rim and then back down the mountains.

Our drive wound up into the mountains overlooking the city and at one point we could see past the first ridge to Lake Ilopango, a volcanic lake, and off in another direction to the Pacific.

We had heard a lot about the lovely homes in Salvador, but nothing prepared us for the size and magnificence of them. Enrique told us happily that many of them cost two million colones or more (call it us$800,000). Not only were there elegant mansions in elaborate estates, but also there were dozens and dozens of lovely homes that would have been mansions in almost any other city. All were done in perfect taste with imaginative decoration but without the “early modern horrors” of Guatemala, and with the loveliest planting imaginable. Each was different, each was handsome in its own way, and each added to the elegance of a spectacular residential section.

We returned from our drive around five in the afternoon. Mama went up to the room for a rest and I dashed off in search of the public market. It was only a few blocks away, so I had a lovely prowl through it, buying nothing but stopping to chat with the vendors here and there, asking about their goods in my apparently comprehensible Spanish.

 

The morning of our first full day in Salvador, Enrique called for us promptly at nine and drove north on our sightseeing trip. The highways in Salvador are quite properly famous throughout Central America. Many are four-lane boulevards, and even off through the more distant parts of the country they are well graded, well maintained blacktop. Furthermore, the side roads off the Pan American Highway are almost equally good, so that you can travel in great comfort.

The drive was lovely, past endless coffee fincas (plantations), fields of sugar cane, and ranches; in and out of mountains; and through fertile valleys where every inch of arable soil was under cultivation.

Just outside the city we stopped to see Los Chorros, one of the many natural beauty spots that the government has cultivated primarily for the enjoyment of the people rather than for tourists. It is a waterfall, high on the mountain, which has been directed and caught into a series of three natural pools, edged by irregular walks of native stone so that you can climb all the way up or swim in any of the pools. Even the sheer rock cliff has been planted with tiny red flowers, which cling to each crevice or bit of soil. A series of caves on the opposite side are being reinforced and will house a small restaurant eventually. Lovely gardens have been made on the terraces, and the whole site is charming.

We drove all around in Santa Ana, the country’s second city, surprised at its size, modern buildings, and many schools.

We drove on through other towns to the Mayan ruins of El Tazumal. They are small but well excavated and restored; a small museum full of artifacts is established to one side. Salvador was sort of on the edge of the Mayan empire and never had the heights of civilization that were reached in Guatemala and Mexico.

We back-tracked to Lake Coatepeque, a very popular resort where most of the wealthy Salvadoreños have resort homes. Believe me, the word “cottage” does not apply. Most of them were estates with a great rambling tile-roofed home and several smaller houses clustered to one side of an estate-sized yard. Often there were swimming pools, large boathouses down on the lake shore, and elaborate concrete dock-side terraces. Furthermore, there was a resort for Enrique’s “poor workers” also…a large establishment with row after row of motel-type accommodations on terraces leading down to the lake, ball grounds, outdoor bandstand, dance pavilion, three swimming pools, and restaurant. The members of the Social Security Institute (which, I gather, the workers join, though it obviously is a government-sponsored thing) are eligible to go there for a day or a weekend, free, and just sign up for the time they want.

We had lunch at the most run-down, third-class-looking lakeside hotel. However, when we ignored the shabby, ordinary tables and building and looked instead at the pretty lake front…and tasted the divine food…we were impressed in spite of ourselves. The lake is volcanic, set down in a hollow surrounded by mountains and volcanoes, with two little lava peninsulas jutting out into it. Our lunch began with crab soup, which we were told was a specialty. It was brownish and thick, with the small brown crabs floating whole in it, nicely seasoned and quite delicious. Then we had lake fish, which we think was bass, beautifully fried whole. At that point, when we were completely full, they brought on a strange-looking, thin steak that we didn’t know had been ordered. We picked at it out of politeness but found it so tender and so beautifully cooked that we ended up eating that, too.

The highpoint of that day was the moment on the return trip when Enrique pointed out the Pro-TEST-ant church. Since he had spent the entire day showing us an uninterrupted sequence of Catholic churches and schools, Mama commented and asked what denomination it was. She asked about her own Presbyterians and some other denominations and he agreed that they had those in El Salvador. Then I asked if they had Anglicans (that being, usually, the more quickly understood name outside the U.S. for Episcopalians). Enrique hesitated a moment, obviously bitterly upset at having to disappoint me, and said, “No, no Anglicans”…and adding with inspiration…“We have Masons.”

 

We were home around four…Mama went in for her rest…and I headed for a new and larger market I had spotted on our drive. I have fairly good city sense and, orienting myself carefully, I walked straight to my new market.

It was marvelous. This time I could not resist buying some of the sweets that (according to my book and my own observation) are such a matter of pride to the vendors. There were stall after stall and basket after basket heaped with an amazing assortment of candies. Some are made of icing sugar like the flowers on a wedding cake, in the most elaborate designs, accented by touches of vegetable (I hope) coloring. Others are obviously coconut or a sort of marzipan. Another, pulled like taffy and twisted into a flat coil about four inches long and oval, is made of cane syrup and is delicious.

Each stop gave me a chance to have a little conversation and if I didn’t start one, the vendor would. They all wanted to know where I was from and where fascinated in my dual homes.

My main target at the market was a series of stalls around the far corner where I had seen masses of earthenware, which is one of their few native products. Salvador has almost no textile craft the way Guatemala does, and ceramics are its main art. What I found in the market, of course, was fairly rough stuff for local use, ranging from the enormous water jugs and cooking pots down to plates and cups and saucers. In recent years they have been using potter’s wheels so I had to do a lot of looking to find a few pieces made completely by hand in the old way.

I finally located a basket of what I wanted, up a few steps on the way into the cavernous and forbidding interior of the market, and I pounced. The owner came up to see what I wanted and then her daughter joined us. The little girl must have been around seven, slim, pretty, with long tangled black hair and sparkling black eyes. She understood just what I wanted and pawed through the basket unearthing things faster than I could carry them over to a safe place to make my selection. I picked out a few smallish things that would do as ashtrays or just bric-a-brac, and bought them. It still was a fairly good sale, I rather assume. This was accomplished by much conversation, exclamations of delight to make the little girl happy, and much chit-chat. Meanwhile, a gallery had gathered. People were standing around three and four deep grinning, giggling, offering suggestions, and generally enjoying the show. By the time I left, I felt like Helen Hayes at the end of a First Night.

 

Our second day’s tour took us near the Volcano of Izalco, which dominates much of the countryside and most of the written materials about the country. The government built a lovely resort hotel on the mountain just across from Izalco so that tourists could see its constant erruptions…brightly orange clouds by day and dazzling fireworks by night…and then, after about a century of constant glory, Izalco when to sleep. The hotel is closed now and probably will be reopened whenever Izalco gets back in business. Anyway, it was a disappointment not to be able to see it.

We drove by another natural park with mineral swimming pool where a husky Salvadorenean man was giving swimming lessons to about twenty tiny black-haired boys.

I was excited about going through the Indian village of Izalco, remembering the fascinating market at Chichicastenango in Guatemala. Salvador has very few pure Indians left, around 7% of the population in comparison to Guatemala’s 85%. Most of the natives are Spanish-Indian mixtures and wear modern dress. So going to Izalco was the great treat.

Well, we turned off a dusty, bumpy road and jolted our way, rock by rock, up a hill, past fields white with the dust and men working with machetes, around a turn, up a steeper hill. It was hot. It was dusty. It was unbearable. The street turned into cobblestones just as I was giving up hope of Mama’s being able to endure it, and we were in the village. It was the usual blank adobe walls with fading pastel paint and, through the small doorways, the usual dingy shops or glimpses of courtyards beyond. We turned again, past an old Colonial Church, and I began anticipating visiting the market, the interesting Indians, and my many fascinating native purchases. At that point we went past the plaza, saw a few deserted stalls, and in a moment were on a paved road and speeding out of town. Mama looked at me, I looked at her, and we both hooted.

A short time later we did drive around Sonsonate, the head town of the district, and in the market there Enrique pointed out a mere three Indians in native dress, who he said came from Izalco.

From there we drove on to the port of Acajutla on the Pacific, then back along the Carretera del Litoral, a highway that eventually will stretch along the coast through all of Central America. We had heard so much about it that we felt miserable to realize that we rode through hot level plains just out of sight of the ocean. After our disappointment with Izalco, we knew we were jinxed that day; Enrique sustained our depression by answering Mama’s question about when we would see the Pacific by saying when we reached La Libertad (our lunchtime destination).

A few moments later we wound up into the mountains and suddenly, far below us, the brilliant blue and peaceful Pacific was breaking in a foamy line in coves at the foot of the hills. It was breathtaking. From that point, the highway curved back and forth along the coast in a series of hairpin curves sharp enough to make each new vista a jolting glory but not sharp enough to make the drive itself anything but comfortable. The road is well graded, with cuts of one- and two-hundred feet in the rock wall at places, and with six tunnels of varying lengths. In some places we could see wide stretches of black volcanic sand with the waves rolling in on them. In other places the mountain vanished into the surf and the water had cut caves and towers of rock out of the mountainside. It was the most magnificent drive imaginable.

Our lunch that day was in the oceanside resort of one of the largest private clubs in Salvador. It is stunningly modern and quite elegant with terrazzo floor, plantings, large swimming pool and smaller children’s pool, lovely bar, much open-but-covered patio area, and an enormous and well equipped dressing room with an entrance directly onto the waterfront. We had taken a picnic lunch (put up by our hotel) and got cokes there. There wasn’t a guest in sight in the middle of the week, but about seven men on the staff were standing at the back watching TV. They have some locally produced shows and buy regular U.S. programs, such as Perry Mason, with Spanish dialog. I believe they have seven TV stations.

The pool was being cleaned so we decided to swim in the Pacific. Enrique had his suit with him so we assumed he would join us. Mama had flat shoes but I was wearing walking heels, so I set off for the beach barefooted. As soon as I got near it, I remembered that it would be hot, being black. But I did not know that I would practically sear the bottoms off my feet just running to the water. I nearly died, it hurt so.

There was quite a surf and, not knowing the water or the tides, we were afraid to venture out. The Red Cross poster in the dressing room had given the “hours of least danger,” which is not a reassuring way to word it, and they were some six hours earlier. So we just splashed about in the surf without trying to pass the breakers. Enrique, meanwhile, had let us two helpless females loose on the ocean and had taken himself a siesta. I do think he was a bit remiss since we might have been swept off to Tokyo if we hadn’t been water-wary.

For the record, neither Mama nor I is impressed with black sand. They can say all they want about there being less glare for your eyes, but think of the burn you get on your feet just getting near the stuff. Furthermore, no matter how often you remind yourself that sand is clean, that stuff swirling around in the surf still looks like mud. And with the shade of skin that we happen to have, it is disgustingly visible when you come out and you look like refugees from a coal heap. All in all, I’ve bathed in the Pacific now, I’ve enjoyed the fabulous black sand, and I’m going back to my nice coral-trimmed Caribbean and silver-sanded Gulf, thank you.

 

I dashed back to My Market, of course, as soon as we returned to the city. This time, I even ventured inside; my earlier forays were simply among the stalls crowding the sidewalks surrounding the market. It was like Dante’s Inferno. I was swallowed up by the endless chain of its interior caves, tiny black stalls on each side of an eight-inch aisle, each with a smoky fire, big cooking pot, and one or two people sitting around eating some interesting-looking mess and staring at me.

I followed my first path as far as it would go and ended up with a naked native boy taking a shower under a hose in an unexpected opening. I back-tracked, turned down another narrow aisle, extremely dubious but sure that eventually I could find my way out if my nerves demanded it. I could see that I was approaching an open area of the sort I expected, where fresh and smoked meats and vegetables would be sold, so I paused for a moment, attracted by a couple of parrots. A crone thrust a flapping hen at me, asking if I wanted to buy it, and I recoiled in surprise. I explained that I was looking for certain items…Chintz dolls carved roughly of wood and painted brightly, and decorated gourds; these are two of the few native crafts left.

A very attractive young woman took over the conversation, started to tell me where to go, and then dashed off, beckoning me to follow. She led me outside the market (to my enormous relief) and back to a stall I’d passed three times. There a huddled old wisp of a woman, who looked ten years older than God, presided over a great heap of all the things I was looking for. She was just as chatty as could be, poked around and found the things I wanted, and my friendly guide stayed there to make sure we understood each other and that I wasn’t overcharged. The usual gallery gathered to enjoy the show, and I left with a large market bag crammed with things, principally for children, mine and Mama’s other grandchildren. My total expenditure was around us$1.00.

Mama was so pleased with my finds that she sent me back the first thing the next morning and I got another bagful, to my ancient friend’s delight.

That evening we went to Mrs. Van Buren’s club for dinner…elegant surroundings and divine food, perfectly served. The following noon we returned to Belize.