The one thing they have in common is the unofficial marketing campaigns between Coca-Cola and Pepsi, and another between rival cell phone companies that plaster cities both small and large. Corner store signs, concrete walls, sides of buildings, bridges, and every other empty façade is tagged with official signage. I wonder how it got there. I can imagine a fleet of Coco-Cola (who is winning 2:1) and Pepsi workers making their way up Central America, paint brushes in hand transforming grey concrete to works of commercial art.
Our bus arrives in San Salvador at 1am instead of 10pm after the three hour delay. We choose the hostel in Lonely Planet that’s closest to the terminal and ask a taxi driver to take us. Surprisingly he tells us we can walk, which is the last thing I planned on doing in the early morning hours in the streets of San Salvador. After double checking the directions for the fourth time, this isn’t the time to get lost, we head out. We ring the bell at the first hostel to which they open the window and tell us it’s booked. We find a cheaper, albeit probably smaller room across the street. We check in for the night and as we’re walking towards the door I realize we don’t have the key. I ask the owner, who is now walking back to his room, who responds, “Key. Really, you going anywhere?” It’s true, I respond, knowing we’ll be checked out first thing in the morning.
We spend the next morning in San Salvador. Each taxi takes us to the wrong place or has no idea where we’re trying to go. We quickly figure out the bus system which is slow but costs only pennies to the dollar of a taxi. We go to the mall, backpacks and all, where we are stared down by everyone we pass. Joee gets his glasses tightened and a long sleeved shirt (he failed to realize that tank tops and board shorts weren’t enough for the five weeks) and I stocked up on Dramamine. From there we couldn’t get out of the city quick enough.
We heard rumors that surfing along the Pacific coast of El Salvador was good. We also heard rumors that it was horrible and the rocky shores were no place for a beginner to learn. Instead of taking our chances we headed north to the highlands of Suchitoto, a small quiet town on the banks of the reservoir San Fransisco Lempa.
We passed the days hiking to a waterfall, creating our own official bar crawl through the main plaza, and ranking the local popusa stands. Popusas are probably the best thing the country has going for it. They’re corn tortillas filled with anything from beans and cheese to elaborate seafood combinations, and they are delicious.
We stayed in a small makeshift guesthouse with a great view of the water and the biggest bugs I've ever encountered. The four rooms were divided by freestanding walls and the roof looked like it was made out of link-n-logs. We didn’t pay much attention to the fact that you could see the sky in between the beams until we came home after a particularly torrential downpour to find our bed and many of belongings soaked. It was late and I didn’t feel like waking up the owner so we flipped the mattress and stole sheets off another bed that was unoccupied.
The Competition
After a total of three nights in El Salvador we had more than enough. I’m sure the country has plenty to offer between the Ruta de las Flores, supposed great surfing locations, amongst what I assume are other worthy attributes, but sometimes it’s hit or miss and we missed.
We also missed the deadline to book a seat on the nicer bus out of El Salvador so we decided to chicken bus our way to the Caribbean coast of Honduras. Chicken buses are converted school buses, some still sporting the name of the Philadelphia school district they used to belong to, others pimped out beyond recognition including intricate murals and brightly colored paint jobs, custom lighting, and subwoofers in the back. All are tweaked to include a rear door, which often has a small teenage boy hanging out of it, yelling the next destination to passersby and signaling stops with earsplitting whistles to the driver. If there are any safety precautions, I missed them. The boys take turns challenging daring stunts of stupidity hanging out the doors, each outdoing the next, one hand barely missing cars as the bus driver makes equally as daring passes along two lane roads.
A Very Empty Chicken Bus
At each stop locals fill the already packed aisle ways to hustle everything from fresh fruit and vegetables, juice and sodas poured into plastic sandwich bags, sandwiches to fried chicken. The vendors range from young children to old men and women, each competing to sell more or less the exact same thing as the pusher before them. I try not to buy anything from the kids, telling myself they should be in school. I don’t know if this is for better or for worse, but it’s what I do. Although it takes three hours longer than the luxury bus it’s an experience, and it’s not like we really have anywhere to be.
Chicken Buses
Between all of the stop and go, ear splitting whistles, constant chatter from the vendors, and mountain roads I end up taking a lot of Dramamine. The down side being it makes me drowsy, but I have to stay awake because Joee’s Spanish isn’t the best and I need to keep an eye on my bag. The fun side is that some great things come out of my mouth in my Dramamine induced state. For example, I will say the exact same sentence multiple times with no recollection of having said it out loud only moments before. Or the following conversation:
Me: “Joee have you ever seen the movie The Boy in the Striped Pajamas?”
Joee: “No.”
Me: “It’s this really sad movie about these two boys who become friends during the Holocaust. One is the son of a Nazi and the other is in a penetration camp.”
Joee: “A penetration camp?”
Me: “Yeah penetration camp… No. That’s not right.”
Ten minutes later
Me: “What are those called again?”
Joee: “Concentration camps, sweetheart. Concentration camps.”
I will let you fill in the endless and relentless stream of “Penetration Camp” jokes that immediately followed.
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