PilgrimDance

Celebrating the journey with words and pictures

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Pupusas

El SalvadorPeru

Monday September 2, 2019

San Salvador, El Salvador, to Lima, Peru

Pupusas in Olocuilta

Numbers 20:22-29 

v. 25-26  [The Lord said,] “Get Aaron and his son Eleazar and take them up Mount Hor. Remove Aaron’s garments and put them on his son Eleazar, for Aaron will be gathered to his people; he will die there.”  So Aaron was “gathered to his people” and went to heaven, which is ultimately a better thing for God’s people than life on earth, and Moses stayed to finish the work God had given him in this life.  Lord, I thank you for the trip we are about to take to the Andes.  It’s already been an adventure on our “practice climb” and “practice ruin” in El Salvador.  Please don’t let yesterday’s hospital visit be “practice medical treatment” for us in Peru.  Please walk with us on our journey and bring us safely home to finish the work you’ve given us in our lives.

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Chris’ street

The embassy was a no-go.  Really too bad.  Chris made French toast and we looked up yesterday’s mystery animal.  Capybara? said Chris.  That’s the name we were thinking of but the capybara looked too fat and snout-nosed.  Our botanical garden animal seemed to be an agouti.  Really?  Who has ever heard of an agouti?

Maurice and I folded our laundry and finished packing. Chris watered his grass wall.  We all had time to use our gadgets.

Chris watering the grass wall that came with his house

Finally Chris said, “Well, do you want to go to the pupuseria on the way to the airport?”  Well, of course!  I didn’t know how I could go back home and tell my pizza-making buddy Jose that I didn’t eat any pupusas in El Salvador.

Chris’ house is at about 3000 feet and the road is downhill all the way to the airport.  We turned off in Olocuilta, a crossroads lined with pupuserias and brightly painted tree trunks. 

The approved place was the Pupuseria Olocuilteña, a long low green and white building. 

The grill was right on the road, under a roof but with no front wall. 

Behind it was a little shop with drinks and the cashier.  Farther along under the roof were several cramped seating areas with no space between the benches at the little tables lined against the walls.  It was hot.  We sat by the louvered front window wall where we could see two ladies at the stand across the street patting their own pupusas into shape and putting them on their grill.  Chris explained our order sheet and we each picked two pupusas.  I got one with beans, cheese and chives and one with spinach and cheese; the men were more inclined to meat.  Pupusas are sort of fat pancakes, two sealed together over the filling, and served with a jar of red sauce.  Chris said they’re usually finger food but he managed to get us plastic knives and forks.  There was also a big jug of a cole slaw-looking concoction.  Chris said it was vinegary, not something he cared for, but of course I tried it—to Maurice’s consternation.  It’s not cooked, he said.  It’s vinegar, I said.  Maybe even fermented.  I only tasted it, though, because once again he and Chris were right—we’re getting on a plane.  That’s also the reason I didn’t get the nut drink Chris ordered, horchata, which is too bad, because the sip I had from Chris was delicious.  

Pupusas, horchata and the top of the container of vinegary vegetables

Our lunch stop was a true cultural experience.  As we passed more painted trees trunks and left town I commented on a line of parked yellow school buses.  “They’re not school buses,” said Chris.  “They’re just buses sent from the US after their useful lifespan, waiting to get repurposed here.  Haven’t you noticed all the buses are repainted school buses?”  And colorfully painted too.  A little farther down the road was the exit for Chris’ favorite village-to-pronounce:  Zacatecaluca.  Oh, yes, that is gratifying indeed.  Zacatecaluca.  Unfortunately it’s not someplace to go, having been designated one of the ten most dangerous municipalities in the country.  On we drove, past the dozens of coconut stands, and too soon we were at the airport.  We hopped out, grabbed the luggage, and since Chris was double-parked he said, “Can’t dawdle!” and gave us quick hugs and drove away.  No drawn out farewells here.

The plane quickly flew in a lovely arc over the coast and out to sea.  As darkness settled we wondered if the driver in Peru really was going to meet us, wondered if we really could hike at altitude and even breathe.  It was chilly so, before I laid the blanket over us, I zipped on my pantlegs.  I would have done it anyway before we landed, before the customs people saw my spotted legs and thought I was bringing typhoid into the country.  

Leaving El Salvador

Dinner was…bad.  We picked pasta; the sauce on the minuscule portion was way too salty and had unpleasant cheese sprinkled over the top.  Plus we had a salad.  “Are you going to eat that?” I asked Maurice as he poured on the dressing.  He’s usually the one after me about eating safely, and we’re not supposed to eat raw fruit or vegetables that you can’t peel.  Remember what Chris said about lettuce?—you just never know.  But this is an international flight.  Don’t they have standards?  But where did they get the lettuce?  Dinner was puny, we were short on vegetables and we wanted the salad.  I looked at that big chunk of tomato lying across the lettuce.  I decided to go for it and poured on some dressing.  When Maurice looked over at me I had eaten the tomato—it was the best thing about the flight, fresh and ripe, unlike standard airline or restaurant tomatoes—and was starting on the shredded cardboard carrots, though sadly I abandoned the lettuce.  Maurice followed my lead.  Worst airplane meal I’ve had in years (except for the tomato).

In Lima there was a phone stand with no customers right by the baggage claim so Maurice sent me over to get us Peruvian SIM cards.  The two lolitas playing with their phones deigned to help and it was fairly painless.  Outside a little man was holding a sign with Maurice’s name on it.  Soon we were zipping through the city, and I do mean zipping—between lanes, around cars, making a lane where there was no lane.  Traffic was wild—9 pm and it looked like rush hour—rush hour with a just-drive-wherever-and-however-you-like mentality.  Chris said he told us about the driving and the plane food, and suggested using our filter on the hotel water.

The limo ride cost $27.  We didn’t have any ones, and my understanding was that tipping in Peru is limited to guides and high-end establishments.  “Do you have any change?” I asked the driver.  “Thank you,” he said, taking the $30, pocketing it and shaking our hands in a hearty goodbye.  He didn’t know much English.

Our room was…sad.  No apparent heat or cooling adjustment, just a window that could be opened to the blaring traffic.  No bottled water.  No kleenex and certainly no washcloths (for which I am prepared, because there never are).  A doorstop and a peculiar pointy hump in the bathroom floor tripped me every time I took the two steps to the towel rack, which held two and a half small and droopy towels.  The shower rod tilted peculiarly.  Up to this point this would be a fine Camino room (if we were paying a Camino price).  But absolutely worst of all was the sign telling us not to put the toilet paper in the toilet.  I just don’t get this.  Is this the custom in all of Peru?  (All of Latin America?)  This is…distasteful.  Surprisingly high quality toilet paper though.

An Unexpected Adventure

El Salvador

Sunday September 1, 2019

San Salvador

Not what I wanted to do today

Exodus 24 

v. 1 Then the Lord said to Moses, “Come up to the Lord, you and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel. You are to worship at a distance….”  

I knew as soon as I read the first verse of my Scripture passage that there wouldn’t be a church service for us today.  “You are to worship at a distance.”  Chris didn’t know of any English language services around here, not even at the embassy.  I turned up one possibility online but Chris said we weren’t driving to some unknown neighborhood.  He had a lead on a service at the Holiday Inn but when he called it turned out to be a Catholic service in Spanish.  So we worshiped in our hearts and enjoyed the fruit-filled pancakes Maurice made for breakfast, then consulted with Mr. Tech Guy on a wide variety of issues (and he only ocasionally had to smother snorts of laughter at our ignorance—but, hey, he’s taught us so well that some of my friends consider me a tech expert).  Chris also laid out the options for the day:  an embassy visit, swimming in the embassy pool, the beach club, lunch at the approved pupuseria, the botanical garden, lunch at one of several places in town….

Maurice and I wanted to see the embassy, and everyone thought the beach club sounded good, so we packed up our things for the day, but Maurice was not happy.  He thought I should see a doctor about my increasing number of itchy red spots, before they turned into something really bad in the Andes frontière sans médecins and I would have to be evacuated.  I could see Maurice’s point.  But we are already in a foreign country, the embassy clinic is closed for the weekend, I couldn’t go there anyway because I don’t work there, our plane leaves tomorrow, I’ll be fine, and I want to do something fun with Chris.  Chris talked to a nurse friend, who said her family has had more skin issues here than ever before but offered to call ahead for us to the Hospital Diagnostico.  “A Salvadoran hospital?” I exclaimed with chagrin.  I was thinking somehow I could see American medical personnel.  No?  Well, I would be just fine.  Maurice loves me but I know from experience he is not good at evaluating my medical condition.  But Maurice got That Look, and I knew what I had to do.  The Hospital Diagnostico it would be.  Chris thought we should go to the hospital before any beach clubbing. He had never been there so it would be a new adventure for him too.  Whoop-de-do.

We got to the hospital about eleven.  It wasn’t far, past the Pupuseria Filipensis 4:13 and other colorful businesses which I didn’t get pictures of.  Parking at the hospital garage was only $1 an hour (El Salvador conveniently uses American currency).  Chris translated at the admission desk and I handed over my passport.  We didn’t have to wait long before a nurse called me back.  “You can both come,” I said.  “Wouldn’t the whole family come along in this culture?”  But only Chris came back to translate.  Eventually a doctor came to see me.  I showed her my spots and answered questions via Chris.  (Such a fine son!—though he told me to remember who took me to a Salvadoran hospital when it comes time to write the will.)  It’s an allergic reaction, said the doctora, perhaps to two different kinds of bug bites; it’s very hard to determine the exact cause.  She would give me a cream, and an oral medicine, and get treatment started quickly with an IV antihistamine.  “IV?” I exclaimed.  The doctor looked surprised.  I didn’t want an IV?  No!  Does anyone ever want to be jabbed?  Do doctors ever think how the patient feels?  But Maurice, who had made his way to the back, and Chris thought it would be a good idea to prime the pump, or whatever, so I agreed.

After a while a little nurse, smiling behind her mask, arrived with a tray of unpleasant supplies.  “Ask her if she’s good at this,” I said to Chris.  He alleged he didn’t know how.  I’ve learned to tell medical personnel that I don’t do this well, it hurts and I don’t like it, that it’s hard to get the IV in, and that I need somebody who’s really good at it.  (Unfortunately they all say they’re good at it, but only some of them are.)  I couldn’t begin to express this to the Salvadoran nurse so I had to go with the program and just look the other way.  But I could feel it.  Maurice laughed (lovingly, of course).  He says I yelled, but I only exclaimed forcefully for a few seconds.  I’m a highly sensitive person and I don’t do pain well.  The nurse dug around in my arm.  She pushed and prodded.  After a bit she said something to Chris (who couldn’t look either).  “You have to relax, Mom,” he told me.  “Take some deep breaths.  It won’t go in because you’re too tense.”  Well, duh, I didn’t say.  I tried to take some deep breaths and relax—relax while someone’s jabbing me!—but I don’t think anything changed.  There was more movement and more talk.  “She’s going to try a baby IV,” said Chris.  Good news.  It’s what she should have done in the first place.  It went right in.  Must remember to add “baby IV” to my next pre-IV spiel, should I ever need another one (please, Lord, no).  Things got settled.  I was getting cold.  “It’s the IV,” said Chris.  “They make you cold.”  Chris found me a blanket.  I think I dozed a bit.  When all the solution had been pumped into me, a specialist appeared.  He asked more questions and didn’t add much new info but seemed to think we were on the right track.  It all took several hours.  The nurse finally unhooked me.  We went back to the front door, paid by credit card (less than $200), then found the pharmacy, where statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary guarded the medications, and a Bible was for sale on a rack of miscellaneous.

Jesus presiding over cosmetics and medications (the Blessed Mother was on the other side)

It was close to 2:30.  So much for the beach club.  We headed to the embassy and Chris took us to the gate.  You can’t just go in the embassy even if you’re an American; you have to have a proper pass, and Chris had set it up three weeks ago.  But the guard could not find our names.  Chris scrolled through his email.  Nothing.  He said his administrator had done it for him and it was probably on the other email, which was not on his phone.  Could he go to his office and look it up?  Not really, he said; it’s on someone else’s computer.  He’d see who he could contact this evening…on this holiday weekend.  So much for the embassy.  The acceptable pupuseria was a distance away out toward the beach club.  “Just take us to one of the Mexican food places,” I said.  We went to Donkeys.  The food was all right, and it was nice hanging out.  Maurice kept asking if I was OK.  I was OK before I went to the hospital and I was OK enough now, except for when I twisted my hand around and the gouge hurt.  It’s under a nice solid white bandage so I don’t have to look at it, and I’m not sure what the tiny round bandaid is right where my hand meets my wrist.  One of the puncture attempts, I guess.

“I know,” said Chris.  “We could redeem the day by going to the botanical garden.  It’s right nearby.”  Excellent idea.  The garden is in a caldera whose lake mysteriously drained 100+ years ago, allowing farmers and then industry to move in, but not before a family set up a large estate there and collected plants from all over the tropical world, eventually donating the property to the public.  It only costs $1.25 to go in, plus 50 cents for optional turtle food, all of which Chris generously sprang for.  Curving paths wind through 3 1/4 hectares of 32 garden zones, past ponds and fountains and little seating areas, with much shade from tall trees, gigantic stands of bamboo and the jungly hill of the surrounding caldera. 

The turtles were happy to see us, swimming right up to the side of their pond, accompanied by pushy fish with enormous mouths; we had plenty of food for all. 

Then we meandered slowly through the gardens, their beauty and coolness calming my tight veins.  There were birds of paradise, anthuriums and other exotic blooms, plus of course all the kinds of plants we’ve ever had in pots but here growing wild and colossal and free. 

We came upon a stand of monster plants, the kind we keep in pots and lug inside and cut back each year; the plethora of pendulous yellow flowers were faded but Chris said they had been stunning a few weeks before when he was there with Krystle and Calvin.  Ahead on one path Chris spotted a little animal, weaselly but with longer legs.  The family ahead of us spotted it too, and soon it disappeared into the jungle growth ahead of the squeals of children.  Chris said Krystle saw one on their street and excitedly chased it down with her camera.  He couldn’t remember its name.  Kookaburra?  No, we said, that’s the bird that sits in the old gum tree.  Bear-something, said Chris.  Yes, on the tip of my tongue too, but it never materialized.  A delightful hour.

I sat at the dining room table working on tech things while Chris was on the back patio talking to Krystle on the phone.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement along the floor.  It was big.  I looked over in trepidation.  Was it a mouse?  No, it was a bug—a bug the size of a mouse!  It headed toward the kitchen and I jumped around like a maniac and pounded on the glass to get Chris’ attention.  He ambled in to see what was up.  Hmm.  He’d never seen one that big either.  He got the heavy-duty bug whacker and shooed the critter out the door where Peach the cat batted it around for maybe ten seconds, the most stimulating activity she’s had in years.

Chris and Peach (the stray cat from Florida who’s lived with Chris in three countries so far)

Sightseeing

El Salvador

Saturday August 31, 2019

El Salvador

At the San Andrés Archeological Park

Exodus 19:1-20:21 

20:21  The people remained at a distance, while Moses approached the thick darkness where God was.  Chris took us over toward the volcanos again today.  Unlike the terrifying display at Mount Sinai (19:16-19), the top of the mountain we climbed yesterday was only covered with light clouds and the rest of the peaks were clear.  As Chris drove us around we talked about life in El Salvador, where seemingly no one who runs the show “fears and trembles” at the presence of the Lord but stands as far off from him as he can (20:18).  Forty-six of the country’s fifty provinces are controlled by gangs.  No wonder Geraldo told us yesterday the Salvadoran dream.  There are eight million Salvadorans on the planet and more than two million of them (already) live in the US.  El Salvador is hopeful with a new president, a young man of the next (presumably less corrupt) generation.  He is working toward national improvement and better relations with the US.  But problems are entrenched and enormous, and money is scant.  Chris says his concern as a gringo is being in the wrong place at the wrong time; a Salvadoran is worried about his kids being pressed into a gang.  Everyone—left, right and center—hates the gangs.  Ask the average Salvadoran what should be done with them and he’ll say, “Line’em up and shoot’em.”  But the US wouldn’t look kindly on such action.  It’s apparent to me what the whole country needs is “the fear of God…that [they] might not sin” (20:20).  There’s no other answer.  Dear Father God, please break through the thick darkness that shrouds El Salvador, the country named for your Son.  Show yourself to everyone from politicians and gang leaders to those trapped by gang pressures, extortion, poverty and hopelessness.  Draw many hearts to yourself in repentance and faith.  Pour out your Spirit on your people in this nation that they may work with wisdom and favor toward righteous government and stable lives for all.  May this country that bears your name find hope and live in holiness.

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We had a slow morning while Chris went to Walmart (uh huh) for supplies.  At breakfast we discussed what was safe to eat.  “You ate the tomato and pepper?” Chris asked with some dismay when I told him what we had scrounged for supper.  Well, they were in our son’s refrigerator, and we didn’t think he’d be trying to kill us.  “I would have washed them with soap first,” Chris informed us.  He said he doesn’t eat lettuce at all here—and he hasn’t been sick once.  Noted.  At ten we hopped into his new used car.  He’s quite pleased that while he was in Argentina last week his driver got the windows tinted for him—a safety measure, dark all around.  It wasn’t long before I was gasping and cringing at Chris’ driving.  “I don’t think you guys are ready for riding in Central America,” Chris informed us.  “And this is a Saturday!”  Fortunately I was in the back seat; I just tried to look at the interesting sights out the window.  Fields were thick with dry brown cornstalks and lush green sugar cane.  In some places corn grew right next to the road in a narrow strip between traffic and jungle; Chris said the land was already cleared as part of the roadway so why not plant it?

Public transportation via picachero

Our morning activity was the Mayan ruins at the San Andrés Archeological Park.  A simple museum displayed interesting finds and explained local geography, architecture at the site, a tad bit of Mayan culture and a little about Spanish settlement.  There was no limestone availabe here so the buildings were made of more erosible adobe and tufa; most of the visible ecavations are cemented over with some sort of protective coating.  The information mentioned the Mayan civilization’s “collapse” several times.  Basically the population outgrew its resources and pushed the slash-and-burn agriculture past its limits until the land couldn’t produce any more food.  People were hungry, different groups fought over resources and not everyone survived.  

Outside we approached the ruins through a grove of tall trees.  A small “introductory” pyramidal structure greeted us.  Past that, a high partially-excavated stepped platform sits at one end of a plaza.  Along one side are three smaller mounds, though only one is excavated (the others are green lumps).  At the far corner a small section of pavement remains.

Beyond that in the jungle is Mound #5, currently under excavation with a worksite roof barely visible, though there was no apparent way to get there; Chris mused he will have to make friends and visit it before he leaves the country.  The small complex was in a serene setting with huge trees and distant mountains and we ambled around slowly. 

Chris chatted with the guard and tipped him a dollar before we left; at wages of $3/hour or less, he’ll appreciate it, Chris said.  Chris pointed out to us these ruins are nothing compared with what we’ll see in Peru; if we hadn’t seen this now we wouldn’t want to bother later.  Maybe not, but they’re good Latin American starter ruins.  And it was fun hanging out with Chris.

Lake Coatepeque—volcano just out of picture on left, restaurant in cove on right

Next stop was a restaurant on nearby Lake Coatepeque, the lake we saw from the top of the volcano.  The long rutted road we drove to get there, the strings of ramshackle buildings and the generally decrepit-looking restaurant on the water’s edge—it all reminded me of the fish restaurant on Lake Victoria, though this was a step up.  “They’ve paved the parking lot since the last time I was here,” said Chris.  “They’re not washing cars in the lake,” said Maurice, remembering Lake Victoria.  An impressive iguana in a half-hearted enclosure greeted us on the way in. 

Chris walked us through the restaurant to a little deck overlooking the lake.  Right across from us was the volcano we climbed yesterday, hazy, with clouds snagged on its top.  There was no hurry with the service, so we put on our shades under the bright white of the awning and sipped cold drinks until our meal arrived.  Chris said it was OK to have the ice which the menu informed us was made of “crystalline” water by a factory that delivers.  

On the way home we stopped at a scenic overlook of the lake.  Heading into town Chris marveled at the light traffic.  I sat in the back again and tried not to watch.  At home we had a quiet late afternoon.  Chris went for a run—in a neighborhood as safe as any in a big city, he informed us, and in broad daylight.  I researched what my itchy bumps could possibly be.  After looking at disgusting pictures of skin issues online, I could not come up with a likely diagnosis and decided that slapping on some anti-itch cream and ignoring them would be the best solution.

Ilamatepec

El Salvador

Friday August 30, 2019

El Salvador

Looking over the rim of Ilamatepec

Genesis 22:1-19  

v. 5   [Abraham] said to his servants, “Stay here with the donkey while I and the boy go over there. We will worship and then we will come back to you.”  Millennia ago Abraham’s servants stayed with the donkey.  Today Jaime stayed with the car while we climbed about 1800 feet up the mountain with young Geraldo.  We weren’t going specifically to worship but oh! what an awe-inspiring sight the volcanic crater of Ilamapetec was when we got ourselves to the top—a feat whose end was not entirely certain in the doing.  Thank you, Lord, for the energy, stamina and grace you allowed us for the climb.  Thank you for the wonder of the amazing sight as we looked over the rim.  Thank you that we got safely up the rocky slope to 7800 feet and back down again.

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We were up early, since it’s two hours later here.  To my dismay, the itchy red bumps that appeared on my legs before I left home are increasing.  What is wrong with me?  We scrounged breakfast.  At 9:00 the tour guide Chris had arranged picked us up—Geraldo, young and English-speaking, with Jaime our driver, who didn’t say much.  Geraldo, a 19-year-old college student studying economics, was a fount of knowledge on many subjects.  He’s traveled all over Central America in robotics competitions but only started studying English recently.  He hopes to be accepted to the University of Virginia later this year, then when he finishes college he’d like to stay.  “It’s every Salvadoran’s dream to work in the US and bring his family over,” he told us; I was surprised he said that so freely.

El Salvador has 26 volcanoes.  The best coffee is grown in the rich soil on their slopes and 100% exported.  The roadway got rougher when we turned uphill toward the Santa Ana volcano, also called Ilamaptepec, El Salvador’s highest at 7812 feet (2381 meters) and Geraldo’s favorite.  Today’s walk to the top with us would be his 47th ascent since November.  Jaime turned into “secure parking” in a clearing where a little man seated on a box was smiling at us.  “This is our practice climb,” Geraldo told us as we started up a cool forest path that soon steepened into awkward steps made of dirt and tree roots.  We came to a grassy spot with a ranger station and picnic tables where Geraldo told us we had to wait for a ranger to walk with us.  We were assigned Saul.  The group of about eight behind us got their own ranger, but along the route many hikers passed us without rangers.  “Why doesn’t everybody have a ranger?” we asked Gerraldo.  The answer was one of a number of lost-in-translation statements.  The groups of a dozen or more can look out for each other, he told us.  But the ranger-free groups weren’t all big groups.  Was it because we’re foreigners?  No, he said.  We’re not convinced, but we’ll never know.

Up through the woods we hiked.  It wasn’t so bad.  Out of the trees into high bushes—well, we knew we would be in the sun.  We stopped for a view through a clearing to two other volcanoes.  The pointy one on the right with a glimpse into the rim, Izalco, had erupted for almost 200 years.  It was known as the lighthouse of the Pacific.  “Let’s build a hotel overlooking the eruption,” someone decided, and so they did, on the adjacent volcano with a perfect view of El Salco’s fire and fury.  Shortly before the hotel’s completion in 1966, the volcano stopped.  There has been not a peep since.  The hotel lasted a year.  There is still a cafe and now the government is rebuilding the hotel, though it will be very expensive, said Geraldo.

Too soon we were above the treeline.  The sun was hot.  The air was thin.  The path was treacherous with rocks, ruts, big boulders pretending to be steps and little stones that slid underfoot.  We had brought our hiking poles and I don’t think we could have done the climb without them, though no one else had any—nor was anyone else our age.  We had to stop for little rests.  We asked Geraldo—several times—how long the hike was but that was another lost-in-translation response.  All we could do was look up and see how far we still had to go, which looked farther than we thought we could hike.  Maurice was breathing hard.  I was feeling lightheaded.  We had water but, not realizing the strenuousness of our activity, the snacks we brought were minimal.  Chris hadn’t done this hike yet, but he’d told us “lots of embassy people do it”—which we now knew translated as something like, “All the kids do it but you old people might have trouble.”  The valley view was magnificent from the path.  Was it really worth it going all the steep and difficult way to the top?

View of the valley (Izalco is behind cloud on right)

But we did.  The mountain slope flattened and the open ground broadened.  We could see a line of people standing around what might be the rim, and there was a guy with a white box…selling popsicles?  At one side of the top was an arc-shaped plot of land where the visitors stood before the ground plummetted downward into a deep cone.  The air smelled of sulphur.  Far below, opaque greenish water was tinged with yellow at one corner.  Steam rose from the water and part of the ground and drifted languidly.  We were just two of many visitors transfixed by the surprising and astonishingly beautiful sight.  In another direction we saw half of Lake Coatepeque and its little island where the richest people have their homes, Geraldo told us.  “The lake changes color once a year,” he added.  What did that mean, I wondered.  Does it look especially blue in the autumn sun, or is this another lost-in-translation statement?  Later he showed us a picture on his phone.  The currently standard-gray-blue lake was glowing aqua.  It was not a trick of the light.  Scientists don’t know why it happens, Geraldo told us, or when it will occur, or how long it will last.  (Chris said that’s true—something about minerals, maybe, or algae.)

The popsicle man carrying his frozen treats on the mountain trail

We started down at a slightly faster rate than we had ascended, though we asked to sit on a rock for fifteen minutes and finish our snack of grapes, crackers and hummus.  “You did really good,” Geraldo told us.  “You hiked up in an hour and 25 minutes.  The average is two hours.”  “You mean we could have taken more breaks?” exclaimed Maurice.  We were afraid we were holding Geraldo back.  We’d thought this was a half-day trip and didn’t realize we had him for the whole day.  Indeed, he offered to accompany us somewhere for lunch, so when we got back down he had Jaime take us to the former-hotel-turned-cafe where we looked out the glass windows at the dormant volcano while we ate.  By the time we got home it was 6 pm.  It had been a great day.  “Well, you’ve had your practice hike for Machu Picchu,” said Geraldo.  We told him to let Chris know if he got accepted to UVA and he could come to our house for holidays

Hanging with Geraldo

Chris got home about a half hour after we did.  He had expected to arrive earlier but there was some sort of emergency on San Salvador’s runway and his plane was briefly diverted to Costa Rica.  “Welcome, international traveler!” I called out to Chris as I unlocked the many fastenings on his doors.  Oh, wait—we’re the international travelers he was supposed to be here to greet before he signed up for his Argentine boondoggle.  Chris ordered a pizza, then he and Maurice watched one of the football games that Chris manages to patch through various devices and services and make appear on his big screen.  Still itchy, I called it a day.

Arrival to the Mountains

El Salvador

Thursday August 29, 2019

San Salvador, El Salvador

Genesis 7:11-8:5

v. 5b  …on the first day of the tenth month the tops of the mountains became visible.  As the plane descended over Central America, mountains became visible to me, too, but from my window and thankfully not from floods—pointy volcanic-looking mountains pushing up from lush green earth divided into narrow fields.  Who would have dreamed we’d be spending Labor Day weekend in one of the most dangerous countries in the world?  It was never on my list.  But Machu Picchu was, and El Salvador, where Chris is stationed at the embassy, was on the way.  It looked pleasant enough from the air, and Chris said we would be OK, though he is in Argentina and not here to greet us.  (Who would have guessed he’d be such the world traveler too?)  But he had mixed up the days of his empleada’s visit and there was no dinner in the oven as we expected.  We were tired when we got this news and pickins were slim—but NO, we could not go out walking and get something to eat.  Probably because there’s just nothing nearby.  That and the guy with the big gun at the top of the street.  Don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.  Thank you, Lord, for our safe arrival.  Thank you for the beauty of the earth here and the hint of adventure ahead in the mountains.

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The day before we left, just as has happened in our two previous trips, Maurice got stung by one of his bees.  The last two times he swelled up and was at the ER hours before our flight.  This time he ran upstairs and treated himself with the meds left from the previous visits, then sat still and iced his wound.  It hurt but there was no swelling.  We compare his legs every few hours and they are the same size.

It was four hours on Avianca to San Salvador.  I waited too long to use the WC and decided not to after Maurice came back and gave me a report of its condition—clogged sink, no toilet seat and used toilet paper piled high in the bin next to it.  Ugh.  The TP business is how people in some…out-of-the-way places…deal with delicate plumbing, but on a plane?  I didn’t realize Avianca was a third world airline.  But there was no sign telling you not to put TP in the toilet; is this just what Central Americans expect to do?  As soon as the plane stopped, everyone, including the little old ladies clad all in black with eyelet-trimmed shawls, was out of his or her seat, reaching short arms up to the luggage racks and surging forward in the aisle toward the still-closed cabin door.  There would be no orderly exit by rows; Maurice kept his solid self firmly planted so I could get out too.

As Chris had promised, an embassy driver was at our arrival gate holding a sign with our names on it.  Our first stop, at my request, was the WC.  It is an international airport, so of course there were all of three ladies toilet stalls—and you were supposed to throw your paper in the bin.  Then we continued along the airport’s long narrow single corridor lined with shops, people waiting in wheelchairs and enterprising souls who kept asking us, “Taxi?” even though we were obviously following Ezequiel.  Ezequiel had told us he didn’t speak much English but that didn’t stop Maurice from trying to converse or ask him things, and not just, “Where is the bathroom?”  Maurice pointed out that we not only don’t have Chris’ wifi password at his house, we also don’t even know his address and don’t have any other connection in El Salvador.  Poor Maurice.  He is not used to traveling blind like this, not knowing where we’re going or what’s what; he has a hard time on the Kenya mission trips too (me—I love to travel with Mauricey because I can just count on him to get us where we need to be).  We have the embassy driver, I told Maurice, and Chris gave us the house keys—plus his housekeeper is fixing dinner.  We’ll be fine. It was hot outside but the terminal building, with a roof that looked like a roller coaster track, was in a pleasant setting.  Broad-leaved pothos vines climbed up a thick tree, and water flowing over a big rectangular Meso-American themed fountain sparkled in the sun; Maurice noticed honeybees at one end enjoying water from the splashes.

Traffic was busy but not crazy.  We passed a number of little trucks with people packed in the open bed or practically hanging from poles.  An armed guard stood against the rail of a truck transporting bottles of propane.  Along the road dozens of rickety little stands were piled high with coconuts.  People walk along the streets, like in Africa.  ES looks like a third-world country but maybe a notch up from Africa, more tropical, greener, not quite as dismal looking, though Chris said later this is the rainy season and everything looks grimy and brown the other six months of the year.

Chris didn’t mention there was a gate and an armed guard at the top of his hilly street, but he let our car in.  Chris’ house is quite nice but…indescribable.  It’s not like anything I’ve seen in the US.  The AC was welcomingly set on super-chill.  We wandered around the house like country bumpkins, opening doors and taking it all in.  The laundry room was a special wonder.  You could practically live in its spaciousness, along with a couple of attached small rooms and a full bath (“It’s the maid’s quarters, if you have a live-in maid,” Chris told us later.)  And the laundry sink—also indescribable.  Chris said he can’t explain it but all the houses have them; you could embalm a body in that sink.  In all our domestic exploration there was no sign of the cat, or of the empleada with dinner.  “Maybe she comes later in the day,” I said to Maurice.  We were now on mountain time, and it wasn’t as late as it seemed.

I took a nap.  I tried to read.  I was too tired to write.  The doorbell rang—ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.  Would it ever stop?  There’s a camera but the person was standing too close to the door.  “This is El Salvador!” I called to Maurice.  “Don’t let anybody in!”  But he was already opening the many doors it takes to get to the actual street entry.  Our visitor was one of the embassy guards doing a patrol of the neighborhood (Chris told us later they do regular checks of embassy housing, reading a bar code near each front door to record when they were there).  We (meaning Maurice) had left the front door ajar.  Whoops.  And this is El Salvador.

We followed the instructions, and though our devices said we were attached to his wifi, nothing worked.  Even the TV didn’t work.  Maurice finally bit the bullet and turned on his data plan, $10 a day from the ATT crooks, yet worth it right now.  We connected with Chris.  Whoops.  Wrong day for the empleada.  She doesn’t come until tomorrow and, because he’s been away for two weeks, he doesn’t have any food in the house for her to fix anyway.  And the wifi probably doesn’t work because he’s been away and didn’t pay the bill.  I was tired and getting crankier by the minute.  We rustled up supper—a shared frozen pizza for one, salad of half-frozen shriveling tomato and withering yellow pepper, and green Salvadoran ice cream with no sabor printed on the carton and of uncertain flavor.  It was all fine.  Then we sat together on the sofa and watched the movie I had downloaded onto my ipad until we both fell asleep.  I woke up to Maurice punching my leg telling me to wake up (I hate that).  We dragged ourselves up toward bed.  The power went out.  We didn’t know where things were.  Maurice had a flashlight in the tech bag and I used that to dig out our headlights—first time I’ve ever really used mine though I carried it on two caminos.  Very handy indeed.  Maurice texted Chris.  Yes, this happens regularly, but the electricity should be on again soon.  It was getting hot already.  No point opening the windows because it was even hotter outside.  All our devices were low.  I can’t drink the water.  Why am I here?  Just put me to bed….

Epilogue (Portuguese Camino)

Caminho Portugues

Sunday June 2, 2019

Santiago de Compostela, Spain; 16,222 steps

Calla lilies to the very end! (on an altar at San Agostin)

Proverbs 18 

v. 10  The name of the Lord is like a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.  We walked safely in the strength of the Lord once again on the journey to Santiago de Compostela, but it wasn’t just the Lord God himself who was the strong tower.  People he sends and those who serve in his name are also a safe haven for the people of God.  Albergues along the Way were originally begun to provide rest and sustenance for pilgrims on their spiritual journey, and still today they serve those who travel the Way.  And when you’re walking, sometimes your prayers are answered by people sent by God that you “happen” to meet.  God is able to use even those who don’t know him, “for everything in heaven and on earth is [his]” (1 Chronicles 29:11).  Thank you, Lord, for your strength along our pilgrimage.  Thank you that we are safe in you forever.

Pilgrims opposite the cathedral, perhaps contemplating their safe arrival

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City of God and city of man (Santa Susanna church)
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We Made It! (Day 17)

Caminho Portugues

Saturday June 1, 2019

A Escravitude to Santiago de Compostela, Spain; 33,973 steps

Proverbs 17 

v. 22a  A cheerful heart is good medicine….  And we have two cheerful hearts, for we have finished our Camino and gotten our compostelas!  The sun did not broil away our cheerful hearts.  All day we could see the newly cleaned white stone of the cathedral facade in the brightness of the relentless sun, and feel the stone blocks of the Praza do Obradoiro in the rocks and cobbles under our feet.  Our cheerful hearts carried us on until it was reality.  Thank you, Jesus.

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Heat and Peace (Day 16)

Caminho Portugues

[Please forgive the delayed postings due to various technical difficulties.]

Friday May 31, 2019

Vilanova de Arousa to A Escravitude, Spain; about 10,000 steps

18th-century painting of St. James’ body arriving in Padrón
Monastery above a riverside replica of the mooring stone used by the boat bearing St. James

Proverbs 16 

v. 3  Commit your actions to the Lord and your plans will succeed.  I feel like our whole trek is falling apart.  Cast-aside packs, booked hotels, curtailed walking, overspending, cranky spouses and it’s so incredibly hot—no details necessary but you get the picture.  We’ve committed our Camino to the Lord but I’m not seeing a whole lot of success today.  Yet verse 9 has further insight:  “We can make our plans but the Lord determines our steps.”  Our plans may have been well-considered but God might have something else in mind.  And from his viewpoint outside time and space the Lord may see a bad end to where we’re headed (v. 25).  The path before us this afternoon was a long shadeless slog in temperatures approaching 100 F on and off a busy highway with drifting smoke from a nearby forest fire adding to the discomfort.  Maurice had already had a moment when he feared he would pass out.  The day wasn’t the typical walk I planned but by God’s grace we got safely to the end of it.  Thank you, Lord, that you have better ideas than we do.  Help us to keep committing our plans to you.

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Debee set out juice, cereal, toast, coffee and Cola Cao and we had a leisurely breakfast chatting with our hosts, listening to more of their story, learning how they got to where they are,  and hearing about relationships with local Spanish priests and spiritual hunger among pilgrims.  Debee is from Guernsey and came to faith out of the hippie movement in Amsterdam. Alfonso is from Brazil.  They met in Madrid in 1980, married and have been serving together ever since, raising three trilingual children along the way (third culture kids—we could relate).  “What language do you speak at home?” I asked.  “Depends on who starts the conversation,” said Debee.  Alfonso says the nuances conveyed by the languages are different, and he uses Portuguese to bring calm into fraught discussions.  Alfonso has an amazing network of connections among people and ministries in Portugal and beyond, as well as many examples of fruitful ministry; above all he and Debee have a character of love and service that models Jesus himself. 

Debee and Alfonso

I was reluctant to leave the embrace of Alfonso and Debee’s home of welcoming peace.  “If you’d like, we could share communion together before you leave,” offered Alfonso.  He had heard us mention the lack of spiritual refreshment along the Camino Portuguese.  After we packed up, Alfonso carried a tray of brown bread and little cups of port wine out to the back porch.  There in the summer morning Maurice blessed the bread and we gave it to one another, then I blessed the wine and we swallowed deeply—strengthened and forgiven once again.  Debee took up her guitar and sang about peace as the Spirit hovered in the shady garden and the sunlit ria sparkled in the distance.

Then we were off to the boat.  An alternative to the grueling final section of the Spiritual Variant is a boat ride up the Ria de Arousa and into the Rio Ulla to Padrón along the world’s only maritime way of the cross.  The estuary is shallow, the boat schedule is dependent on the tides and our time was 11 am.  Alfonso and Debee saw us off and made a little video of our departure for us.  We were going packless once again, as Alfonso had graciously offered to drive our packs to our next destination, “only a few minutes” up the road and he was going out anyway.  (Only a few minutes’ drive compared to hours walking?  Surely not!)  About a dozen pilgrims stepped into the semi-rigid pontoon boat as the sun beat down. 

Soon our skipper, the calm and gentle Santiago, was skimming over the wide blue ria, past the pleasure boats in the marina, out to where the work of harvesting the sea takes place.  We stopped at one of the big mussel farm platforms and Santiago explained how the crustaceans grow on undersea ropes. 

Farther along he drew up near a clam boat and we watched the hard work it takes to scrape the sea floor. 

Then Santiago paused for the first stone cross in the Via Crucis Marítima-fluvial, giving everyone time for pictures, then pointed out other crosses as we continued up the river. 

His final stop was out in the middle of the rio where he passed around hot tea and madeleines.  It was a delightful ride of about an hour and a quarter, and the fact that it was in the broiling sun was not Santiago’s fault.

When we disembarkd it took us a while to realize we were not in Padrón, the town we expected to be in, but about 2 1/2 kilometers in the heat of the day from it.  But it wasn’t far for packless pilgrims.  Padrón had some points of interest I wanted to see.  First we looked at the church that claimed the actual mooring stone for St. James’ boat—when he originally came to preach or when the boat returned with his body, I’m not sure which, but the stone o Pedrón from which the town takes its name.  There was no time to look at the art, for Maurice was anxious to get going, but next I wanted to go to Monte Santiaguiño where St. James first preached the gospel, a spot the guidebook said was “atmospheric” and little visited.  That’s Monte Santiaguiño, with a mountain of steps to climb to get there, and Maurice was not pleased.  “Just sit here in the shade while I go up,” I suggested, but no. 

Maurice, on the stairway to heaven? (It was a lot steeper in person than it looks here.)

Finally, near the top, were some trees, a bare little chapel and, off to the side, a stack of stones where James supposedly preached. 

Farther up, among picnic tables and incongruous lampposts, was a fountain of presumably drinkable water where I filled my bottled.  Maurice drained it when I came down and went up to get more; on the way he had to stop and sit down he said, because he thought he was going to pass out.  Hmmm.  It really was hot.

Back down the mountain in Padrón we needed more sustenance than cookies and water so we went to the cafe spilling across the narrow street from its bar to the broad promenade along the river in front of the church, partly shaded by tall plane trees.  I went inside to ask for a table; there was a stack of them in case the cafe needed more.  “Where are you from?” asked Maria the waitress.  The United States.  “What are you doing here?”  Walking the Caminho Portugués.  “In this heat?”  We must be crazy, I admitted. 

Jan and our caring waitress Maria

She arranged a table and took care of us, telling us it was too hot to walk and getting us a map to the bus station, an idea that Maurice was all for.  “It’s usually only 25 here in the summer and today it is 37!” declared Maria.  “You must not walk.”  But what were we—pilgrims or wimps?  We grew up in un-airconditioned Baltimore summers more humid than this and slept hanging off the beds drenched in sweat.  Of course we could walk!  “You can’t,” said Maria.  “We can’t,” said Maurice, irritated. 

At our restful lunch on the promenade

We tried to contact Alfonso to tell him he needn’t hurry, that, by bus or by foot, we would be arriving much later than planned to our hotel, but we had trouble connecting.  Just as we finished our burger and omelet we heard from Alfonso.  He was in Padrón, he said, and we didn’t need a bus because he would drive us.  What a kind offer! Though now I was somewhat iritated we weren’t walking, Maurice was greatly relieved.  Soon Alfonso had loaded us into his car (and turned on the air conditioning).  He drove us down the hot N-550 (where we watched a helicopter delivering water to the forest fire off to the left) and to A Escravitude and our pleasant hotel, where the attendant said we did not book the internet special and we certainly couldn’t have it now.  I was further irritated but not surprised, since I knew for absolutely certain when Spanish speakers kindly helped Maurice make a reservation a couple nights ago that something would be lost in translation.

Maurice knew I wanted to walk so he suggested I go find something for breakfast at the local grocery store / supermarket. European countries, with the exception of Germany and possibly France, ought to be banned from using the word “supermarket,” since I have yet to see something called that in Spain or Portugal or anywhere else which really is.  I went downstairs to ask Mr. Friendly-But-You-Can’t-Have-the-Internet-Special where to find a grocery store.  “Grocery store?” he repeated.  He did not understand.  “Supermarket,” I said, hating to use the word, knowing full well wherever he sent me wouldn’t be one.  “In front of the church, down the steps, past the bar, you see some shops, only 100 meters, but it might not be open.”  OK.  So I walked along in the 35-degree-celsius heat, down from Padrón’s 37, looking for a little shop, and I walked and walked—the Camino of the day.  It was a busy highway and the sidewalk ran out.  I walked some more until a sign told me I was leaving town.  A dirt lane led to a square foot of shade so I stepped in there, turned on data and roaming and location services, and asked Siri where a supermarket was.  “Here’s what I found,” she said cheerily, no stress or sweat in her voice.  The nearest one was 2.9 miles away.  I turned around and walked back through the 35-degree heat, next to the busy highway, and as I was approaching the church the sun lit up a refrigerated drink case just inside the door of a tobacco shop.  Well, I thought, I could buy Maurice an overpriced coke.  I went in, looked at the meager selection, lifted up my eyes to see what else there might be, and lo and behold! it was the supermarket.  A few shelves held Spanish convenience store food, hardware, cleaning supplies, booze and no boxes of dried fish in this shop but a case of fresh eggs.  I finally selected orange juice, the least objectionable packaged Spanish breakfast rolls, something that said “hidracion” that we could start off with in Maurice’s water bottle in the morning and the overpriced coke.  Silly me.  I should have known by now that “tobacco shop” meant “supermarket.”

The church doors were open so I stopped in for a peek.  Only the outer doors were open, but a little curtain was pulled back from a square opening in the inner door which I had to stand on tiptoe to look into so I can’t imagine a lot of Spaniards are gazing in.  But stand on tiptoe I did, and pressed my face against the grill, because inside air chilled by the thick and somber stone was escaping, as cool as American air conditioning—and did I mention it was 95 F out by the traffic?

The restaurant across the street opened at 8:30.  We settled on its covered patio and the day immediately improved.  The air had cooled to just right, and we enjoyed the beautiful light of the setting sun on the church facade across the street, the palm trees in the parking lot, the train behind the restaurant and the mountains behind that.  As city kids we could tune out the N-550 traffic between us and the church. 

Padrón peppers complemented our meal, along with a fine four-euro botttle of wine, and when we got the cheesecake at ten the light still hadn’t faded.  A couple with a little girl were just coming for dinner, and the local good old boys didn’t arrive at their usual table until 10:25, when we should have been asleep, but we hadn’t even asked for the bill.  It had been a hard hot day but we were in no hurry to leave.  Our final night on the Caminho Portugués had returned to the peace that began the morning on another covered porch only a few kilometers away.

Evening light on the church in A Escravitude

Welcomes (Day 15)

Caminho Portugues

Thursday May 30, 2019

Barrantes to Vilanova de Arousa, Spain—Day 15; about 27,600 steps

Proverbs 15 

v. 23  A person finds joy in giving an apt reply—and how good is a timely word!  We weren’t too thrilled to be picking up our packs again this morning.  We had a spot reserved for the evening and expected to meet up with our hosts in the middle of the day.  “They have a car,” said Maurice.  “Maybe they would take our packs to their house.”  Yeah, maybe.  After a good two hours of walking we came to the little chapel in Mouzos where a team welcomes pilgrims.  Debee recognized us at once.  “I’ll be the American who looks like he’s carrying the kitchen sink,” Maurice had told her.  When we got ready to be on our way again, Debee said, “I don’t want to interfere with what you feel you have to do, but we’ll take your packs home if you want.”  A timely word!  What joy!  We accepted.  Thank you, Lord, for the blessing of a timely word.  Please use us to speak such words to others too.

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Note the jamón hanging over the restaurant’s bar
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Route of Stone and Water (Day 14)

Caminho Portugues

Wednesday May 29, 2019

Combarra to Barrantes, Spain—Day 14; about 26,500 steps

Armenteira cafe stop

Proverbs 14

v. 10  Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.  It’s true in life and true along the Camino.  People may laugh and talk together on the road but not always share how they’re really feeling.  Some walk with emotional pain, some with physical—and, I’m guessing based on how we feel, the longer we walk, the greater the physical pain.  Joy too belongs to each one individually.  I pause a moment to listen to a chorus of frogs or smell a burst of jasmine or marvel at a lush row of vegetable plants.  I peer through a barred window into a tiny chapel as others hurry by.  I stop alone but in each place is my Jesus, always waiting, smiling back at me.  Thank you, Lord Jesus, that you are ever sweet when life is bitter.  Thank you that in your presence my joy increases.

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