El Salvador, May 4, 2008

It´s not the heat – it´s the humidity.

For some reason, neither feels bad right now.

Maybe that additional year in far northern coastal California has given me new perspective. Lying in a hammock, all pores open, sweating, feverish…

All the open pores feel like they are exhaling (not panting) – outgassing all of the pollution, sickness, and stress associated with the last several months of work.

I feel as if I´m slowly deflating.

There will be no surf for me today – maybe a trip into town. My shoulder is stiff from yesterday, but I do have full range of motion. Tomorrow is another day. Today is for healing (shoulder and cold).

Mangle´ no longer has a refrigerator – that changes the food/eating situation. The refrigerator isn´t the only thing that has changed…

There are a lot more people here. Not entirely negative – there are more unattched women here – but the majority seem to fall into the “backpack party crowd” versus the “surf” crowd.

Last night was a “beach party” night. At the end of the road is a restaurant with space extending into the sand (Restaurante La Bocana – named after the surf break). I did not attend, I woke up around midnight to hear the band covering “Could You Be Loved” at a faster pace – a merengue-inspired “Could You Be Loved” if you will. They played the same song at last year´s beach party. Everyone loves the song, everyone knows the words, and this is the song the local beach boys (the “crows”) use to try and “seal the deal” with the tourist women. The music (both trips), was a mix of Marley covers, Sublime covers, and Salvadoreño party music.

I thought about walking down to check it out – but I was too sick and out of it. Instead, I ate a Cliff Bar, drank another liter of water, and lay under the ceiling fan while drifting in and out of sleep. The band ended the party with “Could You Be Loved” (a crowd favorite), almost suggestively, and I imagined everyone doing there best – sweaty bikini-clad double-time reggae skanking, asking, “Could You Be Loved“?

Instead of surfing, I went into town – La Libertad. The swell was still solid overhead, and Punta Roca looked great (all the way through to the inside at La Paz). On Sundays, there is a party-like atmosphere in town. The park in front of the pier turns into a “farmer´s market” of sorts. Coconuts, mangos, plantains, pupusa stands, and just about anything and everything you would expect at a flea market. They cover about one-third of the pier with tarps – like a covered bridge – and set up a bustling fish-market. Guaranteed fresh, direct from the pangas which launch from the end of the pier. I tried some fresh ceviche, after a great sales pitch from a beautiful local woman (even though I had an irrational fear of Salvadoreño ceviche from an outbreak of something that happened back in 2000). Out of town families were everywhere – walking the pier, buying street-food, staring at the fresh, whole fish (most of the time the fish won those staring contests), and generally having a great time.

I practiced mi español with whomever wanted to talk, figured out how to ask for hydrogen peroxide at the store (agua oxygena), and decided to have dinner in town.

I am a little paranoid in La Libertad, given its reputation for gangs, drugs, theft, murder and general unpleasantness. Walking around after dark is not recommended. After dinner, I approached the first cab-driver on the town square. Ramon looked to be in his late fifties, and wore coke-bottle-thick glasses (with the 50´s style thick black frames). I asked Ramon how he was and he replied, “mas o menos”, anxiously (”more or less” – an ambivalent reply). Ramon´s truck was a thing of beauty: a pearlescent reddish paint job, fancy chrome rims, lowered, a roll bar, dark tinted windows, and an “air wing” on the back of the bed to keep the back end glued to the road going through those high-speed turns. After we start driving, Ramon asks if I like music, and cranks up the 80´s power ballads (Love Hurts, followed by Heartache). My chest is reverberating with about 400 watts of woofers – but not a tweeter to be heard. I compliment Ramon on how fuerte his stereo sounds – and he turns the volume down. I try to joke about how dark his window tint is – and he grabs a towels and starts smearing condensation over the inside of the scratched-and-tinted windshield.

The humor was not translating.

Ramon was really anxious. I was slowly beginning to understand why.

Ramon could not see.

I could barely see the road – and I have nearly perfect vision.

All I could see were the headlights of oncoming cars, the lane lines extending maybe 50-60 feet in the distance, and the street signs from 100 feet away.

It was dark. The windshield was tinted near black. The tint was heavily scratched, and the inside of the windshield was dirty.

Pedestrians and bicyclists on the side of the road? They would suddenly materialize out of the dark whem we were about 30 feet away.

When we were 10-15 feet away (from pedestrians) – Ramon would see them and sharply swerve towards the center of the road – as if he were suprised.

We drove 30 mph all the way back – with other cars honking and flashing lights and passing us at 50-60mph.

Ramon seemed truly relieved when we arrived at el Mangle´ – as was I.

Meeting the man behind the man behind the man)