Summer Vacation: Suchitoto getaway

Two years and three weeks ago, Colin and I threw a big party and said some vows, so three weeks ago we celebrated by visiting a tiny mountain town with stinky lake and one of the best hotels in the country. Suchitoto is only about an hour and a half north from San Salvador and has the distinction of being one of the few towns spared during the civil war, so its streets are cobblestoned and its buildings are one-story and surround small courtyards. We walked from the indeed lovely hotel to the lovely plaza in front of the church. That Friday was a national holiday, Father’s Day, so the plaza was full of families enjoying shaved ices and snapping photos. We had a decent lunch on the square and did a bit of souvenir shopping, picking out a new hammock and a clay pitcher.

Our guidebook, an old copy of Central America On a Budget, suggested walking down to the lake, so we set off in the heat Saturday morning, but about 20 minutes in and soaked with sweat, it occurred to me that our book never would have considered that we might be able to drive our own car down. The lake and its recreation area, once we got down there, proved disappointing. Not actually all that stinky, but definitely nicer to look at from afar. After about 15 minutes spent watching the small ferry boats from a park bench with an empty, open-air food court behind us and a curious family next to us, we took our leave. A dip in the hotel pool and a couple hours reading in the courtyard seemed a better use of our time.


Rainy season

I was told when the rains started again back in May that they were coming late, and I could see El Salvador was parched and needed the relief by the time the rains were falling regularly. I am happy that it’s rainy season again because it makes our little garden happy, it makes the farms across the countryside happy, it makes the lakes and rivers happy, and it brings El Salvador back to the lushly green country we landed in a year ago. It’s a good thing.

It does also mean that our ceiling is leaking again, even though we have over a month of roofers up there after the last rainy season. It also, this time, means our little tomatoes aren’t reaching maturity because the daily pounding rains are too much for them to bear. And most annoying, it means the mosquitoes are out in force and have somehow breached our perimeter, such that I killed five inside the house yesterday and four so far today.


Couldn’t hang.

Summer Vacation: Recent obsession

Hello world! I’m starting week three of summer vacation, and I honestly don’t have much to show for the enormous amount of free time I’ve suddenly been given. That’s OK, though. I’ve watched some Netflix, read some books, baked a LOT of bread, made some fancier meals, and gotten at least halfway through organizing some of this past year’s school materials to be better prepared for next year.

The first two weeks of vacation, and continuing into this week although to a lesser degree, have been set to the soundtrack of Hamilton, the musical. The Tonys happened the Sunday after the last day of school (do yourself a favor and watch this clip of their performance during the awards show) and so the hugely popular production resurfaced in my consciousness and, acknowledging I will likely never see the show live, I downloaded the original cast recording and blasted it three days straight while I cleaned my classroom. My pal, the third-grade teacher, wasn’t there to make fun or to see me tear up during “Burn” (it was an emotional week).

I tried to mix it up by listening to other musical soundtracks, but the thing that I can do while Colin is around is read 1776 by David McCullough, which follows Gen. Washington during the fight for American independence and barely features Hamilton. Oh well. A riveting story nonetheless.

one thing

I also made this inspirational poster for next year’s second graders. It’s a lyric.

Late to the game, I know, but I’ve got a lot to catch up on coming out of the first year of teaching. So if everyone could stop talking about House of Cards, Orange is the New Black, and Game of Thrones, that would be great, thnx.

Rain Days

I got two unexpected days off work this week because Central America got hit by some severe… rain. I have next to nothing to show for my time: some carrot muffins, a pumpkin loaf, the leftovers of an involved fish dinner. I watched more Netflix than I care to admit. I did manage the outline of a plan for how to teach five days’ worth of material in three days. Somehow we’re already in week 10 of the school year–the end of the first quarter. I will have to issue report cards for my little monsters next week. It also marks 10 weeks that we’ve had Cat (and have managed to keep her). IMAG2852

Things that are making me happy this week: Halloween preparations are in full swing! My costume is going to be on the understated side, but I’m looking forward to a fun Friday at school (complete with birthday cake!) and then a nice long weekend with a trip to the lake. All of the family visiting for Christmas now has their flights booked! Colin bought our tickets for the Marine Corps Ball at the end of November. We received a Halloween care package full of lots of fun goodies! It has been decided that we’ll be the hosts for Friendsgiving, so this weekend I allowed myself to start planning that.

Every weekend should last four days: there’s so much more to be positive about when they do!

My week

On Monday, I was setting up my classroom in a small bilingual school here, preparing myself to handle 18 4-year-olds who would arrive next week.

On Tuesday, I found out the international school had lost its second grade teacher and was desperate to find a replacement. I agonized. I applied.

On Wednesday, I was introduced to the rest of the staff at the small bilingual school and finished cutting out the Minion that would welcome my wee ones into our fun room. I was also stealing the wi-fi from across the street to set up an interview with the director of the international school. I interviewed. I accepted.

On Thursday, I went to the director of the small bilingual school with my tail between my legs and explained I was leaving her for another school, the one headed by a man she has known since she was a student herself. I apologized. I apologized. I scooted right out of there and was introduced in a staff meeting at the international school at 9.

On Friday, I worked in my second grade classroom to try to make it inviting. I decided on an ocean theme. I decided on a monster theme. I met four of my students. I decided on a pirate theme. I left after lunch to meet the Peace Corps volunteer who was giving us her cat since she can’t take it with her. I got a flat tire (unrelated to our previous tire issue). I called the embassy. Thank goodness we got my phone working again. Thank goodness we have the spare. Thank goodness it happened in safe area during the day.

Phew. Thank goodness for weekends.

Cat refuses to be roused from her nap.

Cat refuses to be roused from her nap.

El Mozote

Two weeks ago Colin and I piled into a van with 11 of his colleagues and joined a 5-vehicle caravan out to the eastern edge of the country to visit the site of a massacre that happened in 1981, during El Salvador’s civil war. Four hours out of San Salvador through green volcanic landscapes, we arrived in the department of Morazon and were shown two sides of the same story: the massacre of El Mozote.
On December 10, 1981, Salvadoran soldiers entered the small town of El Mozote, hustled everyone there into the square in front of the church, and for hours made them lay face-down in the dirt while they screamed questions about the guerrillas operating in the area. Eventually, the townspeople were released to the terrified night. The next morning, the soldiers ordered everyone back out of their homes, divided the men from the women from the children, and beheaded, stabbed, raped, burned and hanged everyone.
Once the soldiers left, the guerrillas came into El Mozote to find the carnage and invited in a couple of journalists to tell the story. Individuals from nearby towns recalled seeing the smoke and hearing the screams. A team of archaeologists ten years after the fact settled the final number of victims at nearly 800. Three people survived: a woman who dropped into the brush in a moment of chaos and a woman and a boy who separately ran for their lives into the thick jungle.

As we entered the department, an army escort joined our caravan for safety in light of the recent surge in gang violence. They ushered us to a base, where we were welcomed with cold sodas and a slideshow that touched on the history of Morazon. There is no dispute that soldiers killed civilians in El Mozote in December 1981, but the army challenges the victim toll and the reliability of the witnesses, the evidence of the crime. So then it was maybe a little weird for everyone when the army escort took us to El Mozote’s town square, where we met a guide who is a former guerrilla to hear his version of story. Neither this guide nor any of the soldiers in our escort were more than little children at the time of the massacre, but emotions around the moment in question run deep.
The guide in the town square described how people from the surrounding area had streamed into to El Mozote for protection after hearing that the soldiers would be coming through, explaining how a town of roughly 300 could suffer a massacre of more than double that. El Mozote was known for being separate in this desperate civil war. They sided with neither the army nor the guerrillas, though they tolerated and would sell their goods to both. The town was different because of its strong Evangelical leaning, which made it decidedly not communist. But there was a war going on, and the fog of war is thick, and soldiers from all nations from all time periods do terrible things, and the battalion that stopped in El Mozote, that was led by a bright, charismatic figure, that was trained to some extent in America, was no exception to that horrible truth. A former U.S. military guy in our group made the point that any training that happened in America liking had a tempering effect, that this could have somehow been worse than it was, multiplied across other areas, perhaps.
El Mozote is still a small town, and when we visited on a Saturday as dusk fell, a church service was being held in the small church built upon the ashes of the one that burned on December 11, 1981. Young boys were kicking a soccer ball and gamely allowed a small children from our group to play with them for a while. I bought a packet of toffee peanuts from a girl, and a friend bought 10 raffle tickets to support the church from another girl. A small shop off the square had woven, beaded, leather souvenirs, and there was a stand with old photos too sun-damaged to be clear, which I suspect is for the best. We would spend the night in a rustic lodge, and the next morning walk to the old headquarters of Radio Vencemos, the broadcasting arm of the guerrillas during the war and cause of the demise of the general responsible for the massacre two years later when they booby-trapped a transmitter with explosives and left it for him to discover. The building is now a simple museum that has the ill-fated helicopter the general had been in when he carried off his transmitter prize, as well as the rudimentary medical supplies the guerrillas had used and posters and photos from during the war. Chickens hunt in the bomb craters nearby.
The weekend was an education on the war, on Colin’s colleagues during our 7 hours in the van, and on El Salvador outside of the city, and certainly was not nearly so grim as this post may make it seem.
Confession time: I wasn’t able to understand hardly any of what was presented to us during the weekend because my Spanish just can’t yet. This information comes from what people told me the guides said and from this epic and sad expose that was written by Mark Danner for the New Yorker in 1993.

On driving

“I can’t talk about this right now.”

I’m not upset that Colin wants to figure out when I can take our tire in to be repaired, but I’m driving; my mental faculties are already being stretched. The roads in the city are riddled with potholes and manholes, the covers of which I have witnessed tipped open or missing completely. A pack of street dogs kept pace with traffic on my way home a few nights ago. A number of men sell bags of dinner rolls out of bicycle baskets or pick-up trucks. Buses, oh the buses, old American school buses with new paint jobs crawling up hills, belching exhaust, stopping at really poorly placed bus stops. The speed impediment of choice is speed bumps, and the nicer neighborhoods scatter them like bird feed, and I understand why when cars come careening downhill, around curves, half in their lane, half in mine. Though I’ve seen a number of “Jesus Cristo Salvo” driving school vehicles on the road, I’ve heard that one doesn’t need to bother with learning how to drive before getting a driver’s license here.

So like I said, we’ve got a tire that needs repairing–a nail wiggled itself loose and now we’ve got a temporary patch. It might not be priority #1, but it’s close.