The theme of my trip was pushing boundaries. So much of the experience was uncomfortable–not knowing the language, shyness around the Salvadorans, uncertainty about my role as a faculty guide–but I knew, despite my discomfort, that pushing through the hard parts would be more rewarding and allow me to come out on the other side of the experience changed in some way. And thus my odyssey got frightening.
I returned with my crew from our work site on the first day filthy with sweat and dust but feeling very happy. We all worked well together, slinging the pick, tossing the rocks, and we all seemed to feel somehow buoyant. We leapt from the back of the truck and into the shade of the patio, ready to lounge in the hammocks for the hour or so until it was time for lunch. Sister Elena came up to me and asked if I wanted to help her get water–we drank from 5 gallon jugs of purified water instead of from the tap–and I quickly agreed.
She took me off to the dining patio so we could eat lunch early and then go get water. As I sat down, she told me that I would be driving.
I nearly choked. I am a decent driver but very anxious. Tailgaters, speeders, undimmed high beams, too aggressive drivers, too timid drivers–they all make my palms slick with sweat and my stomach knot with tension. When Sister Elena asked me if I could drive a stick shift, the thought very briefly flitted through my mind that here was an out, but I could not lie. Instead I echoed my grandfather’s words when a potential employer asked him if he could drive a particular kind of truck: “Are the wheels round?”
And so we set out to Usulutan, a city of about 100,000 about 60 kilometers or so east of us, down CA-2. The highway is two lanes wide, but the shoulders are extravagant, considering, and they are also necessary. Huge–really, really huge–trucks overloaded with tall piles of sugar cane crawl down the highway at 40 kph. Old pickups with more rust than paint, the beds filled with pigs or cinder blocks, or a dozen people, putter along in a cloud of smoke. Herds of slow-moving cattle use the highway to get from field to barn and back. There is no choice but to pass, and I did so with great trepidation. I realized what the wide shoulders are for: when you pass, if you don’t have quite enough room, oncoming traffic slides onto the shoulder for you. After two or three white-knuckled passes, I was driving like a Salvadoran, and loving it.
Usulutan was a riot. The roads are narrow, with market stalls and piles of fruit, vegetables, and other goods threatening to spill out into the streets. Traffic rules seem haphazard, and meekness means death, or at least a huge delay in your trip as you get pushed around by the bold. In many ways, the bright, lively streets reminded me of some neighborhoods in the Bronx, only more chaotic and anarchic.
We drove through town to a large supermarket, where I again faced almost certain death from culture shock. The store was large, brightly lit, very modern. The Modern Foods supermarket where I used to shop on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx was less impressive (granted, Modern was a tiny, shabby store, but how many times would I find El Salvador more modern than the US?). The goods on the shelves were a curious mix of the familiar and the exotic. A dozen different kinds of cooking oil lined one aisle, while another had bags of Doritos. Hershey’s candybars tempted us at the checkouts.
We got our five jugs of water loaded into the truck, and we set off again. This time, I had to make a left turn out of the parking lot onto the busiest street in Usulutan. “Just ease out and see if someone will let you go,” Sister advised. I did so, finding a small gap I could quirt through. I felt like a real professional. Just before we left the town, Sister told me to pull over at an ice cream shop, where we treated ourselves before heading back home.
Oh, I’m afraid if it had been me, Usulutan would have been added to my list of places where I won’t drive.
Ice cream sounds like the perfect treat at the end of that trip.
Having driven in El Salvador, you can now graduate to driving in South Africa! There is much shoulder-driving there too, but the shoulder is narrow and usually filled with pedestrians, dogs and cows.
Glad to hear that driving Sister Elena was a success.
This is so fascinating. I love your El Salvador posts.
Wow, are you brave! Don’t you just love it when things like “Are the wheels round?'”(what a great line!) come floating out of your mouth before you have a chance to stop them? Good for you! I’d still be sitting there trying to make that left-hand turn onto the busiest street. In fact, years from now, you’d see the rusted remains of the vehicle and my skeleton still sitting there.