I kept a journal. For me, it was nothing out of the ordinary, except for the circumstances. Over the course of fourteen days, after living with eleven people and experiencing an entirely new culture, I unconsciously scribbled forty-three pages. I’ve yet to write a page, in the ten days since I have been back; an inaction that’s extraordinary, for me.
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Throughout our first week in San Salvador we routinely drove past palm trees and razor wire, their juxtaposition served as a constant reminder that we weren’t in America anymore.
Once we adjusted to the tropics’ heat and the security guards’ shotguns we were able to witness the culture. Daily trips to Zaragoza showed us more than we’ve ever seen from the window seats of a bus. Houses that instead of windows and doors, used full sheets of scrap metal as walls and sheets to provide a semblance of privacy, adjacent to Chevrolet dealerships and Burger Kings. An underfunded public hospital, with a line that wrapped around the block, next to Esso stations where a gallon of gas costs half a day’s salary. A people that, in some areas, largely lacked food, running water, proper sanitation, education, piece of mind, sneakers, cars, cellphones, televisions and Macs, in cooperation with a spirit that greets and offers foreigners with every necessity they can’t afford to spare.
Under the veil of Global Outreach, it’s ironic that we exploited the people of Zaragoza. We bartered inequitable things: five days of labor for lifelong perspectives that have no timetable. Representative of their welcoming and hospitable natures, our colleagues in building the foundation for the school paid no mind to this clearly unfavorable trade; I could have spent ten years digging that trench but the inevitable exchange would always result in me benefiting most. In our American mindsets we worked hard to meet our tangible goal; in their El Salvadoran spirits they taught us that a finished product is only as valuable as the time and relationships enjoyed while achieving it.
Kids (and Kara) at Zaragoza enjoying the slide.
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San Salvador is informally known as “The Murder Capital of the World;” unsurprisingly, we weren’t allowed to wander its streets. According to Arcatao’s Wikipedia page, there is “nearly zero crime” in the remote village near the Honduran border. As if our time in San Salvador wasn’t profound enough, we all experienced something unique in Arcatao; we were finally let off the bus.
It’s difficult to succinctly describe Arcatao, because of its pastoral elegance, but for aesthetic purposes: there are more horses and cows in the streets than there are cars. The houses lack insulation, carpeting, indoor bathrooms, fly swatters, and toilets that can handle toilet paper. But each house had a family.
Despite its lack of exterior adornment, distinct individuality and modern technology, Arcatao was one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.
We loved our time in Arcatao; it showed us, in terms of happiness, how marginal material luxuries can be when in the company of genuine human affection.
Me and Herbert, my host dad, at el cima.
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"El Pubelo Canta"
It’s 5:54pm on January 26th and I’m sitting at my desk, in Walsh 703A. I’ve been back at school for eight days and am readjusted to the forty degree weather. In front of me is my “bookcase;” I have twenty-nine books on my desk, not including anthologies and not including the more than dozen books I have sitting on my dresser. None of them are for school; I’ve read nine of them and won’t even reach half by the end of the semester. In the pink church in Arcatao I noticed a book of songs lying on one of the pews. Naturally drawn to any book and or bookshelf, I unhesitatingly flipped through it. I’m not proficient or patient enough in Spanish to have tried to read its contents, but I did stumble upon some hand-written notes. A girl had written her name several times, in perfect succession, (like Bart Simpson does in detention) on the back cover of the book; she was learning how to write. This girl inadvertently showed me, by using her reading material as a notepad, what I had. An anonymous seven year old girl from an impoverished country the size of Massachusetts taught me an indispensable life lesson.
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My cursory answers to inquiries about the trip always leave me discontented– the dissatisfaction coincides with my inability to write these last ten days. My unconscious fear of documenting the monumentality of the experience is, ironically, founded in the monumentality of those fourteen days. Detailing my experience by sharing its tumults and triumphs asserts that I have recapitulated, and encapsulated it within several pages of ink. The problem with these attempted explanations is that they will never be sufficient. No matter how often or how vividly I describe the colors of the painted murals, the tattered orphans, the freshness of the waterfall, or the beggar near Romero’s tomb, I will never do them justice. There is an enduring divide between words and experience, one that not even the greatest storytellers can weld.
