El Salvador

The boorish Canadian from the bar we were in last night was also heading into El Salvador today and told us of a direct service from Antigua to Playa El Zonte. Though it was only $20 US the fact that it departed at 0800 and that he would be aboard meant that we opted for what we hoped would be a much more satisfying way of doing things. A kind soul who goes by the name of Mr Zedd had posted on a travel forum blow by blow instructions of how to get from Antigua to El Zonte by chicken bus so I convinced Kerry we ought to give it a bash. Like the intrepid and hardy traveller she is, she didn't take much cajoling.

Having checked out of the lovely hotel we'd enjoyed for the past 3 nights we began the walk to the bus station, a slight misnomer because it's just a huge dirt expanse with around 100 chicken buses sat on it. There was no need to check the map for directions, I knew the way, turn left outside our door and keep walking until you hit it. No problem.
Well, just one problem, wheeling my case over cobbles again whilst bent ever so slightly. I noticed a new aggravation as we walked which was that my flip flops kept catching my pack somehow. It seems such minutiae to you I'm sure but is annoying in the extreme to me. 

We walked and walked. And we walked. We walked further than I remembered it being to the bus station, then we came to the edge of town. With Kerry visibly questioning why she places her faith in me so blindly I sheepishly took our map out and saw that rather than walk one block left and two blocks down as we should have done, our walking 10 blocks left saw us about 1km away from where we wanted to be, having already walked 1km too far.

Quite how I erred so spectacularly is still something of a mystery though the mitigating circumstances are that it's easy to get lost in a grid system and I am apparently blessed with the navigational acumen of Mark Thatcher. (younger readers may have to google that one)
With self-admonishment airing itself more with every stride and Kerry's patience with me, scant to begin with, totally evaporated we stomped in seething silence toward our goal. We came to yet another crossroads and while I looked in all directions in the vain hope of seeing a bus-orientated clue I took my eye off where I was walking, fatal around here. The pain shot through my toe, up my leg, into my brain and out of my mouth in half a nanosecond. An inexplicable protrusion of rusty iron was in my path and I had walked straight into it, stubbing my left big toe and opening it up in a flappy and fleshy manner. As my mother would say, this put the tin hat on proceedings and I cursed my failure to refer to the map in the first place as blood oozed into my flip flop. A flicker of sympathy crossed Kerry's face but then she remembered she temporarily hated me and it was soon replaced by contempt once more.

After opening the First Aid kit for the first time (we were both pleased in a way, wouldn't want to bring it all this way and not use it) we found the bus we were looking for and took our seats. We would depart at 1030 for Esquintla, probably a full hour later than had we come straight here, but no matter, Mr Zedd said it was 6 hours all in so we'd still be there by 1830.
A young chap got on a few minutes into the journey and squeezed his way up the aisle handing out slips of paper which read something like "My brothers and me are starving and I'm going to sing you a song which I would be so grateful if you could spare 1 Quetzale for". He had a can of coke with some rice in it as percussion and proceeded to sing so hilariously atrociously that it was pure comedy gold and well worth the few Quetzales we had as change.

Escuintla was a boiling hot hell-hole of a place which, judging by the attention we garnered, doesn't see many travellers. As it was now about midday we thought we'd get some food before embarking on the next leg of the journey from here to the border, 2 1/4 hours according to Mr Zedd. We came out of the bus station and walked left up the main drag looking and feeling more than a little conspicuous. The paths were chock a block with either people, food stalls, potholes or missing drain covers so we walked up the road into a stream of honking traffic. Eating establishments were thin on the ground but then we saw a place over the road. Before we could cross a guy spoke English to me and said we oughtn't go in there as it's full of the mafia. I thanked him for his concern but told him we were hungry and had no choice so in we walked. The looks on the faces of the clientele as an overheating lady and her beardy accomplice entered their domain wheeling suitcases was memorable to say the least. Some nervously laughed, eyebrows approached hairlines on others and some looked for the 'Candid Camera' team. (Younger readers may have to google that one too).
Once we were advised that they didn't sell food, only some form of brain liquidizing grog, we were out of there quicker than you can say "Two weeks in Skegness next year dear?".

Back into the noisy streets of Esquintla, getting more and more frustrated that finding food here is seemingly a quest on a par with locating the holy grail, we found ourselves tossing up over the merits of a fried chicken that looked like a first class ticket to Botulism Central (change at Vomit Street) or some chips being cooked by a filthy tramp-like individual on a mobile wooden cart in oil dirtier than I've seen leaking out of the back of my camper van. We opted for the VW chips and sat in something of a daze by the side of the road eating them, fending off ants and wondering why the young lad who needed a pee felt it necessary to answer his call of nature quite so close to us.

Replenished, or at least so internally soaked in grease that it appeared so, we hopped on our next bus, changing onto another bound for the border in a non-descript place whose name escapes me. We were dropped at customs and we joined the small queue  seeking entry into El Salvador. Ahead of us were a couple of agitated guys eating dragon fruit and spitting the pips out into a nearby bin with unerring accuracy and a party of 4 nuns driving a minibus. There was a long delay of about 15 minutes while the nuns were processed, 15 long hot minutes standing up in direct sunlight with my travelling companion huffing and puffing. What was the delay for God's sake? (Touché). Did the officials suspect there was a shed load of coke in the headlining of their Toyota or perhaps those big comfy pants that (one suspects) they were wearing were concealing a cache of illegal firearms. I must say, the mother superior looked a but shifty and the nervous disposition of the young orderly suggested she might be packing heat. Finally it was our turn and after a few minutes deliberation, most of it spent looking at an error message on the computer when the official swiped Kerry's passport, we were officially out of Guatemala and into no-mans land, a one mile stretch leading to El Salvadorean immigration. We took a bicycle taxi across this for a dollar but were asked to get out halfway and transfer to another and pay another dollar. "Que?" says I. "This El Salvador, I not go here" says he. A cunning racket if ever there was one but $2 well spent against wheeling my infernal case for a mile.

There was a bit of confusion at immigration, as there usually is it seems, but we were soon approved without money changing hands and being cycled to the bus 'station', another muddy car park type affair. A guy in a pick-up offered to drive us directly to Playa El Zonte for $60, a kind offer which I nonetheless found easy to turn down, deciding to take the bus to Sonsonate for 40 cents each. Buses in El Salvador are incredibly cheap. 

This journey was about an hour and a half and was our fourth chicken bus of the day. Seats in these buses are very thin so it doesn't take long to develop an ache in ones coccyx, arse ache to be blunt, so as we sped through the verdant wonder of our fifth country our awe was tempered by our suffering posteriors. Nevertheless, how exciting to be here. Just a few short years ago a civil war was raging, apparently prolonged for a whole decade following intervention by Uncle Sam. All I knew about the place was that there had been this civil war and that by dint of a small miracle the country had qualified for the 1982 world cup in Spain, suffering the heaviest ever finals defeat at the hands of an average Hungary, 10-1. Further reading would reveal an atrocious 20th century with thousands of people shot for sympathising with opposition parties, human rights violations on a grand scale and ethnic cleansing of, I quote "anyone looking indigenous". Understandable then that perceptions are negative but the country is turning the corner and it's been on travellers radars for a decade and more now.

By the time we got to Sonsonate we had just about had it so we decided we'd stay the night here and continue on tomorrow. We took a taxi to the best hotel in town and tried to forget the trials of the day via the pool and a slap up dinner, remarking that if we ever met Mr Zedd we would likely offer him violence unless he removes his jaunty "it's easy to get from Antigua to El Salvador by chicken bus" posting from the interweb.
Next morning, refreshed from a night in one of the better rooms we've had the pleasure of patronising, we went out for a quick walk to get some cash and have some breakfast. The locals were very interested in us, many saying hello and an awful lot more just staring at us. We needed some cash so used a drive through cash point, immediately feeling even more conspicuous for having a few hundred dollars each stuffed down our kex. El Salvador adopted the US dollar as their currency in 2001, a result for us as we'd nearly used all ours up so this afforded us the chance to restock and stash them about ourselves and our packs, a policy which should minimise the chance of losing them all should we get mugged at any point.

With all chores accomplished we took a cab back to the bus station, a shock-absorber free Nissan that wouldn't have looked out of place in a scrapyard, before seeking a bus down the coast to El Zonte. All eyes were on the gringos as we tried to find the right bus, our task not aided by an aggravating little scrote of about 10 dancing in front of us asking for a dollar. We had great trouble understanding the dialect of the couple of people we asked for help so jumped on a bus bound for Mizata, a beach about 15 miles this side of El Zonte, reckoning on changing there for one onwards to our Mecca. 

45 minutes later we were invited to alight from the bus when the conductor threw our cases into the road and gestured wildly at us. As we stood in the road watching the bus disappear in a cloud of black smoke we looked at each other with open mouths before the  expletives poured out. "I say, what the devil are we doing here?" enquired Kerry. "What and where IS here?" I asked rhetorically.
A rusty sign hanging on one hinge bore the moniker "Playa Mizata" and pointed down a stony lane so we started to walk down it, not really knowing what else to do. 
The lane was longer than we hoped, a good 10 minute saunter made insufferably difficult by trying to wheel cases over such an uneven surface. Once we'd made it past the rabid looking mutt and then the herd of cows we arrived at something called 'Playa Mizata Resort'. At least there was something here, I had feared we'd have to walk back up the lane having wasted half an hour and expended an unnecessary amount of energy on a fools errand though when we found someone and asked how much a room was the $65 asking price made it look that way anyway.
Then the young girl who was addressing us changed the whole complexion of the situation, the day, the country - "I'll get my step-dad, he's North American".

George was a be-shorted and bare chested chap with a wire brush like tash and a bucket load of helpful information for the two exasperated specimen on his porch. It was a bank holiday in El Salvador and there'd be no buses onwards along the coast today. Yes his rooms were $65 but if we wanted something cheaper his neighbour Bob might be able to help us out as he has a couple of Eco-pods in his garden. George's step-daughter took us and introduced us to Bob, a dead ringer for Woody Allen and an ex New York lawyer who has found himself in El Salvador as he prepares to write a book. A deal was struck for one of his pods which we set about defiling immediately, Kerry's half hundredweight of lotions and potions to the fore.

With the pod just a few yards from the beach, a kilometre long stretch of jet black sand flanked by dense palms, we were soon on our way there to enjoy the crashing surf and quite frightening undertow along with a hundred or so locals, most of them fascinated by any gesture or movement either of us two made.
We took a real pounding in those waves and an earful of sand rendered me Mutt and Jeff for two days and I'm still fishing particles out now.

The next day we thought we'd probably move on but after a lazy breakfast and a long chat with both Bob and Geoff about their past, present and futures we decided to hang around and see what transpired. Not a lot did but that was why it was so fabulous a few days. We sat on the veranda of our pod and played Scrabble and Sudoku, read a bit, sat around chewing the fat with the fellas, ate delicious shrimp kabobs, chatted to a French couple who have jacked their jobs in to cycle from Panama City to Cancun, watched the most incredible electrical storm and watched the two young kids who live in Bob's garden roll around in mud. Time stopped for a short time and it was great. If only some idiot hadn't decided that this trip needed to encompass the whole American continent we could have stayed longer.
It was a real wrench to leave when we did and we hoped someone would offer us a lift back up to the main road rather than have to wheel or carry our cases up that lane. Bob did offer but in keeping with his chaotic, rudimentary and sometimes incomprehensible situation his pick-up wouldn't start so we had to walk after all.

We stood by the side of the road and tried to flag a couple of buses down before a half-naked local on a bike told us to wait 5 more minutes and the El Zonte bus would be along. On-board we met Brad, another American from Mizata and another with an interesting tale. A guy in the USA reaches his 25th birthday which triggers a $30m inheritance. What to do with such wealth? Well, first off he bought a palatial pad on the beach at Mizata with rooms to let, then he lost interest somewhat due to a flirtation with Colombia's purest and also liquid gold. To keep things ticking over he needed an Estates Manager and Brad was the successful applicant. He spends one week in Chicago per month and 3 weeks in Mizata running the estate. It sounds like a complete doddle. Today for example he was taking a 2 day trip to San Salvador to see his girlfriend. Now that's the sort of job I'd like.

Several days later than planned we finally reached El Zonte and once again we were dumped on the road seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The road down to this place was paved so things were looking up. What seething metropolis would we find? Could this be a paradise to rival the Isla?
The answers to both questions were soon answered in a terribly disappointing way. Zonte is surfer dude drop-out city. If you're not hanging ten man then you're waxing your board, or sitting cross legged on the sand or lying in a hammock talking to your compadres. Everybody was 20-30 years of age, lithe and had been here for ages. We, with our advancing years, inability to surf and slightly plubby midriffs were not meant to be here. Plus, the place was a shit hole. 
We found a room and booked one night while we worked out what to do. We didn't know whether to try to join in and have a days surfing lesson, move on to San Salvador first thing or carry on down the coast to La Libertad in the hope that that was a better bet for us. Then we saw a poster in reception; shuttle to Copan Ruinas in Honduras for $35, air-con shuttle through Guatemala and into Honduras with English speaking guide to assist with the border control and, most importantly after the pain of our journey from Antigua, a direct service. We reckoned that was well worth the money so decided to book it for Friday. 

We were directed towards Alex to make the reservation, the owner of our hotel. You expect an hotel owner to look a certain way. Alex, about 30 years old with long ponytail, bare torso, board shorts and bare feet did not conform to a stereotype. He was a dead ringer for Antonio Banderas and once we'd made our booking he told us how he has such a great life, teaching surfing, owning the hotel, disappearing into the mountains for 3 day jaunts with his mates. I thought all this made him a git but Kerry seemed a little more impressed judging by how far out of her head her eyes were bulging.
There was a change to the advertised plan though. Rather than Friday the trip would be tomorrow, leaving at 0630. Holy cow! We were suddenly in an almighty rush, weren't prepared and our time in El Salvador was going to come to a premature and abrupt end.
We had to get our acts together, get to bed, be ready.

Our room was a triple, 2 bunks and a double bed, so we made use of all this room and spread out. I took the double near the door to the patio and next to the window and Kerry went in the top bunk on the other side of the room. Lights went off about 2200 and I soon, as is customary, fell into a deep sleep. My next recollection is of being aware of something. I just stirred and being only a quarter awake it could have been the sheet rubbing on me, a dream, anything. Then I felt something cold but was still so drowsy as to simply turn over and ignore it. Then I felt movement and shot out of bed thinking a moth or something was fluttering over my skin somehow. My accompanying primeval shriek woke Kerry who assumed I was having a nightmare but as I stood there in the darkness I could see a shadow on the curtain and I told her that something was on me and was now on the curtain. I was sure it was a spider but when we nervously turned the light on we saw that it was a crab.
A hideous, cold, bony horrible thing had crawled over me whilst I was asleep and woke me up. Ugh! I can't abide creepy crawlies, spiders or bees and I bloody hate crabs. It freaked me out and I had to put the mozzie net up to stand any chance of nodding off again.

Our 5 hour journey north to the Guatemalan border aside that was it for El Salvador. It was a flying visit yes, just a few days, though it was always the intention to just pass through on the way to frying bigger fish. As it turned out our unintentional sojourn to Mizata made it one of the most memorable aspects of the whole trip and if you like Devon you'd love it here as it's very reminiscent of it. It's just hotter and there's less opportunity to have a cream tea. Just remember to bring a mozzie net if you do ever come.