un sueno

Hollow ululations fill the night--the howls of monkeys, screaming as sea lions until the light of day silences them. They convene in clans, faces full of intense expression and chests bellowing ominous warnings. Giant grey brown ctenosaurs battle in branches, appearing as an apparition from the Jurassic ages. Black beaches stretch for miles empty of all souls, save the cacti that cling to cliffs like fallen beasts. Waves roll in and palm trees beckon them with open arms. The rain responds to the invitation, and I predict its patterns from the scent and texture of the air. It grows from a few wistful tears to a throbbing torrent, then subsides as the birds stir, mimicking its behavior with their own cries, tentative conversations whispered in clusters and congregations that combine into a cacophony. Jet blue butterflies swirl like the water, orbiting each other in front of trickling waterfalls and the surrounding forests of ferns and foliage. Reggae rhythms lay a base beat for swaying hammocks and the swishing skirts of schoolgirls. Fish frolic in the teal blue bay: some blend in with the brown lettuce coral and sand; others stand out with florescent flourishes. Each of these elements combines to create the tranquil harmony of a siren's song.

suave

El Salvador hides nothing. Children roam the muddy streets naked, sucking chocolates with crooked smiles and plucking flowers off high barbed wire walls that line the roads. Adults hang their undergarments in the open air and discuss the latest gossip: the new pregnancy and likely father, the success of a hostel owner, or the transgression of someone who dropped in on them during the last set. Even young men speak of the battles they’ve braved, and those they don’t wish too.

Dogs outnumber the people in the small cluster of tin shacks and stucco hotels called El Zonte, and they roam even more freely, following behind in my footsteps, marking their territory with feces or fights. I’ve come to understand where the term mangy mutt comes from, for most lack hair in large areas of their bodies, and they’re caked with mud and a sickness resembling churizo. The livestock meander the streets, turkeys and chickens pecking along, cows grazing and ambling across the highway, pigs bathing the ruts that catch the afternoon showers, and horses observing onlookers with weary eyes. Butterflies prance across the skies by day, and fireflies guide you home at night. In the morning an orchestra of roosters trumpeting and crickets keeping tune awakens me before the first light hits the sky. This afternoon a venomous snake fell from a tree outside my window, and the boys working outside killed it with a machete. They chopped off its head, showing me its fangs and theirs with a grin and flung its limp body over the fence into the road. It landed in the dirt and looked like a discarded stick.

Besides the loyal guard dogs, scattered snakes and incessant mosquitoes, the entire neighborhood is friendly. The people come and go as they please, they greet each other with smiles and besos. They seem proud of the little they have and willing to share. That’s not to say they wont rip off a foreigner by charging 40 bucks for a newspaper of mud that barely resembles mota, but they´ll come by the next day and ask what you thought of it. Here there are no borders, and the high gates crowned in barbed wire are easily crossed through secret holes, with telling smiles. The city is different. It looks tired, painful. There, the boundaries are impermeable. An armed guard stands solemnly at every door, and only those with heavy purses are permitted safe passage.

I´ve spent my days here simply: I sway and still myself, fanning arid air into my face, watching the mango tree top that cradles me stir gently in the sweet breeze, and feeling the earth threaten from below. The sky is smothered by leaves that promise shelter should the rain come as the thunder threatens. Buttery sun bakes my skin, furrows my brow, and slants my eyes, my focus forward. Black crabs scuttle across the dark sands, bracing themselves against the grey green winter water. Waves shatter the shore and turn to chocolate churning milk. They´re born as barrels: curling from the point into crescents that provide the proud with a possibility to move in the wake of their harmony. Sun kissed kids morph into frogs and glide effortlessly across the surface: spinning over the top, darting back to the base and swinging a webbed foot out of the water onto their "boogie" to perch in the hollow before springing off the edge over the crest and disappearing back into the depths.


I’ve also been helping to fix up the Compound we have called home for the last week. It needs hard work and love, but every effort makes a difference. As my friends drove off to close the deal on their new palapa in paradise, the grass had already begun to spread across the yard, and the banana plants they raised are almost as tall as I am. I think it would be nice to keep marks on the wall and watch their growth like a toddler. My contributions have been small, but they’re very much my own. I helped put up flagstones on the bathroom walls, spending hours crouched in the little room piecing the puzzle together while cement covers my skin and cracks my hands. I painted a mural of sea turtles on a large piece of driftwood, and strung it up on the wall, the first aesthetic element on the barren brick. I wanted to help build the hedge, but the nursery was closed, so I left a small donation for a plumeria and directions to plant it near the patio so that when the wind blows west the air will smell sweet.