Jan 21

Written by: reh
1/21/2004

January 21, 2004, 7:00 AM, Wednesday. Left the motel. At the border crossing by 7:15. There is an odd procedure for getting through Central American border crossings. All of the border crossings are full of thieves, leaches, and rogues. The many clerks (numbered in the 10s) that must act upon various paperwork is confusing to even the seasoned travelers. Clerks are totally unsympathetic to foreigners who speak poor Spanish. They bark out a command and move onto the next person (I will never be critical of US bureaucrats again). I was compelled to give my paperwork (passport, license, insurance papers, etc.) to one of the hundreds of “runners”. Young men, from 15 years old to 35 years old, who run from station to station getting necessary stamps, copies, authorizations and requiring money for every step. When the runner was done with my paper work and having spent $180 of my money, he stood about three paces away, holding my passport and demanded $50 dollars US! My choices were.....

Three rules to border crossing:
1. Never let anyone but a recognized authority of the State touch your passport.
2. Never give anyone but a recognized authority of the State any money.
3. Memorize step one and step two

I left the border crossing with a bad taste in my mouth. It took a lot longer than John had expected so we turned south on a good two lane road to catch CA2 and travel the faster, shorter coastal route. About 15 miles down the road we noticed a small group of men gathered along a straight stretch of road about a thousand or so feet ahead. I pulled along side John as he stopped. He told me to back off the road perpendicular to the road so that I could go easily in either direction. He said he would go ahead and check things out. Then he would come back to get me. He told me not to come toward him even if he motioned but to go back to the border guards and report the incident. It would do no one any good if we were both detained, and he could bargain with the fact that I would report the incident within 15 minutes.

He rode down, turned his bike around, stopped to talk for a few minutes and rapidly returned to my position. He stopped in front of me and said, “I think we’ll go back to CA-1. It’s a prettier road anyway.”

As we continued to climb into the mountains, towns and crossroads became more scarce until we were in the arid high Sierra Madres with alternating jagged peaks, steeply incised ravines that came to road’s edge, and wide, flat uplands. The size of the world expands and consumes as jagged mountains on all sides build one behind the other until they fade into the blue haze of the distant sky. I think I glimpsed patches of snow in high, distant crags to the east but, probably, it was glare off the steep smooth rock cliffs. I wish I were a wordsmith or photographer. The enormity makes one feel insignificant, and the solitude makes one feel larger than life. If the vastness of the earth and the solitude of aloneness provides answers, then the answers are to be found in these mountains. It does captivate.

John is not an aggressive rider, so I could look more into the mountains. I pulled over, stopped, and started to walk. John stopped and walked in the other direction. In its own time, John walked over and said that it was time to move on. As we walked back to the bikes, John explained that the feeling never changes; every time he rides through, he is captivated by the mountains. John says the locals understand the attachment of the uplands and come back to the mountains on occasion to sharpen their focus and regain their mental balance. To them, it is a religious event. He said that one of the old traditionalist Indians told him that those who leave continue to come back until they can afford an air-conditioned car. Then they don’t come anymore. Us motor-heads understand the difference between arriving at a place in the elements and arriving in a self-contained, environment that is removed form the experience.

During the entire ride, but especially as we dropped altitude toward the border of El Salvador, the amount of poverty increased and was more evident.

2:00 PM Same border crossing routine to enter El Salvador, except I got the cost down to $125.

About 10 miles down the road, we stopped for lunch. I asked why we had turned back on the road from CA-2. John explained that there are several reasons people would be congregated like that: waiting for a labor bus, scene of an accident, small roadside sales, church group, or a roadblock. The one that we came to was a roadblock. Those engaged in a roadblock casually gather until all are assembled and the leader is present. Then they initiate the roadblock. It seems that there are three kinds of roadblocks:

• A legitimate military roadblock where the military or police are looking for someone or something.
• An ad hoc military roadblock where underpaid, or not paid, local police will shake down travelers - usually $2 to $5 per person.
• Thieves that are only interested in robbing travelers. These are the most dangerous because they may, or may not, kill the robbed, depending on the most expedient option.

We had arrived early at the roadblock and it was clear, to John, that no structure existed so he rode ahead to see what was going on. He quickly learned that a roadblock was being arranged. Uniforms, or lack of uniforms, don’t indicate the type of roadblock. John explained that a roadblock resulting from a legitimate military activity, or thieves, sometimes cause the boarded crossings to close temporarily (temporarily meaning several hours to a day). So we changed directions, made a dash back to CA-1, and then for the border in hope of crossing before potential bad news that might cause a border crossing closure. And here we are.

I said, “You mean there was the real potential that military action could cause the borders to close, and you didn’t tell me?” John said, “I am telling you now. Why should I have wasted time explaining back there? Besides, don’t sound so melodramatic. They don’t close a border. That would scare tourists. They simply slow things down.” I said, “I should have been given the option to cross back into Mexico rather than continue.” “Oh bull, I know your type,” Said John “you would have gone back to Mexico until you thought things were okay. Then you would have gone on through because that’s what you set out to do. You would have wasted one to three days of my time and yours. I told the doctor that I would get you to San Salvador, and that´s what I´m doing. Look, Ron, you’re a nice guy, and I hope you do just fine, but this isn’t your world and you don’t belong here. European riding clothes (not true, Roadgear, US made), more gear on your motorcycle than whole families along this road own. This is like a grown-up Disneyland vacation to you. Twenty years ago people only had newspapers and an occasional transistor radio. Foreigners were an oddity. Now everyone has access to TV, and the obscene opulence of the outside world is force-fed to them. There is no way that any of that opulence will ever be theirs. When you ride through, you ride through people’s lives, and they don’t like it. They don’t like you or the opulence you stand for. In a car or tour bus, the poor can resent the car, the country, their circumstance. You make it more personal by being in the open on your expensive bike. You should have stayed in Oaxaca where there is a middle class for you to fit in with. Don’t expect anyone to be glad to see you or help you. Listen, I have a friend in San Salvador who may help you through Honduras for a few days pay.”

I wanted the excitement of being involved in a border incident but had a dose of reality shoved down my throat instead. Not the most comfortable feeling.

The last thing John said, as he left after dinner was ´´Keep moving and don’t get lost.¨

El Salvador went through more than 15 years, from the mid 70’s through the mid 90’s, of terrible, brutal, and devastating civil war. This is the smallest of Central American countries and was run like a business by a dozen very wealthy families for a hundred years prior to the 70’s. The poor class was given nothing. When they stepped forward to take some of the wealth of the country they had nothing to lose and the wealthy intended to give them nothing more. Blood-letting by both sides was incessant. The poor and displaced crowded into San Salvador, the capitol, and largest city.

The infrastructure of San Salvador could not (and still can’t) support the impoverished and displaced masses that flocked in. Shanty towns with no public water or sewer system and no planned or mapped road structure sprung up all around the city. The police take the position that if it isn’t in the incorporated boundaries of the city, it isn’t part of their world.

A lasting truce was arranged in the mid 90’s. Actually, both sides were bled white and decided to try to work something out. The federal government started a few public works projects and built a few schools. The peasants went back to work. The federal government poured money into highways CA-1, CA-2, and a few others. It patrols these roads to insure safety for travelers and transfer truckers as the fastest way to increase foreign revenues. If you go to a police station and explain that you got lost in a shantytown and were robbed, the officer will explain that you are mistaken because there is no such town. If you point to the place on the wall map, he will explain that you are pointing to a field owned by Senor Aliverez (or whomever). He will explain that, since it is private property, you should talk with Senior Aliverez. End of discussion. These shanty towns rule themselves much as US slums did during the fast growth period from 1860 to 1940.

As a result of the protracted civil war, everyone in El Salvador is armed, essentially everyone is poor, and everyone lives in a pissed-off state of mind. Do not get lost and end up in the middle of a shantytown or unpaved, isolated country road.

I was glad to have a guide, even if he wasn’t so glad to have me.

Got to an open-air restaurant in Ciudad de Guadalupe, just east of San Salvador. John’s friend, Josi Banadicto met us there. We arranged for him to guide me through the border of Nicaragua on Friday.

We stayed at a motel owned by the friend of a friend. It was far and away the worst flophouse I have ever stayed at. No air-conditioning, no hot water. The sign for rates reads (in Spanish):

Room Rates
2 hours                            4
Each additional hour    3
6PM till 6AM                    8
One full day                  12

I paid $19 for two separate rooms for one night.

Later,
Ron

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