The Crossing

I had been on the road since 9 am leaving Antigua. The Guatemala-El Salvador border featured a bunch of young truck drivers holding their spots firmly in front of the vehicle importation office. A stack of papers was stuck in the window about a foot high. Still touchy from the Mexico Guatemala border experience, I was quick to tell a couple guys that swarmed me I was not about to talk to them, or require their help. I didn't want to pay them, I wanted to figure it out for myself. They complied. Overall, they were much less insistent, either as a result of the culture, or my request.

One of the truckers, a short, portly fellow with long fingernails, a jet black pony tail and moustache was laughing all the time. He looked at me and said Puto. I was already in a foul mood and on edge, and said "Puto?". He replied "Mucho", and felt his chin, perhaps a reference to my white beard. Pretty sure he said 'Puto', which is not a nice word. After about 45 minutes of waiting, the security guard motioned me over to the side door, and a young lady took my papers, circumventing the whole trucker lot. The process also involved numerous back and forths to the photocopier, and carefully handling the remants of my vehicle registration, the result of a couple months of moisture and mishandling.

The most important things to have in order to make the process quick are: $20 in local currency, $20 in the next country's currency, photocopies of a driver's license, registration, importation document, and passport. The experience is long enough in the hot heat, so this helps in speeding it up.

The ride was smooth for some time, with beautiful cliffs, ocean sunset, and lots of tunnels. As I entered La Libertad, my spirits were high, and in relative comfort. That was until I came upon a construction site, with red pylons strewn across the dirt road, attached to each other with yellow caution tape. People were walking all around, and one man was standing there. "Que pasa?" I asked. "Problema?" He shook his head "non", and pulled a pylon to the side for me to get through.

The road was rough, and steep. A construction crew with bright lights were operating here working on the bridge. Some whistles and cat calls from some guys, but I ignored it and went left along the dry river. I ended up in the middle of town, and had to find a couple people to direct me back to the road to Honduras. Three kids were running with me, and I yelled "Vamenos!" to spurn them on, and find the secret road. I find myself back at that same bridge again, with a couple flights of stairs up to a pedestrian bridge. Now there's 6 or 7 people, 3 kids, and a couple construction workers coming over to me.

I ask in Spanish how to get over to the highway. They reply "right here" in English and point to the stairs. "You guys are crazy! Are you sure". "Yes. Yes!" " "¿Cuánto cuesta?" The one who seems to be the leader thinks for awhile. "Cinqo dollares" "Ok, let's do it." 6 of us hauled that bike up the stairs, as the locals patiently waited to get through. The bridge was solid and not the least bit shaky, unless I never noticed. It was uplifting and exciting, and such a relief the journey continued.

It was time to stop for the night in Usulutan, El Salvador but there was no money left for the $18 hotel room. Ran back into town and found a Scotia Bank. Very relieved, and a little taste of home.

The next morning, Mario, the hotel manager and I had a conversation about cultural differences between Canada and El Salvador. He was quite surprised I had no children or wife, saying that by at least 24 or 25, men have at least a couple kids. The average woman starts at 16, or 18.