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Published: October 23rd 2009
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As we step off the rocky dirt road onto a the rocky dirt path, our guide Rafael warns us to watch our step on the uneven terrain. Onto a rocky terrace we walk, with grand views of the mountains in all directions, and with the first slip of my worn out shoe down the worn rock face, I heed the advice, tearing my eyes from the horizon to the more humble places of where I place one foot in front of the other.
I follow along, trailing the group as we wind our way down the hillside, skirting through the yard of someone´s house, following a meandering path that we would never had found without our fearless leader. Working our way up a barely perceptable trail on a jungly mountainside, Rafael stops from time to time to point out a plant, a rock, a stream, some facet of the immense native knowledge possessed by the people who live and die by these hills, all of which is imparted to us in rapid Spanish, forty percent of which I am proud to say that I understand. We take time to notice the coffee berries, the mountain corn, the bananas, the
Rafael naturalizing
he's showing us the mountain maiz that the people grow all over the place, on all terrain limes, guavas, the strange prickly gourd-like vegetables, all growing alongside the natural vegetation of the hillside.
This whole business of hiring a guide is a new thing for me - I like to think of myself as a savvy individual, capable of finding my way on my own, and I secretly scoff at those that I see mindlessly following around a tour guide on sightseeing tours. A matter of excessive pride, perhaps. Incredibly ironic, definately; I spent the last four years as a guide leading groups of children through the redwoods of my forest home. But after the morning's debate of whether we needed to hire a guide or not, I am grateful for our choice - we never would have made it even this far without one. So I focus on putting just one foot in front of the other, confident in knowing that even though I have no idea where I am or where we're going, at least Rafael does!
We're on a twenty kilometer hike through the mountains of Morazon, high in the northeastern corner of El Salvador, not too far from the border with Honduras. I'm on hiatus from the beach, all those days
that were blending together to make one really long day were beginning to distort my perception of reality. So I've packed up a bag and headed up to the hills to get a bit of perspective in my life once again. Today we started early from Perquin, and are slowly but surely making our way to the small town of Mozote. The impetus for such a trek is multifaceted; there is of course the 'naturaleza' and the beauty of the landscape, and the desire for some fresh mountain air, yet also the history of this region is quite intriguing. For it was in these highlands that the FMLN (Frente Farabundo Marti para la Liberacion National) staged their war against the repressive government regime. As we walk Rafael tells tales of how the sparcely funded guerilla armies held their own against a powerful army backed by the US military to the tune of $500 billion. And in the eyes of the people here (our guide Rafael is missing one, destroyed by flying shrapnel), you see the reality of the incredible hardships and the brutality of war- it's a bit different then seeing it on CNN. Yet despite this sordid history, the
Cob Oven
this is where all that tasty bread comes from.. people we encounter along the way rarely fail to greet us with a hearty 'buenas' and a big, if sometimes toothless, smile.
We reach the top of Cerro Pericon, our hard work rewarded by sweeping views in all directions. I watch cars go by on the road below, a view not unlike what I imagine it is from the eyes of the black vultures that circle above the valley. The cool mountain breeze is so unbelievably refreshing after weeks of relentless sun in the lowlands, the verdant hues of the landscape stretch on for miles and miles and miles... and I, for one, am very happy to be on top of this mountain. I make plans to return here the next day with some food, water, and my ukulele as Rafael takes us away on the long slog down the hill to the village of Mozote.
An hour passes, then another as we wind down the mountainside, into the watershed of Rio Sapo, home of one of the worst and most recent massacre in this hemisphere. Mozote was just a village like many others around here, and if it weren't for the events of Dec. 11, 1981, it
Cerro Pericon
the view from the top would live on in obscurity as just another place on the map. But that changed forever on the day when a US-funded special forces battalian from the Salvadorean army massacred over 1000 men, women, and children in an anti-guerilla campaign that, in an act of stupendous brutality and senseless cruelty, confused guerrilla fighters with innocent people. (Check out the wikipedia article on
Mozote for the details. In the town we visit the site of the church where hundreds of children were gunned down, their mass grave now the site of a flower garden and memorial to the victims of war. Again, I think to myself, I find myself in a place of great sorrow, a people and a place terrorized while the great powers of the world stood over like puppeteers over marionettes. And again, I ask myself how people can do these things to other people. And yet again, the smiles and kindness of the people here bring my back to my senses, to this present moment, and again I'm amazed by the grace they show to me, a visitor from a country that did so much to destroy theirs.
When I was ten years old, my primary
concerns in life included college basketball, baseball cards, Nintendo, and the daunting task of trying to impress the girl who sat next to me in Mrs. Wilson's fifth grade class. When our guide Rafael was ten, his main concern was trying to survive in a land literally torn apart by civil war. He had little choice other than to join the guerillas in the mountains, spending the next 12 years fighting in the forests, living hand to mouth. He tells us tales of war, and of a history- not the kind found in books- but of a history lived and remembered everyday in the hearts and minds of the people. He sees through the world through the lens of these experiences, but not with bitterness or anger at the greater forces that instigated and perpetuated the violence, but with a hope that the world has somehow become a better place in these times of peace and the hard fought battles that preceded it.
We make our way back to Perquin, with the promise of some hot pupusas and a cold beer putting a spring in our step. After we eat, we shake hands and say goodbye to Rafael, and
balancing act
this is my attempt to be like the local women who carry all sorts of stuff balanced on the top of their head. I return to my room in Mama Juana´s restuarant, and I dream away another night high up in the eastern mountains of this strange and wonderful land.
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