We are impatient to escape Mexico and decide to fly to El Salvador: Central America’s smallest country with its Pacific coast, lush subtropical forests, twenty volcanoes and hundreds of volcanic craters. It also has a reputation for violence: in 2023 it was rated the most dangerous country in the world by homicide rate.
I remember El Salvador’s bloody civil war from 1979 to 1992 when more than 75,000 people were killed, over 8,000 disappeared, half a million people displaced and another half a million emigrated. Most of these horrors were perpetrated by state security forces and a plethora of sinister and uninhibited paramilitary death squads. A former US intelligence officer once suggested the death squads needed to leave less visual evidence, that they should stop dumping bodies on the side of the road because ‘they have an ocean and they ought to use it.’ After the war, the young members of these squads were granted amnesty and walked free, leaving El Salvadorians a traumatised and brutalised people.
In her 1983 book about the civil war, Salvador, the American journalist Joan Didion captured brilliantly, in this scenario, the threat of three menacing young paramilitaries:
Outside in the parking lot were a number of wrecked or impounded cars, many of them shot up, upholstery chewed by bullets, windshield shattered, thick pastes of congealed blood on the pearlized hoods, but this was also unremarkable, and it was not until we walked back around the building to the reporter’s rented car that each of us began to sense the potentially remarkable.
Surrounding the car were three men in uniform, two on the sidewalk and the third, who was very young, sitting on his motorcycle in such a way as to block us from leaving. A second motorcycle had been pulled up directly behind the car and the front space was occupied. The three had been joking amongst themselves, but the laughter stopped as we got into the car. The reporter turned the ignition on and waited. No one moved. The men on the sidewalks did not meet our eyes. The boy on the motorcycle stared directly, and caressed the G-3 propped between his thighs. The reporter asked in Spanish if one of the motorcycles could be moved so that we could get out. The men on the sidewalk said nothing, but smiled enigmatically. The boy continued staring, and began twirling the flash suppressors on the barrel of his G-3.
This was a kind of impasse. It seemed clear that if we tried to leave and scraped either motorcycle the situation would deteriorate. It also seemed clear that if we did not try to leave the situation would deteriorate. I studied my hands. The reporter gunned the motor, forced the car up onto the curb far enough to provide a minimum space in which to manoeuvre, and managed to back out clean. Nothing more happened, and what did happen had been a common enough kind of incident in El Salvador……..any situation can turn to terror.
Gerardo Alejandro, a researcher at the Observatory of Human Rights at the José Simeón Cañas University of Central America, explained that, ‘Impunity for death squad crimes has a long history in El Salvador. During the civil war, there were thousands of extrajudicial killings, and most of them went unpunished.’ A broad amnesty law passed in 1993 also, ‘managed to sweep all the cases under the rug. And now it is 30 years later, and I believe that the violence that wasn’t attended to at that time is the same violence that we are experiencing in these times.’
To combat the drug and human trafficking gangs that do most of the killing in El Salvador today, the government under the leadership of President Nayib Bukele (a man of Palestinian descent, there are over 100,000 citizens of Palestinian extraction in El Salvador, whose ancestors escaped from colonial Ottoman Muslim occupied Palestine before the First World War) has imprisoned around 70,000 gang members without due process, many of them incarcerated in a newly constructed mega prison with a capacity for 12,000 inmates. Human rights organisations and liberal left leaning politicians are up in arms about this, citing it as a violation of the human rights of the gang members. But the ordinary people of El Salvador are not uneasy about it at all, their human rights having been trashed by these people for years, with wide swathes of San Salvador city rendered no go zones, especially after dark. The number of homicides in El Salvador dropped by 70% in 2023. They’ve just given Nayib Bukele an overwhelming mandate for a second term in office. Confidence in the country’s future is returning, as are foreign visitors and investment. The leftist Guardian newspaper in the UK stated that the actions of the Bukele government amount to nothing more than a tight clean bandage over a suppurating wound and nothing will change until the underlying problems of poverty and prejudice are addressed. I think that’s a mistaken idealistic, reductive assessment. Yes, address those problems, but that will take a generation, but lock up the killers first.
Mural of Archbishop Oscar Romero who was assassinated by a death squad in 1980.
Jo’s idea is to base ourselves in San Salvador and visit places of interest from there, then take the scenic Route De Flores west to the city of Santa Ana and do the same there. That’ll take about ten days.
We’re staying in an intriguing hotel in the Centro Historico district, primarily convenient for bus stops leading out of the city. In El Salvador we’ll use the cheap local ‘chicken’ buses to get around – cheap being less than a dollar for a two hour ride (the El Salvador currency is the Colon but we never come across it, the US dollar is legal tender hotly followed by Bitcoin, but try buying a bunch of bananas with Bitcoin). Urban myth has it that chickens are routinely transported on these old US school buses, some of which are fabulously pimped with chrome and neon lights. But I never see a chicken on board unless it’s in a sandwich. I think chicken is a pejorative term for anyone too chicken not to ride them. At many stops, vendors jump aboard, and pass through the bus selling all sorts of stuff: vegetables, bagged sliced fruit, dried fruit, sweets, soda pops, cakes, peanuts, crisps, sandwiches, veggie peelers. I’ve bought three folding toothbrushes, a slice of sponge cake and a bag of very sweet, warm, milky rice pudding.
Our bus from the airport drops us off, a fifteen minute walk from our hotel. You’re always a little on edge in a new city with a shocking reputation but Salvadoreans are remarkably open, friendly and helpful people who offer assistance at every turn, so any anxieties quickly evaporate. Jo has this idea that all we need to do is avoid anywhere that ‘looks a bit dodgy.’ This is difficult when so much of the city looks a bit dodgy. A better rule of thumb is to stick with the crowds which are plentiful in the historic centre.
Our hotel is located just off the Civic Square. The entrance is through a locked metal door into a dark windowless foyer with another locked metal door leading to the stairs. Our room is up two flights of these stairs, on the second floor. It’s the middle of the afternoon and I glance into a couple of rooms, whose doors are ajar. They’re windowless, the TVs are on and in one room a guy is lying on the bed in a white wife beater vest slurping from a beer can. We’re shown through yet another metal door to our room, which has a barred window, and a view of the back of a huge brown rusty billboard. There’s an industrial toilet roll dispenser next to the bed. What is this place? A pay by the hour knocking shop! That said, there’s an aircon, the staff are delightful, they sell cheap beer from a fridge at reception and there’s a terrace (with an old mattress and nylon washing line) with a view of the dome of the church of Iglesio El Rosaria. So no complaints.
Bounded by the National Palace, the Metropolitan Cathedral of San Salvador and the Biblioteca Nacional de El Salvador (the library), the Civic Square Captain General Gerardo Barrios is the focal point of the Centro Historico. The library, generously constructed by the Chinese Government at a cost of $54 million, opened in 2023. From three of its sides it looks like a medium sized sports stadium, especially when illuminated at night. The glass fronted entrance is approached via a wide stone staircase. There are five spacious floors each with its own theme: a toddlers play area, a Star Wars zone, a comic superhero zone, a Harry Potter zone, a gaming and PC floor and plenty of books (although many are multiples of the same text). It’s free and open 24/7. It’s terrific but begs the question; why the Chinese benevolence?
The manager of our residence helps us out every morning with our search for the bus stop to our destination for the day. If required, he books us an Uber taxi to the right bus station. Walking along the hot, diesel fumed streets of the city can be very unpleasant – don’t worry about being killed by gangsters in San Salvador, the pollution will kill you soon enough.
There are few gringos about, so we’re not well catered for. The historical centre is full of cheap fast food eateries serving hamburgers, pizzas and tortillas. Negotiating our way around on the thousands of city buses is difficult; the routes are not marked (although the excellent app ‘maps.me’ tags some bus stops with bus numbers indicated on it) but it’s not intuitive. It’s a trial and error process that sometimes fails (you try finding the 34B bus stop). And the quest can take you into districts that you think you perhaps should not be in.
It’s 8.15pm on Saturday night and we’re in the square by the National Library. There are crowd control barriers along the western avenue of the square. There’s music, floodlights, marquees and gazebos. A banner over the road proclaims ‘Gatorade.’ another ‘San Salvador 10k Run.’ There’s a 10 kilometre night run happening at 9pm. I say to Jo, ‘You should take part. It’d be fun.’ Jo’s not so sure. We check online to find an application form. It’s 8.20. I encourage Jo to apply but the selection of a running shirt size is mandatory and the site rejects all possibilities. ‘It’s too late.’ says Jo, ‘never mind.’ ‘Nonsense.’ I say, ‘Come on, let’s find somebody.’ Behind a barrier, under an orange gazebo is a group of women busy on laptops, surrounded by boxes of running shirts and Gatorade soda bottles. I beckon to a woman in charge. ‘My friend would like to run tonight. Is possible?’ ‘Yes. Sure.’ she says, ‘Where are you from?’ Within fifteen minutes, Jo has completed the entry form, received her San Salvador 10K running shirt, gone to our hotel room, quickly changed, and returned to the square.
At 9pm, there’s a countdown from 10, and to the explosions of a terrific firework display, the runners are off. I’m at the start line doing all the hard work with the video camera but, in the melee, I can’t see Jo. She says her time for 10K is just over an hour, so I buy a Pilsner beer and enjoy the party atmosphere. The winning runner crosses the finish line after 35 minutes. After 50 minutes I’m looking out for Jo’s familiar gait – well she might be up for a personal best! At 64 minutes I can see her on the final straight. She’s over the line in 65 minutes, fourth in the over forties category.. She’s elated as she receives her 10K medal. There’s a woman with a microphone next to me, ‘Where are you from?’ she asks, ‘Inglaterra.’ ‘Wow, England.’ she announces, ‘You are very welcome.’ Jo’s so happy. The route across the city centre was lined by armed militia, marshals with baton torches, the occasional musical troupe and lots of supporters. San Salvador is now Jo’s favourite Latin American city.
Forty five minutes on the 206A bus (US$1.5) and we’re in El Tunco on El Salvador’s Pacific coast. There are towering rock formations in the shallows and two hundred metres off the ash dark volcanic beach, the surfers are queuing up to catch the enormous breakers. I missed the whole Beach Boys thing and have to content myself with body surfing near the shore. There’s a powerful cross current which very quickly drags me to the north and when I take my eyes off the breakers for a second I’m smashed by a seventh wave that sends me tumbling. It’s great fun.
On an open deck restaurant overlooking the ocean we enjoy a fabulous seafood lunch at the Bocana restaurant including six of the biggest, most succulent oysters we’ve ever seen, a fish and shrimp ceviche, a warm shrimp salad with carrots and noodles, beers and Jamaica juice (hibiscus flowers) – all for just US45 including the tip.
The days of unprovoked threats on the roads of El Salvador are over but we’ve had a couple of macabre encounters on the highway. A few days ago our bus into the city slowed to a crawl – up ahead was an accident. A hearse was pulled up before a mangle of wrecked vehicles, close to which the undertakers were zipping up a white waterproof body bag. The one policeman in attendance was frantically waving the traffic through – no post accident forensic investigation necessary.
And today, on our return journey in the 206A bus from the beach to the capital we stop on the dual carriageway immediately before a car that is a rage of flames. The fire emanating from the passenger compartment is rapidly consuming the entire vehicle. We’re at the head of a stationary traffic queue (some vehicles cannot wait and speed past, close to the flames, the searing heat and thick black smoke). We have a thirty minute ringside seat. The tyres explode, somebody wheels up a CO2 fire extinguisher and, getting as close to the flames as he dares, vainly tries to extinguish the flames.
Jo notices that, immediately next to the burning car, at the side of the road, is a small shrine of crosses and flowers, one of those impromptu commemorations of an accident and death at this spot. Ash of burnt paper and the partially burnt leaves of a book are fluttering into the air. A man standing next to our bus picks up a scorched page and tries to read it. Jo notices that the text is in two columns – it’s the page of a burning bible.
It’s not an old vehicle which has now been consumed by the fire, onto which a bystander is shovelling sand, tamping down the red hot embers. We both realise that this is no accident – the location next to the shrine, the bible. Somebody was inside that car. A tormented suicide? A murder? The solitary policeman waves us through. All I can see is smoking hot black metal.
For the next stage of our Central American trip please visit The Route de Flores and Santa Ana, El Salvador.