El Salvador/Guatemala Border

The Guatemala-El Salvador border is one of the places I think people go if they die and both heaven and hell are full. Drab soviet style drabness has remained on the walls of the local houses where once bright colours were seen and the wear and tear of 3^rd world living has made the people there seem somehow hunched and tired by the rigours of life. We arrived by bus in the early evening and climbed wearily down into the reserved pandemonium of such borders, where large trucks waiting in the shade, weary children selling fly-covered tortillas out of stained plastic bags, stray goats and men with large guns slung over their shoulders jostle for position. The border itself was far removed, hiding somewhere in the distance, it’s exact dimensions unclear to seemingly everyone including the border patrols. 

Into this world we marched, Britt glad that I had persuaded her to buy a scarf, which she used to block out dust and rancid smells of engine smoke. Walking towards the passport office there was a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach as there always is at such times, some vague racist undercurrent that makes me uncomfortable to be white in a place where nobody else is. Nobody else but Britt of course, who handled herself with quiet dignity as locals followed her down the street with dark and sometimes troubled eyes. We walked together through the passport office where the walrus of a customs offical on duty tried to make a show of not being useless, and his scrutiny made me feel even more anxious. In the end he nodded abruptly, motivated mostly by a well placed smile from Britt and we were allowed to pass.

El Salvador loomed somewhere ahead across a massive bridge spanning a slow flowing river. The bridge was crammed with rickshaws and in their midst patrolled a skeletal vulture of a man in a open white lab coat who checked everyone passing for swine-flu. Britt held her breath and we slipped through into a country more desperate than that which we had just left. A drunk looking whore with dirty hair and glazed eyes regarded us as we dumped our bags down in a small roadside restaurant where the old Abuela’s stared wide-eyed at Britney and appeared with piles of warm flour and bean papusas and two bottles of chilled Pepsi for the price of a dollar and twenty five cents. Leaving my girlfriend in the capable hands of these matriarchs I set off to secure a ride into the interior.

“Fifty?” I asked later, disgusted and the small weasily looking man shifted about uncomfortably and nodded, “Si, Fifty…”

            “FIFTY DOLLARS?”

“Si.”

"FIFTY DOLLARS, FROM HERE?" I looked around at the emaciated goats and rubbish strewn carpark, "can you give me a better price?"

"It's a good price" the man said with a air of finality that frankly scared me shitless.

I stared back as if he’d just told me he was from Mars.  He had just asked for fifty U.S dollars for a hour long truck ride in a country where that could probably keep one in papusas, beer and accommodation for a week. It was unusual to even have to pay for a ride people were so glad to have tourists in their trucks, and here was this crazy man requesting $50.  Instead of arguing I walked away, hoping he’d call me back and lower the price but no such thing happened and when I reached the next man leaning against a pick-up truck I was more hopeful,

"How much to the next town?"

"Eighty dollars, it's a good price!"

This time I didn't even balk. Instead I stormed off and appeared by Britt’s side looking sweaty and upset. After a few minutes of running around asking questions it turned out that as the sun had gone down slightly the local buses had stopped running and a friendly local suggested I wait till morning before carrying on the journey.

Repulsed by everyone and unable to advance we retreated, back across the bridge and through the border into Guatemala once more. Passports were stamped, the same overweight official gave us a bizarre glance and tried in vain to understand what we were doing. Together we stood for a minute in the manner of the English couple from film/book, The Painted Veil, our bags at our feet, alone in a world we didn’t understand and sensing that were far out of our depth. After a time Britt made friends with the border police and they escorted us to a Mexican prison-like hotel where we barricaded ourselves inside by pushing a bed in front of the door, venturing outside only to pick up a dinner of shoe-leather and syrupy-sweet soft drinks.

In the morning we were up early, Britt took a shower, came rushing out to tell me that (A) there was a frog perving on her and (B) there was only quarter of a loo-seat. Desperate to escape the dive we carried on the day as usual, packed our gear and re-crossed the border to perplexed looks by (yet again) the same officials. This time we were in time to catch a $2 bus, and happily took off, leaving behind us groups of dodgy looking locals angry at not having tricked us into spending all our money. 

Interviewing a farm manager

New England U.S.A

It takes some effort for me to sit down, lean back and start to write again.
I had consigned myself to the fact that, with my travels over, there was nothing to describe, picture and tell to other people and thus no point in writing. So my writing withered out of me with sheer lack of use, when all I had to do was look around for things to look at, find people to learn from and start up my computer.

Think about my room

The floor lies covered in crumbs, fluff, several hats and a calling card to a Cambodian guesthouse, while the posters hang lopsided from cratered walls. A fake Hawaiian lei is strung from one bedpost while a collection of maps poke dejectedly from behind the broken chest of drawers. Quietly I heft my bags and turn out the light, leaving a dirty floor and an unmade bed as I close one door and open another.

Think about my friends

Ashley, yesterday rollerblading with a pink shawl and tinted Ray Charles-esque glasses, looking like some chain-smoking French artist called Fabian or Dominique. From behind closed doors there is Chris, nursing another soda-induced bout of withdrawal. Moodily, he consoles himself with a computer game while Communist Corey sits in bed and jeers the world in general.

Think about leaving

Carry bags in one hand, laptop clenched in the other. Swing up on the ladder and climb, balancing on the roof rack and tying things down with bungee cords as from above clouds open that emit fierce bouts of snow/rain. Stalk around the bus; check the lights, the fuel, the brakes. Start the engine and remove the chocks.

Think about our bus

There is a sound, a grumble almost; the dragons roar emminating from beneath feet that are curled up, together with the rest of us, on rickety green seats. Those that sleep have slightly screwed up faces, caused I imagine by stuffing your body into a space as small as a newborn babies crib.

Past the sleeping bundles is a mass of shelf, boxes and coolers. Somewhere within this wooden tangle stooped figures bump to and fro against storage bins, knives in hand as they prepare piles of lettuce, meat and cheese. Someone grips a seat and swings themselves forward towards the front, shouts the word “Lunch” and retreats back to their lair.

Think about arrivals

Sometimes I get off the Shackleton bus and can’t help but act child-like; nearly jumping with excitement when the door slides open and I can look around our new environment, whatever and wherever that is.

Maybe a field, a thousand shades of possible green, maybe a lake, textured water, a sunset-clad afternoon fresh with the noise of birds. There could be a dirt-stain of a backpack slung over one shoulder, a laptop grasped under an arm. This is one of those times, as rumbling slowly, the bus circles a grassy knoll and I see a small whitewashed cottage ahead.



Think about changes

Bags in hand, running for the “best” bed, opinions differing with each Goldilocks like session of experimentation.

Swap a block for a house, dirty for clean, lonely for company.
Swap a dorm for a room, the difference in personality and warmth, a room a sacred thing, the dorm a necessity.
Swap cooks, from a professional conisure of asparagus and hollandaise sauce, curries and hams, salads in a dozen varieties to a student with a bowl of pasta at their disposal.
Swap A school of 35 for a crew of 9, a community for a microcosm of the later.

Think about class

A farmyard, muddy with car use and cow dung, hurried looking workers shuffle, forming a small stream of humanity which flows into a sea of bovines, cows, dozens lined like some farce of an army against the steel fences which hold them. “My sword is my pencil, my shield my notebook”, taking notes here, scribbling rants there, trying to focus on the speaker. “Be a sponge” absorb information in preparation for P.O.L’s, the time for squeezing that information out and soaking others with knowledge.

Think about an educator

Ask Nikki and Nelia, find out information from smudged reference books and photocopied sheets of paper, listen. Hear what a cow farmer is saying, don’t take things at face value and write notes. Take advantage of experts in the field; literally so at this point, find someone and speak to them with the purpose of adding to what you already know.

Think about asking questions

“How many people do you employ?” “What’s your definition of sustainable agriculture?” “What is A.I?” “How long have you been farming?” Scrawl down illegible notes, keep eye contact, try to appear like you know things when the replies come “Twenty five” “a system of growing plants that will last for our children”, “artificial insemination” “eight years”.

Think about endings

At the end there is the bus, engine humming gently in the chill air. Through a corridor of hands waiting to be shook, giving out tee shirts as I walk. Swing, up through the doors as the bus rolls forward and picks up speed. From somewhere inside there is music, the tinny kind from laptop speakers, the bus dwindles and is gone.


Getting close and personal with automatic milking


Dinner with the crew


Circle of chow


An automatic head scratcher for cows


Donated accomidation and bath, Vermont


Endings