On a lighter note...

I'd just like to start by saying I thought it was a good idea at the time...

Last week, for Día Nacional de Las Pupusas, my women's committee and I organized a pupusa eating competition. For those of you unfamiliar with pupusas, they are this country's gift to the world. Cheese, beans, squash, carrots. So many varieties. Salvos go nuts for them. And you would too, as they cost a quarter. And are delicious.

Word spread quickly and pretty soon we had eight competitors from our community, the pueblo, and even one from across the nearby guatemalan border. Some of these guys were pretty well-known, having competed in other events and eaten upwards of 35 tortillas, 2 pizzas, etc. It goes without saying I was nervous.

As with any competition, be it hot dogs, pizza, dunkin donuts munchkins, you feel like a star quarterback with all the confidence in the world, right up until you take the first bite. And then it hits you... what the eff have I done?

What do they call it? The fog of war? Yeah, it's true. Strategy? Tossed aside? Careful planning? A waste of time.

I took mine down with my favorite hot sauce, Pica Diablo. 66 cents of pure fire in the hole. For some reason I thought this was a good idea, to numb my face to the experience. To shock the mouth as well as the stomach. Bad idea. I ended up chugging milk and water, whatever I could get my hands on, just to kill the pain. Meanwhile my competitors munched away like cows, slowly showing the gringo how it's done.

But in the end, I represented and took down a solid stack of 15. Pretty respectable. The winner, however, by just a bite, polished off 19.

All in all, it was an incredible experience. We set out to throw a fun event that would unite the community and maybe give us something to talk about for a few days. But over 80 people came, and after a few hours, the women's committee raised $56. Combined with a few raffles, we're up to $70. This Tuesday we're meeting to discuss what to do with the cash. Save up and buy an oven? Plan weekly nutrition classes for the community? Who knows...

Here are a few pics from the event, which I'm pretty sure I blacked out during.



















Oh yeah, forgot to mention. To all the losers, I handed out rolls of toilet paper and peace corps issued pepto-bismol tabs. They loved it.

How YOU can help

It's starting to come up, so I thought I'd highlight the best option.

Aid El Salvador, the NGO our boss helped create five years ago, has set up a disaster relief fund to enable direct, quick donations to the affected families living around San Vicente. Please click on the link below and consider donating whatever you can.

<<< Aid El Salvador >>>

As soon as news of the disaster hit the international community, Aid El Salvador's board of directors held an emergency meeting to discuss how to connect interested parties with affected families in Verapaz and Guadalupe. They are working around the clock to ensure that donations reach affected families. Trust that your hard earned cash will reach salvadoran families in need.

In addition, Peace Corps staff has been out to the affected communities to distribute donations collected in San Salvador, assess damage done to host families, and check on friends and family. Many PCVs are frantically calling PC headquarters to request information on their training host families around San Vicente. Both Peace Corps and Aid El Salvador are working around the clock to ensure that families receive the bare essentials they need in the coming months and do not get left behind.

Donations can be received via Pay Pal from a link on the website
www.aidelsalvador.org. In the message section, please note "disaster relief".

You may also send checks to the CFO Pete Rennard at:

2688 Pala Mesa Court
Costa Mesa, CA 92627
Email: info@aidelsalvador.org
Phone: 714.809.7084
Fax: 949.515.4153

Thank you!

As if this country didn't have enough problems of its own...

Those last few photos were actually taken by Jimbo, as he walked through his neighboring villages and towns on the slopes of Volcán Chinchontepec. In the distance, you can see the muddy-colored scar where the volcano split apart and sent down torrents of minivan-sized boulders through the mountain communities below.

A lot of you have been asking about him. Thank you for that. He's doing okay, despite having the horrible luck of being in the epicenter of the Hurricane Ida shitshow. For his account of what happened, check out his blog.

<<< How do dogs know Spanish? >>>

Much love.

G

Oh shit

Just wanted to let you all know that I'm alive and well. Thanks for the emails. If I weren't broke, I'd be calling you all to check in.

<<< The New York Times >>>

Up in the northern region, we escaped most of the damage. But San Vicente (where we spent our first three months of training) and the central valleys around Jimbo's volcano got pretty fucked. He actually called me at 3 am during the storm and over a choppy connection was yelling for me to call PC to save his ass. Pretty freaky. They did end up evacuating him and as far as I know he's doing fine.

Don Callo

He refuses every time I offer it to him. Keeps telling me he prefers to use nails.

We leave my house and walk the short distance to his, down a graveled road, the color a dusty, pale orange the result of two weeks without rain.

We pass through an iron gate leading to his property, the hinges complaining as the door swings open, yet silent as it slowly returns and we walk away, apparently happy to be left alone.

As neighbors, we have spent many evenings together. Almost always over a smoky fire, sipping strong coffee brewed in a large clay pot. At the bottom, the saturated coffee grounds sit, listening, growing more and more bitter the more we talk. I always know when it is time to leave when I start tasting the coffee’s disapproval.

He leads me past the wash area, cluttered with plastic buckets of various colors, but never straying from even the most basic crayola rainbow. We duck under arcing banana leaves and arrive at what appears to be a muddy garden. Small banana trees, no higher than one’s knee, sit alongside their older siblings, patiently waiting their turn to reach the sun. An area has been cleared and work has already begun on the supports. Scraps of multi-colored wood, I imagine stripped from various sources, have been nailed together to form longer beams. Small patches in two eucalyptus trees have been shaved away, revealing inner layers, white like milk.

I begin double-checking the measurements for the project - the roof, the posts, the cross beams - and again broach the topic.

No, I prefer nails, he tells me.

I think about what he has said as I lift up the first beam and steady it on my shoulder. He places four nails in his mouth, raises his end of the beam and reaches for his hammer.

His blows with the hammer make a clean sound, a ping that hangs in the air for what seems like seconds, although I know it to be only a fraction of that. I notice his control is perfect; each blow landing dead center on the nail, with the satisfying ping resonance as a reward for his efforts. I begin to look forward to each one, and smile.

We lift the second beam and again he fills his mouth with nails. He smiles at me for a brief moment, a genuine smile, yet weakened with the strain of gripping the nails between his lips.

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. The last note reverberates out through the banana leaves, as the nail disappears into the soft, vanilla-colored wood.

He tugs on the beam, pulling down and outward to test its strength.

This is good, he says.

And it was.