Yes, this country too loves reggaeton
When I landed in Comalapa International in El Salvador, I was prepared for the 80 degree weather, but not so much for how incredibly poor it was, how much fast food I would eat, nor my restricted mobility because I clearly look foreign and am therefore an easy target for poverty-fueled crimes and fall victim to the notorious MS 13. Here are some pictures of my Central American adventures, occasionally captioned by direct quotes from my e-mail correspondence with Eric.
"This country is uber dangerous and TJ's dad's casa is FORTRESSED by electric fences topped with razor wires, 20 feet unscalable walls, and iron bars on every window. The house has its own safe room replete with steel doors. Guards carrying shot guns defend the entrance to the gated territory. (in this picture, the white van belongs to the private security force, who at the moment is making sure that no bandits are crawling up that hill to pillage) It's a freakin' palace though: every bedroom has its own bathroom, the balconies and terraces overlook the span of El Salvador, with the border of Guatemala in the distant. In the nighttime, you can see the entire city glittering below your feet like the galaxy of stars."
The American Embassy, where we layed poolside and ate burgers and icecream all day. In the commissary (embassy speak for "grocery store"), they import "gourmet American products" such as Cheez Whiz. Class, baby.
"I couldn't really sample much of 'authentic side of road meat on stick type stands' because TJ & his dad are uber paranoid (reasonable, considering all the food riots, bandits that broke into their house and stole their PS3, and the 13 per day murder rate) so we weren't allowed to walk anywhere. I was like, 'I want to experience el salvador!!' and they were like, 'you get to experience the el salvador of the upper class-- american culture and american fast food chains!' However, did get to eat pupusas con queso y chicharrones. TJ was all like, oh you do NOT want to eat ~real el salvadoran food~. It's like mushed up stuff that only poor people can afford with a side of diarrhea."
Being part of the embassy gets us perks like getting into private beach clubs with members only access such as Club Joya, where there was a bar in the pool-- why yes, I used the correct preposition, why do you ask! At the moment, TJ is sitting on a bar stool under water as we order our icy Coronas with lime. The guy to the right of the picture was from Long Island (New York holla!) and we talked shortly after.
Dudes with machine guns patrolling the beach.
Random village we passed right before this unlucky incident occured:
"TJ's dad has serious case of road rage with the aggressive weaving in and out of lanes. There are no road rules in El Sal, just get from point A to point B by any means you can. I thought he'd exercise his diplomatic immunity and inadvertently kill a bunch of people while we were going to drive to this little village. He was driving his two ton monster of a jeep, bearing down on all these unsuspecting drivers in their compact hondas and shit. I guess there's some truth to karma, cos 30 minutes outside of town, the car broke down, JUST AS WE PULLED INTO A RANDOM GAS STATION AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. Wow. Like, for a solid 30 miles, no gas station, and then about 500 meters from this random gas station, the exhaust turned black, the water coolant ran out, the engine overheated, and the car just completely gave out, right as it pulled into an Exxon (where there was sketchy food and cool shade, as opposed to out there in the middle of nowhere jungle teeming with bandits and muggers). There might be a god or we were the luckiest bastards in the world."
Bimbo bread; wonderbread's equally unnutritious cousin.
Adorable junk-yard dog.