Dear Emily Elizabeth,

Yesterday:

I wake up and am surprised at how cool the morning is. I open the door to my little room and am greeted by a pair of large, brown eyes. They belong to a little girl, maybe five years old. She's barefoot. Her long mane of hair matches her eyes, a deep brown. I smile at her, not to reassure her, but because she seems unspoiled by the toughness of her world. She seems perfect. She smiles back, and then brings forward a little boy from behind her back. He's her equal, her little brother. We look at each other. Minutes pass. And then they're given the loaf of bread they came for, smile their goodbyes, and leave, the brother walking at a practiced stumble behind his trusted guardian.

Eggs. Beans. Tortillas. Coffee.

Delicious.

The bus ride into the city is pleasant. More people, their stories worn on their backs and faces; more countryside, covered in the early morning sun; more siblings, dozing on shoulders, fighting over snacks, altogether right.

And then I'm struck by the view. For a year and a half, I've been riding through the coffee plantations of the distant volcano, marveling at the beauty and content with the study of what once was the horizon, and is now my home.

Emotional.

We turn a corner. And for the second time, i witness the devastation of the recent tropical storm. A landslide rolled over a small village, sweeping what was left into the river.

We arrive. The market. I get off the bus and am shoved and pushed by the crowd. I sturdy my shoulders and push back, and am immediately given al the space i need. There's no anger in the exchange. Life here is an experiment of human discomfort. The limits, generally, are the relation of necessity to comfort. I push because there are too many of us with too many things to do to stand around waiting for the next person. But I am not excessive. In this way, we all get where we're going, a little uncomfortable, but no worse for the wear.

Outdoors. Tomatoes, onions, exotic fruits i still don't know the names to. Bartering, brightening sun, the press of a thousand smells.

And then i enter the mouth of the beast, the covered tunnels of the unending market. Plastic, paper, meat, fish, spices, people everywhere.

And then im outside again.

Deep breaths.

In front of me, a toddler stumbles with similar bewilderment, her hands held on one side by her mother and on the other by her older brother. The brother lingers too long in front of a pair of sneakers. The mother, enraged, thrashes her son on the head. He hardly reacts, but his sister bursts into tears.

Hours pass.

I'm back in my town. It's mid afternoon and unforgivably hot. Isabel asks if I would accompany her to a funeral. We walk to the church, and she tell me about the man that died. He was "bien amigo"-"very friendly." Seventy years old. Loved to work. He was in the fields, cutting sugar cane. His son was next to him. A heart attack, severe. He died within minutes. His son carried him home over his shoulder, sobbing. They mourned him with friends and family, sitting in the house drinking coffee and telling stories all night. Today, the funeral. We walk inside. It's full. We find two plastic chairs and put ourselves near a side door. I can see the family of the deceased sitting up front. They are all fighting tears. All but one, and she is inconsolable. I ask, Is that his wife? And Isabel tells me no, that's his sister.

There is a church nearby, sounding it's bells. It's beautiful. And calming.

I am back in the City of San Vicente, working here in the training center and living in a nearby town. I am staying with an older couple, the same couple that hosted me almost two years ago as I completed my own training to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. What amazes me about this city is how different it appears to someone already adapted to living in this poor, amazing country. Instead of seeing trash in the street, I notice the beauty of the Church and her architecture. The traffic no longer terrorizes me, allowing me to greet the street vendors and actually become part of the town. It's soothing. Girls giggle as I walk by, whispering their requests that i "give" them my blue eyes just as I drift out of hearing distance. Old men walk with their hands behind their backs, their heads held high, envying and cursing youthful men in the same instant and without opening their mouths.

As a volunteer, I lived in a different part of the country. It, too, was beautiful. Because of a few security incidents, I will no longer be living there.

Leaving the town was difficult. I had to say many goodbyes, with little time. My neighbor, Luis, my favorite person in that pueblo, was the hardest to say goodbye to. I walked up to his door and, having been gone a week without saying anything, looked forward to the expected teasing. i knocked. He opened the door with that guarded look of his, and immediately smiled and laughed when he saw it was me. "Ah. And where has my Gringo Monkey been?" He calls me a monkey because I'm a hairy man. It sounds like an awful thing to say to someone, i know, but he says it with such affection and as he says it, he reaches out and pats my chest. All i could do was cry. He opened the door and brought me inside and hugged me until i calmed down. I told him the news, and it was his turn- he understood he would not have me to share his news and gossip and little nothings. We both lived alone, and found in each other an unusual friendship between unlikely parties. I miss him dearly, already.

And then the trip out of town. My last glance at the park, the volcano, the unending green tide of coffee plantations.

After two hours, we arrived with all of my things to the open arms of my old host family. I thanked and said goodbye to my Peace Corps escort, and collapsed into a familiar rocking chair to talk to Don Jesus (Don means Mr) and the woman that works at his house, Isabel. Don Jesus' wife Alisa, the owner of the house, is away visiting family in the States, so the three of us sat down and talked about a living agreement, and then I told them my story.

And now I've told you as well. I'm glad we all know.

Peace Corps has graciously offered to allow me to stay and complete my four months of service. I will live near San Vicente and work out of the Training Center. My program-Municipal Development- is being restructured and redeveloped. I will be assisting with this process, and preparing for the arrival of the new training group in February. Their training will last two months, and I will help with talks on the culture and the best ways of adapting to life in this beautiful country. I don't know all the details, but I am excited. A new chapter begins.

There are very few days in El Salvador that are really embraced and celebrated, compared to in a country like the states that has a celebration two days out of seven. Many casual conversations between Americans often involve the weekend, somehow. It’s either: “How was your weekend?” or “Hey, half way to the weekend” or “what will you do this weekend?” Here, I NEVER hear people talk about the weekend. Students don’t wait impatiently for Friday, nor workers or anyone else, at least not where I live.

But today, today is a big deal. It’s the “Day of the deceased.” I know that it sounds dark or sad. It’s not. I woke up this morning and, exiting my house to buy an egg for my egg sandwich breakfast (YUM), I immediately felt a pleasant energy in the neighborhood. Though it was early, there were already people headed past my house to the cemetery. All smiling, many carrying plastic bouquets or other things to decorate the graves. Wearing bright colors, they said hello as they past my house. I stood in the street and watched for 5 minutes. There aren’t many days like this. It warms me so.

I ate, washed, and put on a bright blue shirt. I walked down to the southern edge of town, not quite to the cemetery, and entered an area where families from my neighborhood and others had set up crude booths to sell food and hot chocolate and coffee. Normally a fast walker, I strolled deliberately among the bustle, stopping to shake hands or make a funny face.

And then the emotion, that terribly sad and yet warming sensation of seeing a family crying and embracing and laughing at the graves of family members. Children running around. Siblings holding each other. Last year at this same event, I was still an outsider, and I longed to be among my own family. This year, it was different. I could openly approach any group of people, and was well received and told stories of fathers long dead and husbands still missed. Hearing my name called by different voices, seeing warmth in people’s eyes. It makes it all worth it.

i wake up and know that it's raining, though i can't hear it. it's too quiet outside. and i can smell it. the rain.

it's the month of salvadoran independence. i walk up to the park to help set up for the acto civico. we put up balloons and ribbons and are light on our feet. the cool weather is liberating. the children arrive. "gringo! dance like michael jackson!"

We stand and listen to the national anthem. a boy recites a poem. little girls dance in traditional dresses. i watch from a shaded bench. it's a beautiful morning. i can't stop smiling.

later in the afternoon. im walking on a road, surrounded by jungle. it's hot and wet and tropical. the rain is coming again soon. it always does.

i went to a corn festival yesterday. it was great. i went with a few good friends. narda and her brother, and someone i just met, edgardo. the festival took place about 45 minutes away from where i live, or this particular corn festival. they take place all over the country this time of year, harvest time. i had never seen salvadorans honor their most important crop like this before. i was impressed. we watched a parade of different trucks and floats honoring this staple food, and the culture it creats. we ate a dozen different dishes made from corn, and even had some fermented corn booze. this all took place in a pleasant town. i did a lot of people watching, where i make myself less visible and take it all in. children laughing and playing. young lovers holding hands. there's something very calming about the plain humanity surrounding this place. i will certainly miss it.

I wake up, accompanied by the one constant in this world. The heat lingers like some vulgar joke. The temperature rises two degrees every minute.

I smoke a cigarette with my head in the freezer. I almost fall asleep. But my feet are still sweating, slipping over the tile floor with faint resolve.

I make coffee. Its all I can do to forget about the heat: spite the motherfucker.

There. That’s better.

An hour later I find solace. On the back of a decrepit bus, I sit behind an open window. The driver operates under constant fury. Fleeing an invisible foe. We’re going very fast. And im grinning, the sweat parting my forehead. Like I’m Moses.

Divine intervention.

A little boy stares at me. I wink at him. He doesn’t panic. His humanity won’t permit it. He laughs.

We’re going faster now. The whole bus blazing through jungle and concrete like a tormented creature. It starts raining. I feel manic. I want it all. Speed, safety, wind, rain. This bus ride is my greatest fear, but my only hope.

I ask God to look after me. After us. All of us. Protect us. Diós nos protege.

i've been away from my site for several days, returning just now.

the children that attend school in the afternoon are walking home. there is no better sound in the world than the boisterous laughter of children.

it's good to be home.

I'm playing the guitar, enjoying the early afternoon. I can still taste the orange just consumed.

"Misster Willliam," says a familiar voice. "Tocando la guitara."

It's my fantastic viejo communist neighbor. He's 80. Has an absurd, toothless grin that makes me blush. And loves to talk shit. Long ago, he abandoned any social etiquette or standards, such as beginning conversations with "hello" or "how are you?" Old man loves to rehash all of the anti-american leftist news he's just heard on his radio, directing it at me in the form of boasts or accusations. We both allow this to happen, and thoroughly enjoy it, because he knows im not some gringo asshole, and i know he's not some nutjob militant, though we pretend to be.

"Looks like La CIA got rid of the Honduran President," he says.

"yea. 'bout fuckin time," i say.

But then he remembers why he knocked on my door. "Playing the old guitar again, huh?"

"Yea. I can sing too. Yo voy caminando, al monte donde yo nací….”

Luis tries to stop me, in spanish, but to no avail. So he shouts the only two words in English he knows: "SILENCE!!! FUCKING!!!"

So i shut right the fuck up.

And then we both laugh.

And then we talk for a few more minutes. About girls and politics. And soccer.

He shakes my hand, turns to face the world.

"Cuídate, Gringo."

You too, viejo.

It's 9 am. The church bell tower announces the beginning of the catholic Mass. I can hear it's ferverence from my seat overlooking the soccer field. Today, i congregate with the disciples that are my town's soccer fans. The other church. It's the middle of the regular season. As i live in a populated volcanic valley, there are many teams. I know most of the men on the team in the red jerseys. And one of their players greets me with a smile. I nod my hello, at the same time acknowledging my allegiances.

It's a beautiful morning. A perfect temperature. Children laugh. Boys pick on each other. The volcano sits in the distance, clouds loitering above him like smoke pouring out of a high rise.

The good guys win. 3-2.

And the clouds have dissipated, leaving the volcano in seemingly smoldering ruins, like a morning well lived.

I turn around, and marvel at how far I’ve come. Ten wet steps. Most of my friends stand below, gaping up at me. “Jump, Billy!”

It’s my sister. Like every other rite of passage before this one, she has preceded me. She’s treading water below, waiting faithfully, as always. She’s not alone. Our other sister joins the chorus from pool side, as do my parents, my mentors, and a few peers.

I’m caught in the middle. It’s comfortable. But there’s little integrity.

And before I know it, I rise above it all. I yawp, raise my wings, and fly.

And fall. And liberate.

Each stroke is a kept promise. No more compromise. Why should I?

So, this is what it’s like to be an adult.

a good day. mixed, like most.

i attended a meeting. and taught an english class. and ate tacos with a good friend. i admit that, even through the hardest parts, i am in wonderment of this place. of this life.

dad, the yankees beat the twins in a 4 game sweep.

I wake up late but make my 9am meeting. It has been three weeks with my new co-workers. some no doubt still think im with the FBI. we're still getting to know each other. i dont see the man i am to meet with. we're to talk about a water project. he walks into his office, where i am waiting for him, and warmly shakes my hand. we exchange polite nothings and settle into a comfortable rythum. but then we're interupted. he's asked to sit in on another meeting. can we meet another day, he asks me. sure, i say.

I have an hour before my next meeting. I wonder into beautiful sunlight.

i walk into my favorite little shop. They sell phone cards and beans and cupcakes. Cupcakes it is. I speak a few words in english, just a few, and then quickly translate them so that my hosts can say them back, thus learning their words for the day. I immediately ask the wife when will we go dancing? This always brings the house down. The father and i joke around as i pick out my cupcakes. we exchange a warm hand shake, and i leave for my house.

Inside, i have two more cups of coffee. I feel like reciting shakespeare upside down at this point, but manage to fall back into my current book, "Master and Commander."

And then it's time to talk to Rodolfo, the jefe of medio ambiente. I get there, but he's not there. A thousand apologies, im told, Rodolfo had to come home. He's sick. He couldn't endure.

So, Rodolfo has the shitts.

I talk to his two underlings. They speak so quickly and with such little annunciation that i have to listen as best i can. i couldnt have had this meeting a year ago. we talk about the environment- their department- and some of their ideas, and how i might fit in. I direct the meeting to result in the three of us agreeing to accomplish different things before the next meeting. that's how it will be, i say, little by little, everyone doing something. They're satisfied.

It's lunch time now. I buy a small baggie of chopped veggies from someone selling. I fry these veggies and add two eggs, and then fry another 4 minutes. i eat the meal with three fresh corn tortillas. an apple. a glass of wather.

and now, im in the hammock. but only for an hour.

now, im heading back to the mayor's office. i pick up Osiris, the jefa de proyecion social, and we meet our compardres at the local NGO in town, called Ciazo. There are four employees. I like Alberto. Mario is interesting. Mirna isn't around. And Estaphanie is beautiful. But. Beautiful.

We pile into the pickup. And exit the town. We shuttle down the two lane back highway for twn minutes, going down hill, and then hang a left into a smaller community. Ten minutes later we are in the jungle, weaving between communities.

Alberto and Estaphanie drop us off. The community is. poor. i see it often but today it hurts. it's just so poor.

the people in the meeting are a little complacent. and tired. they work so hard. and just want drinking water for their kids that won't make them sick. we meet in a nice little building, a gift from some NGO. we talk about the local, civil development group in the town that is them. I've heard this story before. They are organized, but nothing is really going on. And im afraid that, though our intentions are good, we won't be able to really help this group develop. I've come along with someone in an NGO and a representative from the mayor's office. The conversation during the meeting is pleasant, and productive. But these people, hopeful of having some kind of potable water system, need so much more than a little training and motivation.

But that's not my role. I shake hands. And offer encouragement. And look into many sets of beautiful, brown eyes and give the warmest smile i can. which is easy. these people are very friendly. once you know where to look.

and that's the meeting.

i come home. open the door. look around. smile at a neighbor. and go inside. and deflate a little. and fall into my chair. just what the fuck am i doing here?

dusk brings such temperance. i sleep soundly. for an hour.

and then im up. and my shorts are on. and my shoes. with my basketbal tucked under my arm, i head for the court. im better than when i left. or when i arrived, rather. a lot better. i play a game of burro, and then some 21.

i walk home, but not before talking to my very good friend. he's leaving for the states soon. or so he says. i hope he gets there. but i hate to see him go. the town will miss him. ill miss him the most.

it's beautiful outside. i walk down two blocks to my house. facing down hill, i have this view of lightening striking down in the valley.

home again. i still need to wash a pair of socks. and brush my teeth. and say my prayers.

otro dis menos, otro dia mas. de vida.

tomorrow, another busy day.

these past four months have been really interesting.

interesting. that's a joke.

they were, at different times, beautiful, terrible, lonesome, inspirational... They were many things. And i think they were transitional. I'm working with new people, am suddenly busy, and feel, well, different.

and time passes so quickly. i know, oh god i hope, that a time will come when i won't want to leave all of this. im just not there yet.

the culture is so different. i sometimes want to stop people in their tracks and say,"hey, you know that thing you just did? that was foolish. and your kid was watching.WTF is wrong with you?" but that's not why im here. many people and most everything moves slowly. apathy is king. though love abounds.

i developed some serious feelings for a girl. we took it really so. i wasn't interested in something short term. she wasn't either. she also wasn't interested in dating someone that isn't a catholic and drinks beer. it's so funny: now that im a few weeks removed from all of this, i see so clearly how incompatible we would be romantically. turns out my heart wasn't listening, and i quickly fell for this girl. and she fell for me- or so she says. but still, she threw on the brakes, a few times, but was still interested. tough, right? the good news is that she is fantastic, i finally said no mas, we're still very good friends, and im feeling ok about all if it.

disclaimer: she is not the reason i wasn't blogging. nor was anything "wrong," which in turn kept me from writing. i just didnt feel it.

i still don't. but sat down to write two lines tonight, and find myself spilling it.

ok. more to come. soon.

peace and peace and peace,

wf.

No más con los números. Sin mi camera, no me gusta escribir una cosa cada día. Lo se que les dijé que iba a escribir algo cada día, y yo soy hombre de mi palabra, pero no continuamos asi.

Ok?

Ok. Para ti, mamá:

Cada día aprendo más, y cada día entiendo menos. Encontré la amistad, pero perdí el amor. Ya puedo gastar el día conmigo, satisfecho con mi compañía, pero extraño las cosas que solo te puede hacer con otra persona: hacer broma, besar, disfrutar una vista (es que a mí me gusta más disfrutar la con otra persona). Es decir: quiero una novia! Pero no andaré con cualquier chica. Ni veo que una armada de chicas esté esperando una cita con el frijol blanco. Bueno, así es la vida, o, bueno, así es mi vida!

Mañana, a la mierda con el gringo. San Salvador, ya vengo!

seven hours and seven buses later, im back home after a trip to the beautiful Mizata beach. thanks for a great time, Stally.

After an hour of walking, he settles into a rhythm. The songs playing in his head are an eternal mix tape, an autobiographic playlist that reflects his mood, always. The current track is a song by the group Radiohead, "Bullet Proof....I wish I was."

It's a beautiful morning, but he's a little bitter. The night before, he was invited to "go on a walk to a hill." Sounds nice, he thought. A good way to start a morning. But the hill turned out to be a volcano. And the volcano turned out to be located several hours away. Our hero, always unaware of vogue, thought a short-sleeved, collared shirt would be perfect. He thought: Sipowicz from "NYPD Blue" always looked good in those shirts, why should I wear anything else?

Answer: it's 9am and in the neighborhood of 90 degrees. His Sipowicz shirt is soaked, sticking to him like an extension of his body. And his hair is suffering too, victim to the "man wax" that he used to style a wave in his bangs. He's afraid that someone might light a match, causing his head to explode.

"KABOOM!"

But our hero enjoys the irony. And his optimism soars with the beginning of a new track on his personal juke box, "Born in the USA." Cheered up, he notices the sun beams dancing on the jungle floor, the exotic fruit falling from unfamiliar trees, half naked children chasing each other, their humanity worn like innocent smiles.

He carries on.

Around a bend, he comes upon a view of an island, far below, sitting in the blue ocean like jade. But he can't stop yet; the end is near. So, he presses on.

He crosses a plateau, enters and exits a grove, and shouts with joy. He summits the volcano and looks over earth and ocean with a smile. And then abruptly collapses into fits of laughter. Sipowicz wishes he was this tough.

I got up at 5 this morning to go on a “walk.” I did not know where we were headed, or why. I wasn’t told, and didn’t ask. I was extended an invitation and accepted.

I’m glad I did.

By the time the sun was up, I was walking through coffee plants in the middle of tropical nowhere. I went with a family, good friends of mine. After an hour and a half, we arrived at a house. An old woman opened the door and beamed down at us, but seemed to mostly ignore me, or not really notice me. And I’m glad. That doesn’t happen often here. She was totally concentrated on two year old Christopher and his 5 year old brother, Fernando. She’s a medicine woman. Not a doctor. I don’t know why, but it was amazing to watch. She was relaxing to be around. She rubbed ointments on the two children, with hands like paper (I was later told that she’s somewhere in her 80’s).

When we left, she noticed me. She looked right at me, no-into me. I couldn’t move. She took my hand and held it for five minutes and we talked. I walked away feeling calm, and at the same time saddened that we had to leave.

The walk back was fun. We poked our way home, me stopping every few minutes to look at the incredible landscape. Volcanoes, green rolling hills, beautiful birds.

I have to sweep my kitchen, and then it’s off to bed. Tomorrow morning, I have to be in the neighboring town of Santiago before six. I'm going on a walk, this time with my friend Narda. I don’t know where we’re headed, or why. I wasn’t told, and I didn’t ask.

It's 6:45 in the evening. Dusk. I'm in the town of Santiago de Maria, at a little outdoor eatery. It's a simple place, just a few tables and a small stove. Covering the outside wall is a painted mural of Jesus and a woman wiping his face. Not typical, but altogether comforting. Sitting in front of me are a half-eaten pupusa* and a hot chocolate. My friend* Narda sneaks inside the cafe to pay my bill, and I let her. Sitting there, i make two friends. One, a middle-aged woman with a nice smile. The second, her grandson. She wastes no time in presenting him, her 10 year old trophy. He wastes no time in telling me a fantastic dirty joke. I return the favor. Not to be outdone, the grandmother finishes the trilogy of jokes with her own. It's a content moment. A full stomach. New friends. Sincere, boisterous laughter. The half moon over-head...

"Are you ready William?" It's Narda. She looks so beautiful in her white dress, it takes me a moment to answer her.

"Yes. Where are we going?" She nods down the street, towards a peaceful mass of people, slowly moving towards us. They're bearing two floats, though i can't tell what they are. At that moment, i hear them singing. I can't hear what they're saying, but it's a lovely sound. We watch them approach, and I'm surprised when, as a group, they stop directly in front of us and turn their attention towards the cafe. And then i get it. The mural of Jesus on the outside wall represents a station of the cross. This is the beginning of Semana Santa, or holly week, and this procession is honoring the 14* stages of Jesus’ suffering and death, called "The Stations of the Cross."

Over the coarse of two hours, we walk through the town, stopping to hear a few words by the priest as we consider each painted scene. Between stations, Narda and i talk. And flirt. And eat pieces of fried banana. All under the beautiful moon’s watchful eye. Altogether, it's the happiest I’ve been in El Salvador.

*A pupusa is a fancy quesadilla.

*Narda is the first girl i have been interested in since being here in el sal. She's kind of fantastic. but she's just a friend, one of my best here.

*14 stations of the cross, i think. there could be 15. im not actually Christian, as i don't believe in Jesus to be the son of god, anymore than you or I, though I do think him heroic. don't tell Narda.

im really pissed that i lost my camera.

but, as i grew up with not one but two sisters, i'm over it.

Having a sister makes you happier and more optimistic, say psychologists

By Kate Devlin

Last Updated: 3:49PM BST 03 Apr 2009

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/5089197/Having-a-sister-makes-you-happier-and-more-optimistic-say-psychologists.html

Having a sister makes you happier and more optimistic, a new study shows, but the same is not true for having a brother. (WTF??)

Growing up with at least one girl in the family also makes people more able to cope with their problems, according to the study.

Daughters tie loved ones closer together and encourage them to communicate their emotions more effectively, the researchers believe.

Prof Tony Cassidy, from the University of Ulster, who carried out the study with researchers from De Montfort University in Leicester, said that having a sister helped to promote good mental health.

He said: "Sisters appear to encourage more open communication and cohesion in families. However, brothers seem to have the alternative effect. Emotional expression is fundamental to good psychological health and having sisters promotes this in families."

Girls who had sisters also tended to be more independent and keen on achievement, according to the findings.

The effects were stronger among children from broken homes, suggesting that sisters might lean on each other more for support when their parents divorce.

Prof Cassidy added that the lowest scores were among boys who had only brothers.

"It could be that boys have a natural tendency not to talk about things," he said. "With boys together it is about a conspiracy of silence not to talk. Girls tend to break that down."

The study questioned 571 young adults, aged between 17 and 25, about the make-up of their families and their emotional well-being.

Only children tended to score in the middle range for happiness and optimism.

Liz Wright, the co-author of the study, said: "With only children we found that they had lots of strong communication outside of the home. It appears that they have as much social support as those with siblings, but it does not come from within the family."

The findings will be presented today at the British Psychological Society annual meeting in Brighton.

it rained today. for the first time in months. i danced in it. wondered at it. wouldn't leave it's side, afraid it would abandone me. and then it did. but it left behind a memory of it's pending return, true as the dusk breaks. until it does, im like it's faithful pet, sitting in the window, waiting for my master to come home.

it's 8pm. a beautiful hour. it's dark, but the town is playful.

I’m sweeping my house. I open the door to dispose of the dust, and there, sitting on top of his own mountain of sand, is a five year old boy. he's smiling, like he's expecting me. and he probably is, or at least hoping. he's been playing outside of my house more and more. we've spoken a few times already, to my enjoyment. and his. he asks the best questions. tonight, he asks me: "do you understand Spanish?" now, anyone that knows me knows that i live to say sarcastic shit. but it's different when a 5 year old kid is asking the questions.

"yes, i do understand spanish, and English too!" He is very impressed. He thinks of a very important question- i can tell by the serious look that appears on his face.

"How do you say 'Jose' in English?"

I tell him: "well, it's Joe."

He's confused: "I don’t understand."

I Sympathize: "me neither."

The next question takes me by surprise: "is your dad alive?"

"yes."

"when he dies, will they bury him?" I'm pretty sure that dad wants the alternative, but i don’t want to get into that.

"Yes. when my dad dies, they will bury him."

"In El Salvador?"

“No, he's never been here. He lives in the united states, where I’m from. we'll bury him there."

He asks me more fantastic questions for about 10 minutes. I’m sitting in my doorway, bathed in the light coming from inside the house. he's sitting in the same spot, playing in the sand, without a worry in the world. He confirms several times that i speak english, and spanish, and then i ask him some questions.

"Where do you live?" It's now going on 830, and this kid is out a night, unsupervised (I’m secretly jealous).

"Down in the colonia" (a few blocks away).

"Are your parents alive?"

"Yes. They live in San Salvador" (which explains the solo missions to the gringo's house?).

"How many brothers do you have?"

"Eight."

By coincidence, one of them walks by, and the little boy, smiling, joins him as they walk into the darkness, leaving me feeling kind of abandoned.

But i stand up, brush myself off, smile at the night, and decide it's good to be alive.

what a game.

i'll get to that.

i was out late on friday, and only slept for a few hours. Yesterday morning, after getting up and eating, i put myself back to bed. but couldn't sleep. i read. and listened to music. but my mind raced. and i felt good. so i got up. i did pushups and sit-ups. and cleaned. and then she called. she was headed to san salvador too. with a friend. she told me, no quieres ir con nosotros? of coarse i did, i said, and so met them at her place and we took off for the capital. after living here a year, i have become more than used to the realities of Salvadoran public transportation. but i still marvel. hot buses, packed with people. and no one gets pissed. this would never fly in the states. people push past each other and do other things that would cause a fucking riot among americans. but here, no one is bothered. it's amazing. it has had a very positive effect on me. so, the three of us pile onto a bus, and find three seats, two together and the other across the isle. it's a 90 minute ride, and the open windows allow a nice breeze. but an hour into the trip, we stop. there's been an accident. an 18 wheeler has flipped over, and traffic has been stopped. we don't know this yet, the cause of the accident, and really only care that we're not moving and suffering in the heat. but we pass the time. I’m secretly pleased to have an excuse to sit co close to her. And for so long. I show the two girls my ipod, and pick out a playlist for them to listen to. we tell jokes. Talk about love. It’s nice. She’s holding my hand.

we get to san salvador, and i tell her something in english that i know she wont understand, because im shy, and tell them both goodbye. i walk to my hotel, picking up speed as i approach. there, my friends await. i stumble into the room and demand beer. inside my best friends enjoy air conditioning a sports on television. but there needs to be mayhem. so i start yelling at everyone. we drink beer and insult each other for 30 minutes, and then pile into a cab. our destination is the stadium, the objective to survive a soccer match between team USA and el sal. it's my second time to the stadium, so im prepared for the madness. we find a group of friends drinking beer outside. hugs and high-fives are exchanged. we buy el salvador tee shirts and i begin yelling things like Los Pinche Gringos VAN A PERDER! Which everyone loves. More friends and more madness inside. i haven't seen some of these people in a while, and im already in a good mood. we chat, and enjoy the filling of the stadium. Team El Salvador enters the field, and we cheer. Team USA enters and we boo and whistle. i let loose another vulgar insult. the people around us love it that we're whiter than christmas and cheering for el salvador. this is reinforced by a goal scored by el salvador. and another. but then the crowd grows bitter: the gringos score 2 goals in the final minutes to tie the game. the good news is: a tie still pacifies the crowd, and we are allowed to leave the stadium with out lives.

i took a lot of pictures. great pictures. but also consumed a lot of beer. and put my camera down somewhere, or had it taken out of my pockets. i know. i really enjoyed posting those pictures. and i've made a promise to post something everyday for a year. so, my words will have to do. i'll try to mix it up.

sunday evening. always pleasant. yesterday's game will give me great conversations for the next week. i need to plan tomorrow's english class, and possibly write a letter. to her. in spanish. i've never done that before. wish me luck.

Last night was kind of a kick in the ass. My friday nights are a little tamer than they used to be. Boozing with my buddies back home has been replaced with more nights sitting in my hammock. and you know what, it's kind of a nice, needed change.

And by that i mean sometimes i'm bored to fucking death.

But not last night. Last night, i sipped wine and ate delicious, little appetizers at the opening of an art exposition. w t f ? peace corps? sure. but that was the end of the night. ABTIM i went dancing with this hottie that drives me kind of crazy until early this morning.

IM GOING INTO THE CAPITAL IN A FEW HOURS TO WATCH TEAM USA CRUSH EL SALVADOR!!! But this Gringo will be wearing Blue and White and cheering for the Salvos. At least on the outside.

love you so much, sis. thanks for reading these. come down here, and we'll have a great time. same goes for anyone else reading this.

paz y amor,

w.

i meant to write something yesterday. i had so little to do that i forgot.

get it?

yesterday was kind of a big deal. to me, anyway. it was the half way mark. of this whole peace corps deal. yea. half way done. gone like a fart in the wind. where did it go?

big plans tomorrow. and saturday, jesus, we're going to the world cup qualifying match, USA v. El Salvador. God help me.

so, the pictures:

1.i was walking by the park in my town and saw these two gentleman playing the guitar.

2. that's my bus stop, outside town. with the volcano behind it.

3. the nearby town of santiago, a bigger town, with coffee plantations in the distance. yea. shade grown, gourmet, salvadoran coffee. and everyone i know here drinks instant coffee. i do too. but i also have the good shit, which i drink every morning. it makes everything ok.

4. two of my english students misbehaving. class was hilarious today. we played a vocab game and the winner was to receive chocolate, so everyone freaked out, or pretended to, even me, and we kind of laughed our asses off and yelled at each other and i gave candy to everyone.

5. two more students. it's a good time. drop by if you're in the neighborhood.

get it?

a good day today. i taught english class in the morning, and again in the afternoon. y tambien vi la chamacha.

in the below picture are two good friends of mine. one, brad, you already know. the other is Richy, about the chillest (that's slang for easy-going, dad) kid here in el sal.

buenas noches, vatos.

El Bajabador.

there's so much to say. so much. i wish i knew where to start. i feel like a little kid, walking down the street alone for the first time, a wanderboy. i am different from everyone but no longer a stranger. everyone says hello to me. i teach english. i talk to people that are so poor they dont have shoes. i see joy in the face of a 2 year old boy, and know that everything will be ok. i have dinner where i always do, and take my own turn teaching Fernando how to read, and confide my secrets to his two year old brother. and there's a girl. she came over twice today, unannounced. she sat in my hammock. and her friend wore my cowboy hat.

and the days go by so fast.

some days are still really hard. and i dont know why. im kind of hard on myself. i came here wanting a change. im getting something else.

yesterday, i went to the bach with Brad AKA The Stallion. We went to playa cuco. it was a really good time. we talked, walked on the beach, drank some rum. it was very bromantic. i needed some brad time.

today, after getting home, i went to Mass in the nearby town of Santiago De Maria with my new friend Narda. it was a nice service, minus when the Padre spoke poorly of protestants. i forgave him. then with Narda already outside talking on the phone, her brother and i tried to leave before the priest passed us. to which some lady said, over the PA systes, "please wait to exit until after the padre passes." oops. yea. but the brother and i joked about it.

after church, Narda hosted a little birthday party for a friend. it was simple, and fun. just six of us. Narda is very good to her friends. she's the most remarkable woman i've met since being here, and the first girl i've been interested in. hmm. we'll see. i dont really get the vibe from her that she's into me. at the least, i've made another good friend.

good night.

i was planning on posting something last night but got in a little later than expected. FINE BY ME. i went dancing in san miguel with some friends of mine- a girl i recently met and some of her friends. it was VERY fun. My friend's name is Narda. I met her through an NGO in a near-by town. She seems rather special. It's always nice to meet and befriend wonderful people, especially if they happen to be beautiful. Narda is in the red dress.

Tonight, im headed to see a band play in the town of Berlin. Should be fun. I'll take some pictures.

happy weekend.

i walk up to the door. no one seems to notice me. the yard is 50 feet wide. at one end, i see Rosie, washing clothes. i begin to sneak in. Ya viene el Gringo says a voice i recognize. Carmen. Her voice has that unintentional quality of announcing her mood. she's happy, i can tell, if not a little tired. i straighten up and walk into the yard. Not untypical of Salvadoran properties, it has a large yard that dissects two small structures. both have covered porches. it's pleasant, once you adapt to it's beauty. It's simple way. And ive done that. i greet the three adults there. all warm people. each in their own distinct way. But im quickly distracted by the absence of the kids. and then i hear laughter. innocent laughter. two kids giggling. so i follow it and walk into a room and then freeze as if terrified by the two year old. i make a face like i've suddenly had a fart with a prize. i then walk across the room, and into a handstand, my feet meeting the wall in front of me so to stabilize me. more laughter. that kind that comes from wonderment. i regain my feet, and look up to see four faces. and a two year old ass. Christopher is bent-over, peeking at me between his legs. That's his hand stand. but that's as far as her can go. he stands. we laugh at each other. he then chases me out of the room. and around the yard. his family is laughing. other people show up to buy tortillas- which is why i have come- and they laugh too. Ten people laughing. Together. Is there anything better? Sometimes. But not tonight. I should have taken a picture. I will soon.

The pictures:

The top picture is my house. the bottom house is my neighbors across the street, taken from my place. they're redoing the streets. taken in january.

in january i went to a beach about an hour and a half from where i live. it was fine. i went with a woman and her four daughters. the mom and i drank beer in the back seat on the way there. i mean, laugh out loud funny. i've been to half a dozen beaches here now. they're surprisingly different. but all beautiful.

another peaceful, lovely night here.

y en unas horas ya voy a very la chamaca. "T m gust." Lo mejor mensaje q he recibido aqui.

paz y amor,

w.

el salvador elected a new president.

Very interesting.

Read about that here:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/16/world/americas/16salvador.html?scp=3&sq=el%20salvador&st=cse

so, im going to hang out with this girl. and her friend.

but i gotta go.

i leave you with this, a picture of two dogs, uh, playing tug of war:

first picture: english class. they're a great class.

second picture: a very pretty lagoon close to where i live.

a few weekends ago, i went to the other side of the country to a place called Juayua. It was a lot of fun. On the work side, we gave some important talks on AIDS and arranged for a famous M.D. to come and give a lecture about AIDS to a group of teachers and health promoters, so that they could communicate the same information to the people in their community. we also took a nice hike to these beautiful waterfalls and did a little high-diving.

Disclaimer: i ddint' do much work: it was all L.B.).

so, i've been here for a year now. And a day. Pretty wild. In honor of being here one year, i am going to post a picture for every day for the next year. most days i will only write a little. other days, i'll write a little more.

(disclaimer: i got this idea from another volunteer, mr. L. S.).

we'll start this off with some construction pictures. we're paving most of the streets in town. this includes the road seven feet from where im writing this. it's been going on for some time: they tore out the coble stones about two months ago. since then, my house is perpetually covered in dirt. im kind of used to it, which is sad. but im not sad. im happy. content. i hope you are too.

love,

me.

It’s newly dark. Venus is setting in the west, with the moon nearly beside her. Beautiful. Kids play in the street. They ask me to play with them. we toss around a tennis ball. It’s a windless, perfect night. And it all feels, amazing.

This thing, the peace corps, like life in general, seems to be a series of ups and downs. Peaks and valleys. Tonight, I must be sitting on a beautiful crest, overlook a glorious life. Not as a king, but as an equal.

i just had dinner. lots of beans. yummy.

walking home, this little kid was just suddenly next to me. smiling. so we chatted for a minute. i asked him how he was. the typical, literal response to that question here in el sal varies but includes: "im there," "im here," "good," "shitty," etc. This kid's responds with enthusiasm. and not in one sentence. he tells me that school was good, he's got a new girl friend, and he's about to have dinner with his family, among other things. im half a sleep on two legs, but listening and enjoying his answer. then he asks me, "and you, how are you, sir?"

i told him the truth, as best i could, in spanish: "I have a lot of farts."

Kid stopped right in his tracks. and so did i, just as i mustered one that shook the houses on the street. slowly, his slightly shocked face turned into the most sincere grin i have seen in a long time. he laughed with his whole body, and so did i, which made me fart more.

as we parted ways, he told me he hoped we would meet again. i told him i hoped so too.

my alarm goes off. it's 5:50 am. i could get up. go on a run. come back, listen to NPR, have a banana. or, i could just, you know, lay here peacefully for a few more minutes.

my alarm goes off. my internal alarm. like a fucking gunshot. i sit up, and almost jump through my mosquito net. "oh shit oh shit oh shit." it's 7:20. i have a very important meeting. At 8am, thirty minutes away from my house.

but then i remember: it's el salvador. the meeting will start at about 9:15. so, i relax. and listen to NPR. and have a banana.

by the time i take my seat on the bus, the sun is up, and it's growing warmer, but the morning still maintains a cheerfulness, the day celebrating it's potential.

i walk into the meeting just as it begins. 9:10 am.

and what a meeting. we've recently had local mayoral elections, and present are the new mayors and their cabinets or consejos. the purpose of the meeting is for everyone to understand more about the group they have been asked to join: "U 7," or United Seven. The group is a collection of local government members and civic development groups, working together to benefit the seven municipalities they represent. and there's me. the white kid. some of these people know me, and most have heard of me. and i have a good reputation among them- a strong word.

it's hard for me to convince you why, but the meeting is very much a success. maybe it's because i get to talk to the new mayor and meet his people since he won election. his win was a dramatic surprise to me. and i was nervous as to if they would invite me to work with them or not. so far, i seem to be warmly regarded and have invitation to work with the new administration.

this was cemented by them offering me a ride back to town. we pile into a pickup truck, and i tell a few jokes and tell my new friends my nick name. suddenly, we all seem to be friends.

________

it's now late in the afternoon. i am sitting at a cafe at the side of our park here in town, talking to the woman that runs the place. we've only recently become friends, and it's a friendship that i enjoy, and not just because she gives me wonderfully fresh orange juice, kind of a rarity for me down here. sipping the OJ, i see the people i am waiting for pull up in a car, but they don't see me. i get their attention, and they come over. they're my new students. and we're studying english. they join me at a table, and we talk for half an hour or so. there are three of them. they work together for a large spanish NGO called "intervida." they're all a few years older than me, which is perfect. i don’t have many friends in their late twenties/early thirties. we talk about english classes, and end up agreeing to two days a week for an hour each day. "how much?" they say. "nothing," i reply. "just buy me a beer or two once in a while." this seems like music and comedy to their ears.

we say good bye. they drive away. the cafe owner points her chin in their direction as if to say, "so, what's that all about?" I tell her: "they're my new students." and i tell her that im hoping they will do some work here in town in exchange for me teaching them some bad words and good grammar.

and then my slow, lovely walk home. it's dusk. my two year old friend, eddie, is standing outside his house, watching his world walk by. i say his name in a low voice, like i always do, and his face lights up with a grin as he repeats his name back to me, something he has only recently learned. he then inexplicably turns to his mother and, im not kidding, says a very bad word. we're both so surprised that all we can do is laugh. but then she tells eddie he cant call his mother a whore. that just won't cut it.

and here i am, sitting in my house, now typing in the dark. it's 630, time to go and eat dinner with my neighbors, and flirt with the three daughters.

peace and love. from el salvador.

me.

the street lamp across the street went out this evening. i noticed the change in light through the window and poked my head outside to see the stars looking back at me. my town is well-lit and i don't mosey to where it's dark to go star gazing, not yet anyway.

WTF am i talking about? somebody stop me.

another day translating today. more intense. i spent more time with the doctors in the afternoon, seeing many patients that we (yea right, we) could do little for. one woman started to cry. she couldn't see the eye charts and the different lenses were not helping. so i took her hand and asked her how old she was.

"82."

"No, i don't believe you. 50, no mas." we both had a good laugh at that. and we got her a pair of strong reading glasses so that she can read her bible. she told me that god blessed her by bringing me to her. what do you say to that? "no, really, it's nothing." i wish she could comprehend how important our little meeting was to me. she's seeing the doctor and im getting a reality check. jesus, these woman from the country come in dressed in hand made dresses, tiny woman that cant read and that have worked all their lives and don't ever seem upset and i have problems? yes, it's me. i wish our world had a happy medium.

fuck im tired.

tomorrow im going back one more time. these canadian doctors and nurses are heroes. they come from up north this time of year, and it's hot as balls in el salvador, 10 miles from the coast. the building is unairconditioned, they're using their vacation time to go down and help truck loads of people.

and in the middle of the madness is this goofy lanky kid cracking fart jokes to old men.

one old man asked me how well his vision would be with glasses. i told him well enough to look at pretty woman from across the street. he looked at me, unsure of what he had heard, and i was tired and couldn't hide a half smile, so he laughed, and i laughed.

what the fuck am i talking about? i told you to stop me.

anyway, i got on here to say that the street lamp went out becuase it's still fucking windy and i actually really like it and bla bla bla fart jokes bla bla.

Good. Night.

i wrote about the change in seasons here a few days ago, three days ago. The NEXT day, rain gave way to wind. It has been blowing ever since.

It's like a new country for me. Palm trees that just, sit there, now blow in the winds like sails on a boat. My house doesn't rock, but the roof might blow away. And the clouds, the clouds that used to sit in the same spot in the sky for hours now race towards the sunset, colors of red and pink and blue.

Beautiful.

Today was fun. I got up and had coffee (soon to be fresh from the hillside) and then went into Usulutan City on the 7am bus. The coffee puts me in the perfect mood for the dangerous and fantastic bus ride down the hill. I sat near the open door in back and watched the lush hillside fly by, opening up to a sweeping view of the ocean.

I met my good friend Betsy (who had a cup of coffee waiting, the darling) and we were soon picked up and taken to the government center. Waiting for us were one other volunteer, 20 canadian eye doctors and nurses, and a few hundred squinting salvadorans. In what felt like an hour, i talked to countless people and helped translate between Dr. and patient. I helped the nurses organize, and told a lot of jokes, the most popular being: "what do you call a guy with a broken condom? Dad." yes, the best jokes translate into any language. it was a good time. people who had never seen an optometrist were talking to experts and receiving perscription glasses. Some people were so stunned at having eye sight that all they could do was embrace the closest gringo. some lady kissed me. i held hands with another woman who was a little spooked by the whole thing, until she was given eye sight, at which point she practically ran out of the place to enjoy the day.

And a beautiful day it was. Windy as hell. Im going back tomorrow and friday, and im looking forward to it.

i am BEAT. not even gonna proofread this badboy. hope it makes sense.

good night :)

i wrote this a few months ago but didn't finish it, or post it...

the sun goes down. outside, it's much like denver: breezeless, mild, beautiful. i wander up the street towards an intersection that joins the town park and what you might call a convenience store. This is my favorite place to pass the time. The shop is run by a family of five, all likeable people and all liking the Gringo. I enjoy the father the most. We talk shop. Some nights, we talk God (i trust him enough to have already told him i am actually not a Christian). Other nights we talk politics (i told him i like Obama because he's half honkey and all donkey). Tonight, all i say to him is a joke someone told me a month ago. This, like most fantastic jokes, translates perfectly in any language.

"What do you call a guy with a broken condom?"

"Dad."

He starts laughing to a point where i can't help but laugh too. Someone else walks up and he is told the joke, and he too starts laughing like an idiot in the middle of town. We attract a crowd.

The next day, i can't pass an hour without someone mentioning the joke. Someone asks me for another joke. I can't come up with anything, but i happen to be a little gasy. So i extend my index finger and request that the unsuspecting kid pull my finger. I don't expect him to do it. But he does, and with no idea of the consequesnces. I proceed to fart like a horse. This kid's life will never be the same.

An hour later, back at the convenience store, the mom (the store is run out of someone's house) is telling some lady how the Gringo tore ass when some kid pulled his finger.

I can't maintain this.

And i can't leave my house without little girls covering their shy faces with one hand, and extending one finger towards me. They don't say anything, and they're not really pointing. But i get the message.

In the U.S. it’s for us slackers. In El Salvador, it’s more like summer camp. The school year here ends November 5th. For two weeks, a majority of these kids will head to the coffee fields with other members of their families and cut about a shitload of coffee, every day. They’ll get paid about $4 or $5 a day. I’m planning on joining them for a day or two.

Beginning Nov. 17, the kids that don’t have to continue cutting coffee will come and hang out with the Police and the Gringo. It’s a cool program, the National Police from nearby Usulutan will be using our classrooms to talk about subjects like self-esteem and leadership. Im planning on teaching dick and fart jokes in English. I’m actually planning on teaching some songs we can sing together. I’m looking forward to it. This will take place for two hours each morning for three weeks. In the afternoons, we’ll be heading to the soccer field and basketball court to play some ball. We have been committed a few coaches and refs from the national soccer league to assist. We’ll practice for a few weeks, and then have a tournament. Girls and boys will play separately. And it’s free!

That's all. Just thought you might like to know.

I’m sitting in my house, watching the light outside my window change. It’s that time of day where the sky is filled with brilliant color, contrasted by the somber and darkening landscape. It’s like the day is falling asleep, her eyelids docile, slowly closing. It’s calming.

But the town doesn’t sleep. Soon, the day’s forgotten purchases will be remedied by the willing; children are sent to buy eggs and tortillas, the sound of their footsteps echoing on cobble stones. They are purposeful- the last of this year’s rainstorms quickly approaches.

It’s hard to imagine an evening without a dramatic rainstorm. My town is surrounded on three sides by volcanoes. This lets the marching thunderstorms arrive with little warning. The calm before the storm is almost tangible, broken by rolling thunder and lightning that fills my house like a flash bulb. It’s captivating. The rain has a suddenness, and an ensuing urgency that makes me stop whatever I am doing, just to listen. Sometimes it rains so hard I wonder if it will ever stop.

But it always does, and with little celebration. After it’s over, I am always compelled to open my door and see if the town is alright. As if the rain and wind and thunder would do away with everything, leaving me behind. But it’s still there.

I can smell the rain approaching.

This almost daily occurrence will soon change. El Salvador has two seasons. She’s approaching the end of her rainy season, what the locals call winter, only to see six months of rainless summer. I thought that by this time I would be ready for the change, but im not. Everything is green- the volcanoes, the palm trees, the endless corn and coffee fields. Soon, they’ll be harvested, the rains will stop, and, well, I don’t know. Because I had only been here for two months during the previous dry season, I did not really notice the transition to the rainy season. And those first few months in El Salvador were no departure from the year and a half I spent waiting to come here. For reasons I cant fully explain, this change in season will be the first time that things will really change for me in a long time. The transition from trainee to volunteer was uneventful. This new time, this new chapter, has been a long time coming, and I feel emotional towards it‘s arrival, but more so towards the departure of what has been a difficult and yet necessary and rewarding time in my life.

I think I’ll open my door, and pay my respects.

To the person who helped me find my path again today,

thank you.

You reminded me of where I come from

as you shown light in a time of darkness.

tomorrow i'll put it to use.

love,

me.

it's 5:58 am. im laying in bed, half awake, thinking about the english class i will be teaching in 63 minutes. and about the fresh coffee i will be drinking in 19 minutes (when we were younger, our father would report to us or answer our questions with a smiliar precision. as if everything were an arrival or take off from the airport).

i get up. i bathe out of a "pila," a tile tub that is filled once or twice a week, and out of which i also use water to wash dishes, clean the casa, and do everything else short of consumption. the water is cold. COLD. but this isn't peace corps serbia, and i'm not suffering. i've come to like bathing like this. i hold the full bucket above me head for ten seconds, enjoying the last sleepy moments of the morning, before dumping over my head the cold life source that one so easily takes for granted. i dump two more full buckets over my head, and this just to get started. you see, this is a true luxury where i live. in what the people here call the summer months of october through april, we will get very little rain and will have much less water. i will be bathing using probably half a bucket. maybe less.

now that i am dressed, i can plan the rest of the english class that starts in 45 minutes, but first, the coffee. i boil water, turn off the burner, and add two big spoon fulls of ground coffee. i let it sit for six and a half minutes (that was for you, dad) and then pour the coffee through a strainer into my favorite mug that came with me here. and there you go. fresh coffee.

i finish my lesson plan by drawing a "family tree," a diagram with my family members names and their relation to me in english and spanish. i will use this diagram to both share some personal family history and teach the names of words like mother, brother, sister in law, etc.

i open my door and greet the day. or it greets me. or both. a little differently each morning. today it is raining and the world is grey, but the sky in the east is brightening, a yoke blistering in the somber dawn.

i have ten minutes. it's a five minute walk to school, and an inevitable collection of one minute conversations with neighbors, shop keepers, even strangers. today is no different. i am stopped by people who bless me, joke with me. people that give me sweets or fruits or grave advice. i accept it all the only way i know how, with a smile.

the rain comes down harder, seemingly fighting the day break. i walk into class. two students are sitting quietly, studying notes from another class. one looks up and smiles. "good morning teechair."

soon, we are joined by the rest of the senior class, a collection of fairly fantastic people, brought up in the relentless life of war, development, and everything in-between. I begin by announcing that i know that they have a test this morning in their next class and that they should study for most of our time together, and that we will learn some english for the last ten minutes of class. it ends up being the last 15 minutes. i talk about my family, my sisters and parents and grandparents, and of ireland and cancer and happiness and struggle. i have their complete attention. i teach them how to say niece, and we talk about brothers in law. the bell rings, and i tell them not to cry but that i will not be here thursday, and then tell them not to cry but that i will be here friday. i say "later" and walk out of the room but am followed close behind by the laughter and then more laughter as those who did not get the double joke are repeated it until otherwise.

i make the same ten minute walk home, this time accompanied by a rain and an advancing daylight that that have compromised with drizzle and sunbeams. a rainbow over the valcano. another morning in el salvador.

It's another perfect evening. The sun is setting. I walk up the street and turn around to see the last, fading image of the ocean(it's an hour away by car, but visible at my altitude on clear days). Indifferent, stray dogs pass by without even a glance. The people are much different. Eduardo, one of my better friends here, greets me with a growing grin that lights up his two year old face like a bonfire. I pick him up and toss him into the air. He screams in delight. I tossle his hair, and speak to him in english. I call him eddie. I tell him the girls will be after him in no time. He watches me walk away, probably wondering why people always come and go at no notice, a novice in our mobile world.

Now it's twilight. The park seems to have been built for this hour of the day. The trees loiter like the unemployed. Their shadows hide the town's aspiring lovers and thoughtful populace. The lights hover like little suns, the bugs their own galaxies.

At one end of the park gather a group of adolescent boys. To the stranger they are the hardest to reach. They are at once somber and suspicious. But i am less a stranger, if not a mystery.

"qué pasa?" one of them says. This is an invitation to sit and talk. I study their faces and realize i recognize most of them. Students, workers, all of them quiet individuals by day, a bustling and raucus collective at night. We chat. Someone asks why i am here. I tell them about the peace corps and about me.

"Y habla Ingleis?" they ask. We continue talking in Spanish.

"Do i speak English? Yes."

"And you have a wife and some girlfriends?"

"no. Neither."

This continues until someone asks my name. Mine is a common one, even here. And boring to the unadoring. So they ask my nickname.

"I don't have one."

They prompt me for one anyway, but i object. "How can someone give themselves a nickname? It has to come from his friends."

We experiment with a few possibilities. It's now very dark, but our laughter fills the void of warmth left by the vacant sun. Someone says something that i don't understand, and someone responds, "no, i know like ten kids named 'bean.' "

Someone adds, "Frijol blanco," white bean. Everyone laughs. I laugh. Not that fitting-in laughter, but that full laughter that is meant for friday nights with friends.

---

Two months pass. This evening, sitting in my house, i celebrate my acceptance into this town, into this life, at each calling of my nickname by the passers by:

"HOLA FRIJOL BLANCO."

Life is good. Where as before, i knew few, and no one was willing to greet the unnamed stranger, i am now greeted by many people i know, and many people i do not. Time passes like it always has- too quickly- but is more enjoyed.

And my work is progressing nicely. Maybe sometime soon i will write about it.

My phone rings. It's long distance. It's probably Bill. I hope it's bill, but i still answer in Spanish.

"Hola?"

"So, kid, do you want Tiger, or the field?" It's Bill alright. We share a gambling vice, featuring the Father-Son bet for a dollar. The U.S. Open, held over Father's day weekend, is like our supper bowl sunday of the Big-Bill Little-Bill dollar bets. Like i always do, i posture and pretend there may be a decision to be made, but i know Tiger is my man. I tell him so.

"O.K. kid, you're gonna owe my a buck." Maybe. Maybe i would pay every buck in my possession just to be with you today, talking trash and passing the day. Your day.

happy father's day, dad. i love you so much, and am honored to call you father.

__________________

so, i am now part of a softball team. how cool? i have not played organized baseball for, for 10 years? Eight years. Whatever. And i have never played softball. This will all change a week from today.

It started two weeks ago. A knock on my door. I open it. Shockingly, there stands a salvadorean. She looks at me with almost squinted eyes. And it's dusk. Clearly, i am the whitest person she may ever see in her life. I feel honored. Anyway, she asks me if i would like to play softball.

"Does a Bear shit in the woods? I mean, si, si si si, softball, si si." She tells me she will come by in a few weeks and let me know. Surprisingly, last night, she does just that. Again she asks me if i want to play softball. I skip any eloquence and just nod my head. (i feel like im spelling half this shit wrong. sorry about that. i would spell check but my give a shit is broken). She tells me to be ready this morning, which i am, and when she shows up we walk to the edge of town and catch the bus to Usulutan. Usulutan is the big ass city 30 minutes away, and it is a beautiful 30 minutes. We get there, walk a short distance, and arrive at a park that ends up being THE field. I watch several games, and am very surprised at how well they play. My friend Maria wins her game, and then we sit together and watch the men play. At one point, they actually turned a double play.

A FUCKING DOUBLE PLAY?

Yes.

After the game (which included not 1 but 2 fights), i approach the winning team and ask if i can join. Someone tosses my a jersey. And smiles. "Next week. We play at 930. We have extra gloves."

I try and thank him but cant. Instead, i walk away with a grin on my face.

But i think i wave.

they understand. im just really excited to play softball. and to be a part of a team.

____________________

First, the soccer game.

I am with a good friend, maybe the coolest kid i have met here. He puts up with my shit, laughs at many of my jokes, and likes beer. He's a shoe-in for at least a future groomsman.

He and i are pulling up to the stadium in a cab. I quickly survey the scene outside the car.

Mother of God.

Madness.

There are two types of people, defined by the colors they are wearing. Everyone adorns themselves with one of two colorful jerseys, identifying their loyalties. Everyone but me. This is the national title game of Salvadorean soccer, and the team from my region is playing, defending their title from the year before. Before i exit the taxi, i decide that i will have to buy a FIRPO jersey, mostly to improve my chances of staying alive. I say a quick prayer, overpay the driver, and slip out of the car.

The first thing i do is almost get hit by a car. This only draws the attention of about 1000 people. A good start. We quickly walk towards the stadium. I buy my jesrsey just as it begins to rain, again, forcing me to cover my newest, proudest pocession with my rain jacket. Next, we must find the box office or wherever it is we can buy tickets. But this isn't the Pepsi center. I don't see any valet parking, nor any signs announcing ticket sales. What i do see are people multitasking: singing and drinking; fighting and drinking; casing the passing gringos and drinking. And then, a police officer. I ask him where we can buy tickets. He escourts us personally, after recruiting two coworkers. This changes everything. I can now observe what's going on around me without assuming what i am looking at is the last thing i will see in this world.

And what a sight. People are tailgating, only instead of sitting beside their cars, they're sitting anywhere they can. We're not ever inside the stadium, yet i can already feel the electricity of 30,000 people.

We find the ticket office.

SOLD OUT.

"Hey Gringo. Need a ticket?"

"Dos. Give me the best you have."

He does. We pay 40 a piece, 10 more than face value. Again, we have an escourt, as our friend walks us to the main entrance and we get in without any problems. At this point, i am a wonderful mixture of relieved and excited. We walk through a tunnel at a minor descent (shouldn't we be walking up? where are these seats?), and then i can see the field, or a part of it. The grass is so appealing i can't take my eyes from it. And then we're in the stadium, surrounded on all sides by screaming fans- the game is starting.

We're almost ON the field. Puzzlingly, the best seats are in a general admission section. That is, the best seats are not assigned, but offered at a first come first served basis. And it's surprising empty. Rather that complain, we pick the two best seats in the house: mid-field, about 8 rows up. I'm now wearing a ridiculous grin as i observe every corner of the stadium. They crowd is doing organized chants and waving signs. I look above us and i am surprised to see many faces looking back at me. It seems these people are surprised to see two gringos, and still making up their minds about it. Thank God, we're sitting in a part of the stadium exclusively seating FIRPO fans. With their eyes still on me, i unzip my jacket, showing the FIRPO Jersey, and shout: "LOS GRINGOS ANDAN CON FIRPO!!! (THE GRINGOS ROOT FOR FIRPO!!)

Everyone cheers. And i cant stop smiling. I look at my friend, "where the hell are we?" Truly, it felt like we were visiting another planet. And we are the guests of honor.

We drink beer, trade more manick glances, and watch as our team wins in the last two minutes of the game, 1-0.

More madness. I'm hugging strangers covered in body paint and beer. We're singing "We are the Champions" and dancing in the rain. Yes, we are the champions.

What else have i got for you. This all happened last weekend, 10 days ago. Just a few days ago, i spent another night in the capital, in San Salvador, this time with a larger group of gringos and a smaller group of Salvos (about 29,950 fewer). But we have a good time. We exchanged stories about our first month in our sites, and i learned that most people have very similar situations, but the outlooks vary greatly. Get it? i heard the same story many times, but with a different mood, a different outlook. And i realized: it's all about perspective.

And there's my work here. At this poing, still, the work is about getting to know the people with which i will be living the next two years of my life, and how i might be able to help them improve their living conditions.

But it's also about the exchange, the cultual exchange, and i'm finally GETTING that, both it's importance and relevance.

From El Sal, with love.

Me.

I feel a loss for words. maybe i should listen to the main theme song from Braveheart for inspiration. Or that song Linger by the Cranberries. Maybe i should write a song called Don't be a jackass and sing it to myself.

Holy shit, that theme song from Braveheart is fucking killer!! Where's my sword??!!

Ok, focus.

Something happened this morning. No big deal. Just my sanity. I can feel it returning. No, not my sanity. Something else. Let's call it, equilibrium.

e·qui·lib·ri·um

1. astate of rest or balance due to the equal action of opposing forces.

2. equal balance between any powers, influences, etc.; equality of effect.

3. mental or emotional balance; equanimity: The pressures of the situation caused her to lose her equilibrium.

4. Chemistry. the condition existing when a chemical reaction and its reverse reaction proceed at equal rates.

[Origin: 1600–10;)

I like the third defenition most. 3. mental or emotional balance; equanimity: The pressures of the situation caused her to lose her equilibrium; The pressures of El Salvador caused him to loose his fucking mind.

So, anyway, equilibrium. Mine. It came back, or is coming back. That is, for three months i have been more emotional than an Irishman trying to get a job (note: author is Irish. Okay, 3/4 Irish). Ok, Christ, all i am trying to say is that, this morning, instead of waking up and feeling kind of numb, i took a bath out of a bucket, made coffee, ate some bread, and felt, well, good. And not the type of holy shit i feel fucking great i just got laid AND dropped Acid! good. I just mean, congruous. The type of good that is sustainable. consonant. The type of good that little kids exhibit while playing on the playground for four hours. harmonious. And i gotta tell you, it feels good. Does this make any sense? It excites me becuase i don't like feeling shitty. And i don't need to feel fantastic. Just consistantly like, like im no longer loosing my shit.conformable.

con·sist·ent

1.agreeing or accordant; compatible; not self-contradictory: His views and actions are consistent.

2.constantly adhering to the same principles, course, form, etc.: a consistent opponent.

3.holding firmly together; cohering.

4.Archaic. fixed; firm.

[Origin: 1565–75; con·sist·ent·ly, adverb

Synonyms 1. congruous, consonant, harmonious, conformable.

Please, do not get the wrong idea. It's not that i have been miserable. It's just that i am getting more and more used to the idea of actully living here, and not just visiting. Plus, i am slowly establishing a routine.

Wow. Sorry. I said that i would write about my work, and i told myself at the outset of this blog stuff that there would be less emotion and more adventure. In my next blog, i will write about:

my adventures at the National Soccer Final; hanging out in San Salvador-the most dangerous city i have taken shots in; and, finally, working (mostly dicking around).

THE END.

P.S. The title of this blog literally means "Really Fucked. But content." It was taught to me by my host mother during training.

Just how the fuck do the mosquitos bite me through my socks? And, i swear to God, one of them actually sneezed this morning.

"God bless you. Or was that a cough? Some of my blood go down the wrong tube?"

"Funny, Gringo, but not as funny as your white ass glowing in the dark like a fucking landing pad."

"Blood sucker!"

"Hippie!"

Sorry. Eleven cups of coffee, the biggest mistake being that i had a shitload of instant, and then switched to the real shit. That's like starting off with Miller Light and then switching to Bourbon. Beer before liquor, never sicker. Instant before Real....

....crack deal?

....surreal?

i did some useful things today. No, really. Yes yes, all that funny haha shit with the mosquitos and the gringo jokes and blah blah, i also met with some of my coworkers and discussed some of the strengths and weaknesses of the community. It was productive. Sometime in the next few days, i will sit down and cut the bullshit and actually write about my work here. OK? ok. But what about the mosquitos? You know, they never touch my upper back. Why not? Same reason the female volunteers refuse to. Back hair. Jesus, i'm shaking. Must be Miller time.