Soccer Games

I live in El Salvador. We begin later than expected. We were scheduled to leave between 10 and 10:30; the truck didn’t leave until 11:25. We piled into the back of a fruit-truck – smoky diesel engine, shoulder-height side panels, open tail gate – and rambled westward to a town called Nueva Concepcion. By chance, we found the ‘supposed’ dirt road that lead to the ‘supposed’ soccer field, but, by lack of patience for a few sunning cows, the driver cautiously swerved off the road directly into a mud pothole, leaving the truck at a 45 degree angle and slightly swallowed by Mother Earth. With the wonderful and heroic power of another truck’s 4x4, we managed to dislodge the truck… and promptly turn around. We had taken a wrong turn. Lost, we meandered through Nueva Concepcion until we found another soccer field that may (or may not) have been our initial destination. Somehow, though, communication had broken down between our team and the other, for they had not yet arrived nor were they actually aware that a game had been scheduled between our two communities. After numerous telephone calls and 45 minutes of watching the local children fly their homemade kites, a handful of the players finally showed, but it was quickly decided that the field was unplayable due to the overwhelming depth of the mud and we would have to find another place to play. So, we ventured back down our pothole-ridden dirt road with the hopes of finding the ‘supposed’ soccer field unoccupied – wishful thinking when soccer is the official pastime on Sunday. As was expected, a game was underway, so, with a little planning and a ton of wishful thinking, we drove towards the town’s stadium (more like a high school football stadium, really). Sure enough, though, fate was on our side. The mayor reluctantly allowed us to play, but with truncated halves, for the stadium’s field was also in terrible shape from the previous night’s rain. We played and thoroughly tore it apart. I can only imagine how much the mayor now regrets that decision. He shouldn’t regret it too much though, for our karma quickly came full circle. It began to rain the instant we finished playing. So, what had been a pleasant, sunny, hour-long ride to the field became the coldest day in El Salvador… ever. We had finished later than usual (no wonder, considering we spent 2 hours thoroughly familiarizing ourselves with the entirety of Nueva Concepcion before beginning the game), so the sun set 15 minutes into our drive; the rain was torrential; and the driver had to maintain a fairly slow pace for fear of being swept away in the river-road (a new word, perfectly applicable to the hybrid between Salvadoran rain and roads). Those three factors led to numb hands, incessant shivering, and my first true craving for long sleeves. What should hypothetically require 3 hours in the United States occupies an entire day in El Salvador. Eight and a half hours for a soccer game. I am incredibly glad that I love soccer...

Ashley visits...

It’s amazing how much the internalization of problems can be solved through the help of friends and loved ones. I had been in my new site for 10 days when Ashley arrived. By the time she left, I would have spent more time in my site with her here than not. I felt that I had settled in fairly well before her arrival and that my new site was steadily progressing in a desirable direction, but having her here helped me resolve issues I didn’t even know existed; I became more human than I had yet been in this Central American republic.

She was here for two and a half weeks, and roughly speaking, we spent each ‘work’ week in my site and each weekend in a different part of the country, exploring secluded mountain-top coffee villages and rustically-developed beach towns. The time we spent in my site was an absolutely fantastic opportunity for her to truly experience the things that I often have trouble explaining over the phone. Some things simply do not translate through conversation: soccer games played in hurricane-force winds and horizontal rain (which then turns streets into nameable rivers); the true isolation of some communities (like my first one); the loneliness that can swallow you whole; the incredible companionship that can be found in a giggly 7 year old; the art of eating Salvadoran pupusas (thick, corn tortillas the size of tea saucers filled with cheese, beans, sausage); the utter frustration of packed buses; the pure bliss of empty, early-morning buses; the simplicity of a hammock, coffee, and a book; Pollo Campero (the equivalent of Chick-fil-A maybe?); realizing that some things are universal, like little kids begging their mom with the word ‘but’, only in Spanish (pero, pero, pero, pero); the comfort of a mosquito net in the tropics; the refreshing first splash of a bucket bath (maybe I‘m exaggerating this one).

But I think I received the better part of the deal (sorry darling). At the most basic level, having a visitor forced me to push the boundaries of what I thought possible. Food, movies, and organization of the house, for example. All have been forever changed just by her visiting. I know now that, if I so choose, I can live comfortably and enjoyably in this country. In a more substantial manner, though, she also reminded me that I still am a human, I still am Erik Howard, and I can fully be that individual in a country with different mannerisms, expectations, and norms. Quite honestly, I think my community was more interested in her arrival than mine (it’s ok, no hard feelings haha), but I certainly know that her presence opened many doors and began PLENTY of relationships throughout the community. I simply became a regular human in the eyes of my community. My story became real and visible. I absolutely miss her presence here, as does the community. As the little girls have been asking since she left, ‘…y la Ashley?’ (…and Ashley? Where did she go?)