Jamaica didn’t quench my thirst. After finding cheap airfare, I convinced my trip leader from January to lead another expedition. Except this time, we were way further off the grid, had less days to work with, and we had my father in tow.

 

 

Day One

Somewhere in the atmosphere → San Salvador → Sonsonate → Nahuizalco → Juayua → Los Chorros de Calera → Santa Ana

I was paralyzed with fatigue during the red eye flight. We got to the crappiest airport of all time and got through customs at a snail pace. The officers all shared one receipt book. The toilets were unflushed.

We got a rather sketch taxi but it got us to our Hostal Cumbres del Volcan for $30 and I rolled into my bunk, fully clothed.

The sun appeared as it always does and we began by chatting with a Bostonian who has pretty much seen the world. I expressed my infatuation with the African continent and he told me to just show up—it’s a “different world over there” and more importantly, there exists a different mind set I have to be able to handle. He proceeded to attempt to convert my dad to Christianity.

There was nothing interesting outside around this quiet neighborhood. We get on the wrong bus, get off, and get on another bus as VJ stares at his GPS. Each ride cost around a quarter.

Avis was not ready at 7:30am and we had to delay our adventures until 9. We find pupusas and relax, chatting and waiting. Locals had come and pre-ordered, so the wait was longer than the line appeared. At last our food surfaces and we have hot, hot tortillas filled with a strong cheese and soft beans. Tasty and fattening, I had four. Pupusas are the sustenance of all backpackers passing through, with greasy goodness to pile in calories. In other Central American nations people have confessed to me that they ate pupusas till they got sick, and yet the cheap staples were soon missed.

 

 

We finally get to talk to the rental car lady and it’s very hellish. A bunch of back-and-forth on forms, insurance, and type of car ensues. Thankfully Lorena is fluent in Spanish.

I was navigator. Although the countryside looks like a desert, I imagine it was once quite like Costa Rica. I could see volcanos and hilly terrain surrounding us.

 

 

Using the GPS we wound up on a dirt road. We ask a pedestrian what’s ahead and I keep hearing “peligroso.” Lorena translates that he’s seen people return without even their clothes. We know we can’t make the 11am guided volcano hike and turn around.

 

 

We opt for Ruta de las Flores, the most popular route for touring some Salvadoran villages. First we cut through Sonsanate, the national hotspot of gang activity. There was a small gated park, some live music, and street food. This may be my sketchiest destination yet. Guards and police sported shotguns. VJ reoriented himself with the new plan and we were off.

 

 

We made a spontaneous stop for horchata. Again at the cost of a quarter, it was sugar overload served in a bag with ice and a straw!

 

 

In Nahuizalco we took a peek inside the church after I had managed to haggle a small hammock down to $10. Other crafts included woven baskets and wood carvings. It didn’t feel that safe as more guards and shotguns patrolled. In the unsanitary restroom of the fruit market I watched a girl wash her hands and proceed to cup her hands and drink the tap water.

 

 

 

Juayua at last! We parked by another guard and his shotgun (by now I was getting accustomed to the constant safety concern), and head into the market that was bumping with native music. The sizzling grills caused the whole tented area to transform into a sweat bath. We joined the mess and repeatedly shouted “CUANTO CUESTA?!” as we pointed to frog flesh, shrimp skewers, steak… the dishes are draped with sautéed green onions on top and include a ton of sides. Dad and I shared three enchilada-looking open faced tacos (2.5USD), and then he got a shrimp plate (6) while I got tres leches(1.5). VJ and dad enjoyed icy beers. I didn’t notice other foreigners, only wealthy Salvadorans having a blast. The glut-fest is every Saturday and Sunday, and this place is also great for picking up souvenirs.

 

The tourism office bordering the central plaza was helpful in directing us towards Los Chorros de Calera, but we still got plenty lost before arrival. We followed the map the best we could, parked in someone’s backyard, and asked a girl in her 20s to take us to the falls for five bucks since the short hike cuts through some private property.

 

 

She showed us some fruits that are filled a substance indistinguishable from Elmer’s glue, and also pointed out the largest falls, now off limits and owned by some German. We began to see drenched people and got excited. Rightfully so. Cold liquid was gushing into what looked like an ancient twist on the modern infinity pools. Algae and moss blanketed the cement and stones and a sloping facade allowed the water to flow under bridges down the hill.

 

 

 

We jumped in, and followed our guide into a secret tunnel that connects two falls, freezing and screaming the whole way. I soon lost vision and I could only see Kathy’s hands. The water was up to our collarbones.

 

 

Local secrets are the best secrets. Climbing an adjacent, overlooked waterfall and entering another tunnel returned us to the central falls. I swam some, perched on some rocks, and then climbed to the jumping point.

 

 

It was scary as hell, watching others ensure they didn’t land too close onto sharp rocks, or too far out onto the ledge or beyond. I just blindly followed Kathy and tried not to think about the possibility of me having to jump after her. And then nice boy helped me to the spot. Down below Kathy cheered me on and the natives splashed droplets onto my target. I took the leap of faith. To my relief, I landed fine! My foot brushed the floor and I resurfaced.

 

 

 

I hugged our cheery guide farewell, and then dozed off in the midst of guiding VJ to Santa Ana. Casa Verde and Carlos, its owner, are have raving reviews. The hostel was an oasis in the land of nonexistent tourism. We arrived at said oasis safely, despite it being after sunset, and parked inside the garage. Carlos had his walls filled with scribbles of travelers from around the world, and I was glad to contribute. Amenities included hammocks, a pool, two stocked kitchens, a sun terrace, hot showers, and personal fans above each bed.

I happily talked to Richard, a seasoned German traveler, who also encouraged me when I inquired about beginning my African adventure in Tanzania. The others drove out for pupusas and other good junk, but I stayed back. Two Australians were ridiculously cute. We chatted about where we been and where we going. That’s how to live this life: spend the days thinking about where you are, and the nights pondering where you aren’t.

Apparently the one party-surf town for gringos is El Tunco.