very merry dysentery
Well, we are back. and by we, I mean the royal We. You know. me and the driver.
I am involved in a multi-day dialogue with my friend Immodium. Yes, A.D. If you don't know what I'm talking about, well, ...
I returned late last night to the US of America, carried over on an Airbus A320 replete with the scents of last-chance Pollo Campero purchases and US-bought colognes. My bottles of Havana Club nestled firmly against my armpits, I stepped through the Department of Agriculture checkpoint and into the smells of excitement and nervosity that to me define Dulles International Airport, IAD.
No more armed guards were there to bid me farewell as I stepped into an unusually cool night. Unusual for one who has spent time in the tropics. My arms wanted to swat at mosquitos but found loved ones instead. I became irate upon seeing the $4 per hour parking fees.
I am back. Home? My friend jostled me today. So you saw your ancestral homeland. Did I? Have I ever? Will I?
The Savior. This is what they called this little piece of Mesoamerica. Aun has de cumplir esa promesa (¿o será una de esperanza?). Not many places are this hopeful. Awaiting a savior promised in their name. Under their names are words of suffering. I knew from the beginning with the drunkard on the plane. We were stuck in the back row, my mother and I. An immigrant next to her downed about a dozen Bacardis on ice. I could smell the liquor coming out of his skin. Even over the smell of airplane. He told how he had not seen his family in years. And how he was a member of the Atlacatl Batalion. (google it if you haven't heard of it. it was a US-trained death squad during the Salvadoran Civil War).
There are many things I could say about my trip to El Salvador. I could speak forever, so I don't think I will just yet. But I will say, because I love to talk, that much will be kept with me, and that much will resurface in my life. Resurface like that man from the Atlacatl Batalion or the little girls playing in the slums. Perhaps in my dreams or while I am waiting in line at the supermarket, buying some item that I could probably do without.
joaquin
PS: for an album of the trip, email me.
I am involved in a multi-day dialogue with my friend Immodium. Yes, A.D. If you don't know what I'm talking about, well, ...
I returned late last night to the US of America, carried over on an Airbus A320 replete with the scents of last-chance Pollo Campero purchases and US-bought colognes. My bottles of Havana Club nestled firmly against my armpits, I stepped through the Department of Agriculture checkpoint and into the smells of excitement and nervosity that to me define Dulles International Airport, IAD.
No more armed guards were there to bid me farewell as I stepped into an unusually cool night. Unusual for one who has spent time in the tropics. My arms wanted to swat at mosquitos but found loved ones instead. I became irate upon seeing the $4 per hour parking fees.
I am back. Home? My friend jostled me today. So you saw your ancestral homeland. Did I? Have I ever? Will I?
The Savior. This is what they called this little piece of Mesoamerica. Aun has de cumplir esa promesa (¿o será una de esperanza?). Not many places are this hopeful. Awaiting a savior promised in their name. Under their names are words of suffering. I knew from the beginning with the drunkard on the plane. We were stuck in the back row, my mother and I. An immigrant next to her downed about a dozen Bacardis on ice. I could smell the liquor coming out of his skin. Even over the smell of airplane. He told how he had not seen his family in years. And how he was a member of the Atlacatl Batalion. (google it if you haven't heard of it. it was a US-trained death squad during the Salvadoran Civil War).
There are many things I could say about my trip to El Salvador. I could speak forever, so I don't think I will just yet. But I will say, because I love to talk, that much will be kept with me, and that much will resurface in my life. Resurface like that man from the Atlacatl Batalion or the little girls playing in the slums. Perhaps in my dreams or while I am waiting in line at the supermarket, buying some item that I could probably do without.
joaquin
PS: for an album of the trip, email me.
posted by eduardo ramos at 5:56 PM
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