Today we are headed out to the eastern part of the country: Usulutan and Bajo Lempa, on the Lempa River. Getting started at about 8:45, we take Cain Hidalgo with us, an impressive lay missioner with a quiet, dedicated manner. We also pick up Eric, another young lay missioner who works with Cain. Big kid, quiet.
Every time that we have mentioned our plan to go to this area, someone has remarked ominously: "Oh... hopefully the rains haven't started..." As we cross the large bridge over the magnificent Rio Lempa and turn abruptly to go up into the hills on a muddy, bad road, we start to see why. This area is completely inaccessible when it rains, with the added danger that one could get trapped by a rising river. As a matter of fact, while we drive in, we hear thunder in the distance. We ask Cain how much time we have - he estimates two hours. For this reason, we are visiting the area in the morning, since it rains pretty much every afternoon.
The road is increasingly steep and muddy. We drive through a river and continue amidst endless hilly fields until we reach a deep muddy point beyond which Arcelio wisely decides not to take the van. We get out and walk about half a mile to the El Carmen bridge. Asking how long it takes for the river to go down after it rains, we hear varying answers from several hours to two days...
The bridge that we are going to see was built by hand using volunteer labor from the community of El Carmen, teams from North America, and local churches as far away as the Bajo Lempa. Previously, the community of El Carmen, further up this road, was reachable only by a treacherous river crossing and then on a private road that was closed to the public. If anyone were sick during the rainy season, it was impossible to get medical attention for them. The community itself worked six mornings a week for three months to build this bridge and have the new road cut.
Unfortunately, we don't have time to walk up into El Carmen and meet what must be a very special community. We turn and walk back to the van, then drive to a second river crossing and up into the small town of San Juan de Letran, stopping at a lively school housing Kinder through 4th level. Fifth and up must walk miles into town on deep, muddy cart tracks. We pop into several classrooms, again disrupting the students and teachers, but no one seems to mind.
Eric, who is probably in his twenties, tells us the story of how his parents met. His father was in the guerilla during the war and a bomb exploded near him, taking off his leg, one eye and leaving shrapnel in his arm and chest. He was left for dead and lay for five days in agony with maggots eating his flesh before some soldiers found him. He told them that they could shoot them if they wanted, because he didn't care - he was ready to die. Instead they took him, cleaned up his wounds, and nursed him back to health. For the remainder of the war, he was a radio operator and fell in love with Eric's mother, who was also a guerilla radio operator, after talking with her a lot on the radio.
We walk down the road through the town and Cain points out his mother's house. The town has many houses and lots of chickens, goats, horses and other livestock running around.
He bends down, picks up a Mayan artifact from the road, and gives it to us saying that it is common to find them after a rain.
As we walk, there is a view of the distant fields.He remarks that the site of one of the war's notorious massacres is nearby in that direction. This town is quiet now, however, and praise God, this area does not suffer so much from the crime and violence that is found elsewhere. The majority of the people here are ex-guerilla who were given land in the agrarian reform after the war.
The sun is beating down as we approach the church, San Pablo, which is fairly new and sits in a field with a cistern near it.
When we enter, we see another beautiful mosaic done by Padre Luis Serrano. They show us the altar, the pews, and two other tables in the church, all made from a single monolithic tree over 250 years old that fell nearby.
Just as we complete our second river crossing and head back down out of the area, the skies open up and a pelting rain begins.
We make our way down to a place called the Coordinadora. This seems to be a sort of unique, grassroots, regional liaison and facilitation organization, funded by and working with NGOs to deliver services and projects in the area. They have an office, a radio station, which does public service broadcasts, a cashew processing plant, and an art gallery of truly impressive art done by local students housed along with grain, corn, seed and agricultural soil amendments in a storage building. We glimpse foreign nationals running around for meetings, we step into the radio station as they broadcast a live interview with a public health expert, and we pop into the cashew processing plant, emerging with heavenly bags of fresh, roasted, locally-grown cashews at $1 a piece. As one of our guides remarks, "...we all need a Coordinadora...". Unfortunately, there is just this one, here in Usulutan.
Dodging rainshowers, we go up the street to a good-sized, noisy, and heavily patronized restaurant nearby, where we choose from a large assortment of meats, vegetables, rice, beans and salads - none of us sure until we receive the food what we had actually ordered. We put together some tables and have a nice meal. Some of us accidentally order but try anyway the coconut water (agua de coco), a truly odd-tasting clear drink reported to have miraculous rehydrating properties (to the extent that it is occasionally used intravenously, so we are told).
Next we drive south, paralleling the Lempo River through low, abundantly fertile farmland. This is the delta region of the Lower Lempa (Bajo Lempa). There seems to be only one road into this area and everyone uses it. At high speed, we dodge bicycles, dogs, mothers with children, chickens, ox carts, goats, cattle, and farmers walking to and from their fields. As we go, we hear stories of repeated devastation of this area by Hurricane Mitch in 1998, two earthquakes, 7.6 and 6.6 respectively, that hit within a month of each other in 2001, and serious flooding in 2005 as well. The region has received a fair amount of development attention aimed at reducing the flood risk and decreasing economic vulnerability in the population.
We are told that when the region floods, the water is meters high and the crops (primarily corn), livestock and homes are lost. There is now a levee (although incomplete) between them and the river, as well as an early evacuation system when the upstream dams plan to release water. Some of the people we meet tell us that they were evacuated by helicopter during past sudden flooding but now are theoretically given more ample time to get out. Still, they worry with good reason about the sick, the elderly, and pregnant women. We stop to look at the levee and the wide, muddy river.
Next we drive to what Alvaro describes as the most beautiful Anglican church in El Salvador: Cristo Rey in La Canoa. Cain is the celebrant for this church.
As we pull up in a field, we see a stick and grass structure with handmade benches and a palm roof. Inside, the shady coolness is dappled with sunlight coming through the palm fronds. There is a small altar and handmade wooden cross at the front, decorated with flowers. We're utterly charmed.
A number of people materialize, especially a very bright-eyed neighbor and her daughter. They are friendly and delightful, each introducing themselves in turn, as do we in halting Spanish. They tell us about their dream of building a real church on this lot, since this church cannot be used in the rains. They also hope to build a raised flood shelter here on the adjacent lot, especially for those who cannot be evacuated. One man says that this is their dream, and heartbreakingly adds "...but dreams are really just what happens when someone eats bad food or gets too much sleep..." One of the problems, it is pointed out to us later, is that this church is so unique and quaint that North American groups always seem to feel that it should be kept as it is rather than be replaced.
On the road back, we weave through cow jams and dodge chickens. We ask Cain how much he thinks it would cost to build a church there. He estimates $50K.
As we return in torrents of rain, we feel a bit down that we can't help everyone who needs even such modest yet important things as food, churches, education and school libraries. There are so many needs here - it is heartbreaking. After supper, we discuss this with Alvaro, who also aspires to be a priest. He tells us that he feels this way every single day and that all we can really do is to be with them and to pray for them. This is good for us to hear.
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