in what is small, everything

So I painted, finally. I painted those kites that fill the sky on overcast and windy days in Mariona. I made them stand out, like kites should on such days. Last night, Anita took a bath in our garden, sitting in buckets of warm water heated on the stove. No Grandma, I have not forgotten how to laugh. In fact, Casa Ita is always filled with laughter. I am pretty sure we have all peed our pants at least once... Our house is named after Ita Ford, one of the four US churchwomen that were murdered here in El Salvador in December 1980. For one of our history classes, we spoke with a priest from Cleveland who is still living here and worked with these women during the beginning of the war. He told us that Ita was feisty, always demanding that people be released from prison, never letting up. I wish you could see the picture of her that hangs in our house. She is so beautiful. Sometimes I just stare at her and think about how screwed up the whole thing is. When the Jesuits were killed in 1989, Jon Sobrino happened to be in Thailand, and thus his life was spared. Due to serious threats on his life, he was urged not to return to El Salvador. He ended up staying for a number of months at Santa Clara University, ultimately establishing the relationship between El Salvador and Santa Clara that led to this study abroad program. So I shake my head at Ita, and I love her, and she gets it. She likes to watch us laugh.

I realize that I never told you about the campo. I haven't written in a while. Waiting for the colors to paint or something, I guess. Sometimes its hard, you know? To communicate, I mean. Or to savor, or to remember, or to be patient with it and let it soak instead of spill.

So I spent a week in the campo, which just basically means the countryside of El Salvador. I was in San Jose Las Flores, Chalatenango, in the northern part of the country (where Lolo is from, actually). I stayed with Susana's family, one of the girls in the Romero Program (the Salvadoran partner program that works with the Casa). Susana's father was killed during the war, and that's all I know. Our first full day in the campo was Dia de los Difuntos, or Day of the Dead. Everyone travels to the cemeteries to decorate the tombstones with flowers and wreaths, to say Mass, to pass the time remembering. I have never seen a cemetery so full of life. El Salvador exists like poetry; its irony and paradox, its metaphors and mixed up senses, dig into you. So we rode in the back of a pickup truck for about an hour to decorate a grave. For the first time, no one wanted to tell the story and I didn't want to ask. Everything was silent, hot, and simple. Rosa, the mother, now lives with a man named Rudy, who was also a guerrilla during the war, and her two nieces. Their father is in the States, and is able to send them about $100 per month. Rosa has a son in the States, too. I got the impression that she doesn't speak with him very often.

Everything is work in the campo, but all very patient and slow. Rosa and Rudy wake up around dawn. Rudy goes to the milpa to gather beans or feed the cows. Rosa starts building the fire to make tortillas. Sounds of the campo: "El Norte" (the wind), dog fights, roosters at all hours of the night and day, and Rosa slapping her hands against the masa (ground corn and water, the tortilla dough), making perfect circles, all the same size - so much harder than it looks. Rosa stays in the house all day, cooking, cleaning, washing, and watching soap operas. The TV is constantly on. Rudy comes home, and after dinner, they fall asleep peeling beans.

The campo felt like a healthy prison, if that even makes sense. It is monotonous, boring, and slow. It is the same thing everyday. It is isolated, and yet one of the places most affected by the war. Filled with death and separation, but also a strong sense of community. Chalatenango is beautiful. Mountains, fresh air, rivers, fields, stars. Rudy told me how he loves his work, outside with bare hands, breathing deep. He took us to the milpa once, to see the horses and cows. We hiked around a little bit, through shit and mud and rock and barbed wire fences, pausing every now and then to take in the view. I had two thoughts: Where do I belong? and Thank God for my arms. Historical elections were happening in the United States, and there I was, in the middle of the Salvadoran countryside, following an ex-guerrilla uphill through barbed wire fences to see some cows. And only recently has some crazy divine something answered, "Tranquila. For now, right here." And I was grateful for my arms, because they were helping me to balance, or essentially to avoid falling on a big pile of cow dung.

Other things I will remember about the campo:

A scorpion the size of my hand on the wall near our bed. I was about ready to lay my head on my pillow, when all of a sudden, holy shit, what the f*%$ is that on the wall? Indiana Jones moment. I went outside to get Magdalena, Susana's sister, who then came in our room, squeeled a little bit, and made her boyfriend Mari take care of it. Mari stuck a blue flip flop against it and ripped its stinger off with a nail clipper, then held it in his hands so we could take pictures. I have zero pena about being a fresa or a tourist when there is a scorpion next to my pillow.

Taking bucket paths. (Olivia. What's up. I miss you, dear.) With a piece of trash bag as a door, unable to close and therefore free to blow in the wind, I poured buckets of cold water over my head. And...I loved it. Hooray for bucket baths!

Mari telling me that all he wants to do is study music. Such a gift, Michael. Really.

Eating oranges knocked off the tree by an old woman with an apron and a wooden stick. No running water that day, so no way of rinsing our hands. So, as so often happens, we were forced to enjoy the stickiness.

Looking at the stones near the Rio Sumpul, and thinking of all the history there. Something we can talk about someday. I feel weird about writing it all down right now. Anyway, I thought of Lolo.

The water slide at the pool next to the river. I forgot how much fun water slides are. Addictive, too. We took all the kids from our community swimming for a day, and caught the ones that couldn't swim at the bottom of the slide. Happy children are contagious. It was a beautiful day. We made chicken soup, and Anne and I sat in the sun and read East of Eden. Samuel Hamilton is my hero.

And the bus ride to Chalate. The roads are really bad between Carasque, Nueva Trinidad, and Las Flores, so we all took a public bus to the main city to meet our Casa driver. One of the most ridiculous experiences of my life. Chicago at rush hour doesn't even compare to how packed this bus was. Its questionable whether or not we should have taken the bus. They only come every few hours, so everyone waiting for the bus had to fit. There was no choice, really. 25 gringos and a bunch of Salvadorans all trying to get somewhere, traveling and stuck, some kind of wacked out metaphor for life. There were women hanging onto my legs as I sweatily balanced on a giant bag of beans with one foot on top of the other. Colin's leg was practically up another woman's skirt, our armpits were in each others faces, and we were occasionally sitting on each other's laps. Then this fat Salvadoran woman in a blue dress sitting on a bag of beans across from another woman holding a purse full of chickens, mistakes us for a Methodist choir and asks us to sing. Anita, naturally, starts to sing, no questions asked. Then the whole front of the bus is singing songs about God that everyone knows. And Anita starts offering sweet bread to all of these old women, who freely and joyfully accept her gift, opening their toothless mouths to receive what in that moment seemed like Communion as they held onto metal bars for balance. Like I have said before, El Salvador is full of grace. So I'm not as angry anymore. I'm less confused, but still without any answers. I'm feeling less sleepy, and more awake. There is more color in everything. And I am slowly, or quickly, coming to the realization that it is November 24 and I have less than one month left in El Salvador. I'm going to miss it, a lot.