El Salvador: What it is to be human--Or--If everyone were like Sulma the world would be a better place.

After leaving Mexico, we flew to San Salvador and took a ride along the coast to a small, secluded weekend resort. The resort, owned by our promoter’s family, is primarily for locals. Most of El Salvador does not live on the coast, but rather inland, so the families save up their money to go to the resorts on the beach for the weekend (many of the beaches are owned by resorts, so it’s not like they’ve got public access…or at least, we weren’t aware of any near us).

Our luggage stuffed into the back of a very large Euro-van.

We stayed in little bungalows, about a 3 minute walk from the coast, and basically spent two full days just hanging out on the beach. And since it was during the week, we only saw maybe a total of 5 other guests while we were there. It was probably the most relaxing two days of my life. Freshly cooked food from that region is absolutely incredible. And the fruit is out of this world.

A look up the main road with the bungalows.

This is where we hung out all day.

Here's where we ate breakfast.

Enjoying a freshly opened coconut. A waiter hacked it off a tree with a machete, whacked off the top of the coconut, dropped a straw in it, and just gave it to me.
For free.

Sarah attempts to wear a sarong from the Gap.

This stay also turned out to provide one of those “the human experience is the coolest thing ever” moments. Let me explain.

When you speak one language fluently (i.e. English), and are in a foreign country where you can speak that country’s language conversationally (i.e. Spanish), you find reasons and excuses to speak English to anyone who can speak English, because it’s easier. However, when you’re at a resort which is only visited by locals and not foreigners, no one speaks English. So, communication with the waiters was either conducted through Jason or myself, or by pointing at menus in Spanish (and it’s really hard to know what you’re ordering if you can’t read the language!).

We became friends with the wait staff while we were there because we would—literally—show up for breakfast and then just stay on the beach until way after sunset. My favorite waitress was a young woman, probably 25 or 26, named Sulma. My “the human experience is the coolest thing ever” moment came whenever I would interact with her. She would, by default, just come to me to deal with everyone else: she spoke not one word of English, so through my limited Spanish proficiency and my gestures, we would hopefully arrive at an understanding regarding whatever was being discussed. But trying to communicate with another human being in a foreign language can be one of the most hilarious things ever, so our interactions usually involved fits of laughter. I’d ask her to repeat something and slow down; she’d repeat it, start slowly, and then by the end regain her previous tempo. Or I’d unknowingly make up a word or say something that just didn’t make sense to her, and she’d repeat it with a quizzical look on her face and start laughing. She even settled a debate between Sarah and me as to whether or not the word caliente, which means “hot” in Spanish, can be used to describe temperature as well as an attractive girl (as Sulma explained, a girl can be caliente when she is dancing, but one wouldn’t just look at a girl and call her caliente like we do with our slang).

But, the best part is she was patient with me and my Spanish, which is why the whole thing was so wonderful. When we’d talk, I could tell she was truly trying to understand what I was trying to say. She’d help me through my words if I was stumbling or would make simple corrections to my grammatical errors. I didn’t feel scared or nervous or frustrated or embarrassed when I was speaking with her, like I occasionally did with other Spanish speakers. Why? Because, pardon my seemingly cheesy philosophical conclusion, even though we verbally communicate differently, we both speak the language of what it is to be human; we weren’t interacting as native to foreigner, but rather as human to human.

I don’t want to get overly political or offend anyone’s sensibilities, but in my experience this is something Americans tend to get wrong. Just because some people can’t speak English as quickly as you’d like doesn’t mean you should dismiss them. In foreign countries, if you’re an English speaker and you attempt to speak the local language, people will frequently go out of their way to help you. Living in Arizona, I see the inverse of this happen frequently: Spanish-speaking immigrants attempt to communicate in English and are dismissed because someone doesn’t have the patience to deal with the situation.

So, I charge the readers of this blog with a challenge.

The next time you interact with someone who is having difficulty with your language because it’s not his first language, take a moment, consider what it must be like to be in his position, and have the patience to help him, because we all possess the ability to communicate in the language of what it is to be human.

He’ll be glad you did, and you will be too.