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.

Back on track.

Hello, world!

Let me start this post by saying my recently fixed laptop crashed. Again. Last week. I called the company, explained the ridiculousness of the situation, and now have a new computer (the updated model!) being made, which should be in my possession in a few weeks. However, I leave Friday morning for an incredibly long tour, so I’m going to try to finish updating this blog from my home computer before then.

Here goes.

(P.S. I'm having issues with the HTML, so I apologize for the weird formatting discrepancies.)

In the middle of February, we had the unbelievable opportunity to travel to Central America for two weeks, spending our time in Guadalajara, Mexico, somewhere on the coast of El Salvador, and in San José, Costa Rica.

The gang arriving in Guadalajara.

While in Guadalajara, we performed both in the Teatro Degollado as well as in Plaza Degollado (the square outside of the theatre), where we were the final act for a week-long celebration of Guadalajara’s 467^th birthday.

Setting up inside Teatro Degollado.

A view from up top--we went to a concert by the main orchestra in Guadalajara.

A view of our stage in the plaza. Teatro Degollado is directly behind the stage.

A view from the stage. Yes, that is John Lennon in the background.

From the stage at night, with a crowd.

Hidayat warming up prior to the show.

Having studied Spanish in high school for 5 years, it was quite exciting to get some real world practice speaking Spanish! Jason had studied a little bit as well, so between the two of us and our translators, we were usually able to communicate fairly well with any necessary parties.

Hanging out in our hotel's restaurant.

The perfect afternoon in Guadalajara:

a latte, an umbrella, and a breezy temperature of about 80 degrees.

Also, as an Arizona native, I’d like to think I’ve been exposed to quite a bit of the Hispanic culture growing up. So being a connoisseur of Mexican food, getting the opportunity to eat Mexican food IN Mexico was awesome.

Enjoying the local specialty, tortas ahogadas: delicious pulled pork sandwiches which have been drenched with a spicy tomato sauce.

I will admit my surprise at the awesomeness of Mexico. That is, I think the American media paints Mexico with a less-than-flattering brush—we always hear about the drug wars, [the outbreak of the dreaded H1N1 “Swine” Flu, though this was much after our trip], the corruption in politics, etc. To be honest, I was worried about my safety prior to going: would I, as a white, American tourist-of-sorts, be mugged or robbed? Would I get sick from drinking the tap water?

The answer to any and all hypothetical, worrying questions was a resounding “no.” The people were incredible, the food was amazing, and the city of Guadalajara was wonderful. I never once felt worried about my safety…with perhaps the singular exception of riding in traffic. You thought American freeways were congested? You thought wrong. Yet, the amazing thing is I saw no accidents while I was there. Everyone is such a defensive driver that nobody gets hurt...somewhat backwards, logically, but it seems to work.

One of the biggest cultural differences I noted was the nearly-opposite conception of time. In America, being punctual is of the utmost importance. [For example, the band teacher at my high school used to say, “If you’re five minutes early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late.”] In Hispanic culture, time is very flexible. No one is concerned with when things start, or how or when things will get done—they all just know that if it’s supposed to happen, it will…at some point. It’s funny, though, because this works both ways: you’ll be expected to drop everything to do a photo shoot at the hotel pool in 15 minutes, or, alternatively, hold the start of a performance for 30 minutes until the Governor shows up. At first, it’s a pretty shocking situation, especially when we spend so much time “being on time” in the States, but I found myself adjusting fairly easily and quickly to the new time paradigm [cheesy rhyming very much intended].

Sarah, Jason and me at a radio interview.

This was one of those get-dressed-for-a-photo-shoot-oh-wait-you-don't-need-to-look-nice-because-you're-actually-going-to-be-on-the-radio-instead moments.

In fact, one might say that I adjusted to the Hispanic conception of time so much that it influenced how I treated this blog…whoops.

Really, 21st Century? ...really?!

For me, technology is an ironic Catch 22 of the 21st Century. The one thing which defines the development of humanity in the past 10-20 years is something without which we cannot really function, yet it also simultaneously can tend to function so unreliably.

Take, for example, the story of my technology-based life for the past two months.

First, my laptop dies while I'm on the road. Lenovo sends me a new hard drive, but my Windows recovery CDs fail to work. So, I send my laptop into Lenovo. It's returned, with a new motherboard mind you, and my Windows recovery CDs still can't perform their singular function of recovering my laptop. I've now sent my laptop off one more time. (And no, Apple lovers, I will not be investing in a Mac anytime soon, despite your guarantees of non-breakage.)

Second, my phone decides to 1) start shutting off when I close it, and 2) temporarily choose to not function unless it's plugged into the wall. So, I go to Verizon on Saturday, and they send me a new phone because my current one is under warranty. I receive it today, go to Verizon tonight, and am then informed by my customer service representative that I was sent the wrong phone. So, it looks as though I'll continue to have a sickly phone for the next chunk of tour (fortunately, this next tour is only two weeks long).

I'm not concerned about not having a laptop (I survived the last short tour without one, so what's two more weeks, right?). And I'm not too concerned about having a less-than-perfect phone for the next two weeks. It just seems that technology, while being the wonderful thing it is (and subsequently allowing me to keep track of my travels, however spotty my records may have been in the recent months), also seems to cause many inconveniences.

I guess things could always be significantly worse, right? I suppose I just feel the need to justify why I haven't been updating this blog or posting pictures on facebook.

I'll be back home April 29th, for what looks to be a mini-summer vacation of 5 or 6 weeks. So, at that time, I'll (finally!) get the chance to heavily delve into updating this less-than-adequately-maintained-as-of-late blog!

Here's to two more weeks of travels!