The beer is cold and tasty. Kristy chops plantains and heats oil a few meters away.
“I appreciate you guys helping me out today,” Pelochucho says, “and sticking around to do it. Seriously.”
“Pelo,” I say. “All that stuff about the hillside and your hotel plans—I didn’t say it to be a bitch. It’s a big deal.”
“I know.” He sighs and takes a gulp. “I’d hoped this project would be quick and easy. I’ve got a lot of capital tied up in another Seattle deal right now. I’ll have to go more slowly, invest more dough.”
“I’m not sure it’s about that,” I say. “It’s not so much a money thing as a land thing.”
He turns to me, incredulous. “There’s got to be a way to make it work, right? If you throw enough cash at it?”
His question reminds me of a documentary I saw years ago, about a bunch of rich people trying to climb Mount Everest, and what a disaster it turned out to be for them and all the Sherpa guides they’d hired.
“Pelo, don’t take this the wrong way, but just because you’ve got money, that doesn’t mean you get to surf every wave, or climb every mountain.”
He takes a long sip of his beer but keeps his eyes locked on mine. “You’re going to sit here and tell me that—with ample time and materials—you couldn’t figure out a way to build on that spot? That it’s totally impossible?” He shakes his head. “Some engineer,” he mutters, then goes for another sip.
I shrug. An angry, competitive itch creeps up my spine. My brain spins in a direction it hasn’t gone for weeks. “If it had to be done, it would take at least two retaining walls on that hillside, with surface and subsurface drains.” Blueprints take shape in my mind’s eye. The image of that fatal, preventable landslide in Santa Tecla still looms in a neglected part of my memory. I feel a bit drunk with the possibilities. “The building itself would need footings poured directly onto the bedrock, however deep that is. And even though it’s expensive here, you’d have to frame it all with wood.”
Pelochucho grins and slaps his hands together. “Now we’re talking!”
“The interesting thing about a large building right there is the roof. You’d want to catch every drop of rain, to keep it from washing away the hillside. If you hooked your gutters up to a big-enough cistern, you’d have all your water needs taken care of. You might have more than enough.”
“We can fill the pool!” Pelo says.
“I was thinking of offering some to your new neighbors, actually.”
“Sure,” he says. “That’s cool, too.”
“After the retaining walls and the pilings, you’d want to start planting that hillside.” I take a sip of beer. “It’d be best to do some windbreaks and live barriers right away, then bring in saplings. Stuff with complex root systems that’ll hold the hillside together, absorb all the excess water. You might even get some fruit.”
“You should stick around, Chinita!” Pelo says. “Help me out with this.”
“No thanks.” I shake my head. “That’s the best way to do it, but I still think it’s a bad idea. Just move the damn building to the other side of the ridge.”
His mouth twists up, as if he’s tasting something sour. Before he can respond, Ben walks in and joins us.
“Here you go.” Ben drops two thin newspaper envelopes on the table. “It was cheaper than I thought. You’ve got some change coming.”
“Keep it,” Pelochucho says. He grabs the packets off the table, as if ashamed, and shoves them into his shorts. His eyes linger on Kristy, who plates up my meal.
“Nice one, Chuck Norris. Thanks.” Pelo stands. “Stop by after dinner if you want to party.” He seems to be inviting Ben and not me.
Pelo takes the beer and the coke off to his room. Kristy drops heaping plates in front of Ben and me, a stack of retoasted tortillas and a dish of salt in the center of the table. We ask for glasses and share the Regia.
The food is delicious. The plantains are sweet and crisp, a perfect counterpoint to the salty cheese and liquefied beans. Like so many Salvadoran suppers, it is a meal meant to be eaten without utensils, with only the torn pieces of corn tortillas. It could’ve been eaten without teeth.
As usual, I finish before Ben. He grins at me as I mop the last bit of the beans off the plate.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Malia.” Ben puts a fist in front of his mouth. “But have you ever been checked out for a tapeworm?”
I laugh. “If that’s what I have, then I’ve had it all my life.” I pop the final bite into my mouth.
“Was your mom skinny?” Ben asks.
I swallow. “She is in most of the pictures, and the couple times I saw her in the flesh.” Ben knows this isn’t a subject I’m comfortable with. “Let’s hope that’s all I inherited from her.”
We ask Kristy to start us a new tab, and to put this dinner on it.
I follow Ben out of the dining room. Without discussing it, he passes by the expensive wing and knocks on Pelo’s door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s us,” Ben says.
The door swings open.
“Come on in,” Pelochucho says. “You want some blow?” A rolled-up American bill hangs between his first two fingers like a cigarette.
Pelo has taken the one piece of art off the wall: a framed picture of a flying dove with flowing Spanish script that reads. If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours forever. If it doesn’t, it never was. He’s cut his cocaine on the glass of the frame. The powder forms a few rough lines. A credit card covers the dove’s head. I strain my eyes to read Pelo’s real name but can’t quite make it out.
“No thanks,” Ben says. “I’m beat. Just wanted to say good night. Any plans for tomorrow? Looks like you’ll be sleeping in.”
Pelo lets out a small laugh, then pulls a chair up to the table with the picture. “I want to get some waves,” he says. “This flat shit is getting old.” He leans over the dove and snorts up one thick white line.
“All right, then,” Ben says. “See you in the morning.”
“Close that on the way out, would you?”
I’ve had a long day, and spent hours in the sun. It comes as a huge relief that Ben has no interest in staying up and doing lines with Pelo. We go to bed with tired eyes and full stomachs. I hope we’ll wake up to this rumored swell, not so much for the surf, but so Ben and I can sooner sever ties with Pelochucho and be on our way.
12
A year and a half ago, I followed Ben out the gate of La Posada. We wore swimsuits and sandals, surfboards under our arms. Ben carried a grocery sack with his tobacco, a lighter, and a couple of refrescos—sugary Day-Glo drinks sold in clear plastic Baggies.
“Where are we going?” I asked. This was only my second or third stay in La Libertad. I didn’t understand why we weren’t sticking around to surf the point.
“A little spot up the coast.” Ben kept walking.
In the west end of town, we passed local women with buckets of masa atop their heads, coming from the mill. We crossed the small bridge that seemed to form an unofficial city limit. At the far side of it, Ben stopped walking.
“Do you have bus fare?” I asked.
“No need.” With his surfboard and grocery bag in one arm, Ben stuck his other hand out into the road, thumb extended.
I took a couple of steps off into the shoulder. Several cars passed without stopping or slowing down. For a few minutes, there was no traffic. Then another wave of vehicles. Again, nobody paid us any mind.
“Here.” I held my board out in Ben’s direction. “Take this for a second.”
Ben took my board with his free hand and switched places with me.
Suddenly self-conscious in board shorts and a bikini top, I crossed my arms over my chest and waited while a rattling pickup full of bananas rolled by. Next a crowded sedan passed. I began to wonder what I’d been thinking—offering to handle this. Finally, I spied a newish double-cab pickup coming our way, with onl
y a driver aboard, and what looked like a logo on the door.
I took a step closer to the road, stood up straight, stuck my thumb out far, and put my other hand on my hip. My midriff felt long and exposed, like something hanging from a hook. The driver and I made eye contact; his gaze drifted downward as he gave me the once-over. The truck pulled off a few yards ahead of us. Ben ran out from the shoulder and we both jogged for it. I climbed into the bed and took the boards from Ben one by one. He hopped in, then tapped twice on the top of the cab.
“Wow,” Ben said once we were rolling. “I guess it pays to be a girl in El Salvador sometimes.”
I rolled my eyes. “Rarely.” But despite the brush-off, I was surprised by my own actions. I’d never done anything quite like that before—flagging down a ride, leveraging my femininity. This was still early in our honeymoon phase. Perhaps I hoped to impress him with my boldness. Perhaps I felt emboldened by his presence.
The drive was beautiful. It still seems to me that the best way to see this country is from the back of a fast-moving pickup. Ben pointed out Sunzal as we wound around the bluffs above it. He told me about the thriving parking space and palapa industry along the sandy beach at Majahual—so popular with merrymakers from the capital. From a distance, we saw the private club at Atami, where who knew what kind of secret shorelines were off-limits to nonmembers.
Before long, Ben tapped on the cab and the truck slowed. Along a desolate stretch of the Litoral, we disembarked and thanked the driver.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“It’s called Kilometer Ninety-nine, because of that sign.” Ben pointed to a highway marker up the road that read K 99. “This way.”
I followed him down a dirt road heading seaward off the highway. It ended on a sandy beach within a protected cove. A rocky point—shorter than Punta Roca, but made up of the same kind of black stones—stretched out before us. There wasn’t much swell that day, but we stood and watched a midsize set break. Nobody was around, let alone in the water. Ben buried our flip-flops and his grocery bag under a stack of rocks near the end of the road.
We paddled out and traded waves. The water felt cleaner this far from any port or city. Out in the lineup, I turned back several times to look at the landscape. This was during the rainy season; all the surrounding hills were lush and green. From the water, it was hard to make out any signs of civilization. Unless a car drove by, I couldn’t even see the road. Back then, I had no idea that Don Miguel and his neighbors were up there on the hillside. From the water, the view was too foreshortened even to see their cornfields.
Once the wind picked up, we paddled back to shore. Ben went to find the bag he’d hidden under the stones. I gathered my leash and wrapped it around my fins.
“Ah!” Ben screamed.
I turned and watched as he brushed one hand with the other.
“Fire ants!” He held one of the plastic refresco bags by the corner, swatting at it with his free hand. Ants bit his toes; he lifted his foot and brushed at them.
I collapsed to the sand, laughing.
For several more seconds, he did an aggravated dance of arm wagging and body slapping. Finally, he ran down to the ocean with a refresco bag in each fist and dunked them into the salt water. My eyes were teary with laughter.
After a minute of rinsing in the surf, he joined me on the sand.
“I’m sorry,” I said, still chuckling. “But that was hilarious.”
“Here.” He smiled and handed me one of the bright-colored bags. “I hope you like refresco.”
We bit off the plastic corners and sucked at the sugary liquid now spiked with seawater. Ben rolled a cigarette and we passed it back and forth.
“Do me a favor,” Ben said. “Don’t tell anyone about this spot.”
“No problem,” I said. “Is it a secret?”
He shrugged. “This whole coast will change eventually. The waves are too good. I’d rather not be the one who speeds it up. Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean.” I turned and looked back down into the secluded cove. “We should camp here sometime. We’ve got all the gear. There’s nobody around.”
Ben shook his head. “You don’t want to be near this spot at night. This is where they bring in the cocaine that gets made into rocks back in town.”
My jaw dropped. I turned back to the ocean. “They bring it in by boat?”
Ben nodded. “That’s the rumor at least. All the old-timers say never to come around here after dark. You don’t want to see something that you shouldn’t.”
“Good enough for me,” I said.
We walked up to the road and hitched a ride back to La Libertad.
13
Again the next morning, we wake early and walk to the steps. Something’s changed. Though the surf isn’t good, it’s not entirely flat, either. An abnormal wind pattern whips the sea toward the land, raising small waves that look almost rideable.
“A little bump.” Ben stares at the point.
“Hope this isn’t the swell that Pelochucho flew in for,” I say.
A black beetle—big and round as a Ping-Pong ball—buzzes past us and bounces off one of the columns alongside the steps. It hovers like a radio-controlled toy, one whose pilot needs more flying lessons.
“Watch.” Ben stands. “A guy in my village taught me this one.”
With one hand, he snatches the insect in midair. The buzzing stops short. Ben’s back is to me, but it looks as if he’s about to eat the bug. I stand up to see.
Ben turns around and puts his face in front of mine, cheeks puffed out. We stare each other in the eye for a second. Then he opens his mouth and the beetle flies out.
I can’t stop myself from grinning. “Good one,” I admit.
“Thanks.” Ben spits on the ground.
* * *
Back at La Posada, Pelochucho crosses the courtyard with an armload of his own luggage.
“What are you doing?” I wonder if he isn’t moving out—heading home or off to camp on his newly purchased land.
“Just changing rooms.” He dumps the load inside the bedroom next to ours.
“You’re moving into the cheap wing?” Perhaps his stack of bills isn’t as bottomless as he’s made it out to be.
He emerges from the new room, sunglasses down over bloodshot eyes. “I’m a little over budget,” he says. “No big deal.”
I almost ask if we should expect our hundred bucks today.
“There’s some kind of a wind swell out there,” Ben says. “Not big, but maybe worth paddling out. I’m thinking it might break a little cleaner down at Sunzal.”
“Yeah?” Pelo looks surprised. “Sounds like a plan. Give me a second to finish up here.”
Ben helps him roll the surfboard coffin across the courtyard. I wait by the dining room.
Crackito, youngest of the local addicts, shuffles past La Posada’s gate. Thirteen or fourteen, he’s barely bigger than Nora. He holds his hand out toward me and mutters, “A coin?”
Kristy stands at the stove and scowls, ready to stop him if he tries to enter.
“Wait.” I take a piece of sweet bread from the glass case on the counter, signal Kristy to put it on my tab, and walk over to Crackito.
“Eat it,” I say. “Now.” If he carries it off, there’s a chance he’ll sell it for a few cents or trade it for a hit off another kid’s pipe.
He rolls his eyes, then devours the sugary breakfast in four bites. As I walk back toward the Jeep, I can feel Kristy’s gaze hardening unhappily into my back.
* * *
On the drive, Pelochucho and Ben pass a thick joint back and forth. I lie prone across the plywood shelf, crowded in with our three surfboards, trying to find a little fresh air amid the pot smoke. Pelo brought along a flawless brand-name board. It looks as though it’s never been surfed.
Ben parks at a friendly restaurant-hotel and asks the owner to watch the car for us. Straight away, we see that Sunzal was the right
decision.
The beach is a long expanse of black sand at the base of a cliff. In addition to the consistent waves, it’s one of the more beautiful spots in this part of the country. A panoramic shot of it opens the classic John Milius surf feature Big Wednesday. At one end stands a rock formation known as “the pig”—though I’ve never been able to find a porcine shape in it, from any angle. Sunzal had a heyday in the seventies as a kind of hippie camp, covered in tents full of gringo surfers and expats. All that ended with the war.
We walk from our parking spot out toward the break. The tide has dropped in the hour since our surf check. The waves still aren’t huge, but they’re standing up nicely here, definitely workable. And nobody else is out. With the black sand and the solitude, this spot could pass for Hawai‘i—a country beach perhaps, on one of the neighbor islands.
“Looks fun,” Ben says.
“Yeah.”
The three of us enter. Pelochucho lags behind.
Ben and I trade waves on the outside. They aren’t anything to write home about—a solid drop, one punchy section, then a soft shoulder—but we enjoy it. So often when surfing in El Salvador, the waves justify the means. But at this spot, simply being in the water is a privilege. Morning sun shines over our shoulders as we look out to the horizon. Flocks of pelicans skim the ocean surface.
A bigger set rolls in and we scramble for the outside. Out of position for either of the first two waves, Ben dashes for the third. I watch as he drops in, does his bottom turn, and finds the trim. He pumps up a bit of speed and cuts back to the curl once the wave fattens.
Of the two of us, most people likely consider me the better surfer. Ben started in his high school years and could practice only during a short and fickle North Carolina swell season. I switched to surfing from boogie boarding when I was eleven or twelve, and lived within walking distance of Oahu’s south shore—which has waves almost year-round. Certainly, I’m lighter on my feet than Ben, able to put a bit more spring into my turns.
Kilometer 99 Page 8