Let the Build Begin

Posted on April 17, 2021 by Henry

It’s still six weeks or so before the van’s scheduled arrival, and we’re both up to our elbows in planning. There are many examples on the web of people who have built camper vans, and have documented the process and results. It’s fairly typical for them to view and learn from their predecessors, who also posted their experiences. We are no exceptions to this rule.

The first build we found and got into is The Far Out Ride. Their base van is also a Transit, and they wanted to live in it full-time, traveling and chasing Winter sport. It’s decorated fairly rustic and funky, but the technical underpinnings are first-rate, and their site is extremely detailed, informative, and educational. We’ve learned a lot from studying it, and the builders are very helpful and responsive to inquiries.

There’s also the Ford Transit Forum, which covers all things related to Transits. One sub-forum, in the Tech section, is Camper Vans and Conversions. It’s populated by folk in all stages of creating a camper: some seasoned veterans who have done several, some who are in the midst of their first (or only) build, and some just looking on wistfully. There is a wealth of information here, and even more opinions. Everybody has expertise in one field or another, and they all manage to find a way to apply some of it to the task of building a camper.

My latest find in the on-line build-log department is The Humble Road. Its proprietor, a fellow named George, from northern New Jersey and about my vintage, is a real character. Most of his information is in video form (on YouTube, search for Humble Road), and is very well-produced. His builds are painstakingly thought-out and meticulously executed. His aesthetic sense is a bit high-end, polished, and professional for my tastes, but there’s so much that is just great. He’s a stickler for detail, a pleasure to watch and listen to, and has a very good philosophy: Design it so that when (not if!) it fails, it’s not catastrophic, and can be repaired or replaced without a huge amount of bother. He says he’s a belt-and-suspenders kind of guy.

I’m taking that approach to heart.

Our first significant purchase in the effort is the refrigerator. Elizabeth spent some time researching them, and figured out the features she wanted: upright, 6-8 cubic feet, tall and narrow, separate freezer section, preferably in a drawer below the main section. I weighed in on the technical side: both AC (120 volt) and DC (12 or 24 volt), possibly propane. [My family had a 23-foot Holiday Rambler travel trailer for many years, and its refrigerator ran on 120VAC or propane. It always amazed me how a flame could produce cooling, but it worked.] There are many examples that met our requirements, in the 1300-2000 dollar range. Gulp.

Then E found an interesting site for a company, National RV Refrigeration, that sells, services, and refurbishes RV refrigerators and AC units. They have a scratch-and-dent section, with prices very much lower. Some met our specs, for only 5-600 bucks. Woohoo. I talked with Glen there (friendly, helpful, informative) and E and I arranged to drive to Shipshewana, IN (about two hours away) to pick one up. Then I downloaded the installation instructions from the manufacturer.

Most household refrigerators cool by compression. It basically squeezes the heat out of a chlorofluorocarbon gas (eg. Freon), cooling it in the process, which then cools the box. Simple enough. Another way to do it is by absorption. It’s somewhat more involved, using evaporation cooling and two different coolants, and is more complex than I want to go into here. Try Wikipedia if you’re interested.

Anyway, that’s how a refrigerator can run on propane. But there’s more to it than just plugging it in to a power source. The propane needs air to burn, and a path to the outside air for its exhaust. We don’t want to use the air in the van to support the combustion, as it may already be heated, and the air coming in from outside will need to be heated as well. Not very efficient. The upshot is that installing a propane-burning refrigerator requires cutting large holes in the van, one in the side, one in the roof. We’re talking 9 inches by two feet. Yikes. Cutting a hole in the roof for an exhaust fan is one thing, but I’m not eager to cut more large holes just for the refrigerator, particularly when other alternatives exist.

Another call to Glen revealed that they did indeed have a couple of electric-only models, and he gave me the specs. We drove down last Monday (nice drive) to take a look. The model we got is a Norcold N10DC. Eight cubic feet, 23 inches wide, stainless-steel front, fridge below, freezer above, both with doors. It’s tall and skinny and runs on 12VDC. No AC, no propane. Definitely scratched and dented, but the inside is new and pristine, and it works fine. $250. Even more woohoo. Doesn’t match our specs exactly, but it’s close, and we can’t beat the price.

We got it home and it’s now in the garage of one of E’s friends, awaiting the day when we actually have a van and can install it.

Posted in Preparation, Research | 1 Comment

We Have a VIN!

Posted on March 23, 2021 by Henry

If you’ve never actually ordered a new car before (I hadn’t. All my previous cars, vans, and motorcycles were either bought used or picked from whatever was on the dealer’s lot at the time), you should know how it works. You meet with a salesperson, pick a model and all the options you want, make a deposit, and wait. Perhaps weeks. When the factory puts your car-to-be on its production schedule, the first thing it does is create a VIN. Then it figures out when the vehicle might be completed. And if your salesperson is a good one, you’ll hear about this soon thereafter, both the VIN and the date.

We placed our order on 19 February. And waited. Today we learned that our new van is indeed scheduled, and we have a VIN. And even a completion date range: the week of 24 May, quite in line with the salesperson’s original estimate. Huzzah!

Now we have to get busy, planning and ordering the parts that’ll transform it from a Cargo Van to a Camper Van. The planning portion has been proceeding apace. Time to break out the credit card. Oh boy.

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Poised at the Precipice

Posted on February 20, 2021 by Henry

Hi, we’re back. Miss us? In our last installment, we were in El Salvador and writing about Nicaragua. Sorry we petered out at the end, there. We can blame it all on Joe, who wanted to surprise his friends by returning unannounced. So, once we picked our return date, rather than just keeping quiet about it, we stopped posting altogether. Bad us, we’ll try to do better this time.

Now, after having talked about camper-van trips for the past eight years, we’re getting the itch again. And today, after several weeks/months of research and homework, we visited our friendly neighborhood Ford dealer. We met with a somewhat cantankerous, but very knowledgeable, salesperson, and ended up putting a deposit down on a new van. Woo and hoo.

It wasn’t that difficult to decide to buy a new van, rather than a used one. Once we settled on the Ford Transit over a Dodge ProMaster or a Mercedes Sprinter or a Nissan NV, we found
• there aren’t that many used ones available,
• the price advantage is not all that compelling, and
• finding the right set of features and options is very hit-and-miss.

The van that made the cut is a 2021 Transit 350, long frame (148” wheelbase), high roof, and elongated body, with all-wheel drive, and an EcoBoost engine (turbo-charged). Those were the must-have options (well, not the year, but the rest of it). This eliminated 95% of the used vans we found, so here we are, ordering a new one. There’s a whole raft of other options and features, but that’s the gist of it.

Since we’re outfitting it as a camper, we got the Cargo model, instead of the Passenger Van (seats 15) or the Crew Van (seats 5, with room for lots of gear). We both liked Green Gem, but in 2021 that color is discontinued. Our second choice was the new Kapoor Red, but that was discontinued in December. So we ordered Blue Jeans, a nice deep blue. Readers with long memories will recall that Rocinante was blue. It’ll be fine.

Here are a couple of renderings of a 2020 model from the Ford website.

These vans take up a lot of space, so most dealerships don’t have many (or any) on the lot. Our salesperson rounded one up for us to test drive: a long-wheelbase Passenger van, but not with the elongated body, with a medium roof and a naturally-aspirated engine. Not quite, but close. The visibility is spectacular, and it handles quite nicely. The power is reasonable, but I’m glad we’re getting the more powerful engine, with all the weight we’ll be adding to it. Overall, we liked it plenty.

And here’s the kicker: under current circumstances (various severities of COVID, chip shortages, bad weather, and sunspot activity), it’s going to take 12-14 weeks to get it. Middle of May. Sigh.

In the mean time, we’ll be doing more research, making drawings, buying components and parts, and planning this thing to a fare-thee-well. And that’s as it should be. Nothing like fate stepping in to (strongly) encourage you to do it the right way the first time.

Posted in Preparation, Research | 2 Comments

Where Were We…?

Posted on March 28, 2013 by Henry

Once out of the burning building… no, wait, wrong serial. Oh yeah, when we last left our intrepid heroes, they were about to leave the sunny beaches of El Salvador for the even sunnier towns and cities of Nicaragua.

Editor’s note: it’s over, we’re back in the US&A, and have been so since the end of February. But as soon as we’d made our plans to return, Joe made us promise to keep it a secret, so he could surprise his friends. We kept our promise so well that we haven’t posted to the blog since then. But there’s still plenty to talk about, even in the cold grey “Spring”, so here we are…

We spent longer than we had planned at the Azul Surf Club, at least partially because I experienced the only case of food poisoning on the entire trip. We’d had lunch at the hotel/restaurant down the road (not the Azul Surf Club!), and I’d had the fish soup. It was delicious. I loved it. But at three o’clock the next morning, I had to give it all back, along with the dinner we’d eaten in the mean time. As it was explained to us later, in making fish soup, many restaurants start with a base of seafood and vegetables, and boil it, killing any disagreeable bacteria. But then they add the fish, and often don’t bring it to another boil. Then it boils over on its own, several hours later. Be ye forewarned.

Recovering from my lost lunch, I did little more than hang out at the hotel, which was very comfortable, and friendly, and right on the Pacific. I also slept. And read. Joe and Elizabeth, however, were able to take advantage of this down time, and attend some surfing lessons, given right at the hotel. They loved it, and I had a good time watching. Looked fun. Next time for sure.

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Also, while I recuperated, one of the hotel staff was very helpful, and took our most recent flat tire into town to be repaired. The next morning, they let us use their jack—much better than Rocinante’s—and I was able to put the repaired tire and wheel back on the van. Then off we drove, continuing south and east toward Nicaragua.

To get there, we had to pass back through Honduras. No problem, we liked Honduras. But this part of the country, the south-eastern tip right on the Pacific was very different from what we had seen in the northern, Caribbean section. There it was lush, jungle-y and mountainous, here the mountains are much farther apart, and between them is desert-y, flat and hot. We crossed the border, did the dance with Immigration and with Customs, and made our way into Choluteca for the night.

The next morning, at the crack of nine or so, we were back on the road, headed for the next border. The little bit of Honduras separating El Salvador and Nicaragua is only about 130 kilometers wide along the roads we were taking, and Choluteca is already halfway there, so we had not far to go. Of course, border crossings are always the wild card, so we were prepared to spend the night in Chinandega, only 75 kilometers from the border. As it happened, the border presented no outrageous delays, and we made it into Chinandega at lunch time. We found our way to Rostipollo, where the food is quite good, the service excellent and our waiter thoroughly charming. While we ate, we made plans to visit the Flor de Caña distillery.

A word first on rum in general. I’ve never cared for it. It always tasted vaguely medicinal to me. I think Elizabeth was more receptive to it, but wasn’t particularly crazy about it, either. Then, early on in this trip, in Belize City, at the gift shop of the city-prison-turned-museum, I saw some bottles of local rum. It was a brand I’d never heard of, and can’t recall now. But it was cheap enough to try, so I bought a bottle. And that evening decided I’d never had rum before. Positively delicious. We both loved it.

We didn’t stay long in Belize, and were long gone by the time the bottle was empty. So we had to try other brands. In Guatemala, we enjoyed Botran, both the 8- and 12-year varieties. We tried other marks in other countries, but Flor de Caña, the Nicaraguan flagship rum, was the best bet everywhere.

And we learned a lot on the tour. First of all, Flor de Caña is huge. The land they own around Chinandega is much larger than the town itself. The great majority of it is devoted to growing sugar cane (caña). And they have another, similarly-sized chunk of property in another part of the country. Lots of cane. The company is energy-neutral: using solar power and bio-mass from the leftovers of the cane-to-rum process, they generate as much energy as they need. They’re serious about recycling, and are socially conscious as well. All in all, it seems like a pretty good company. And their rum is wonderfully good. We brought home three liters of it, for our own consumption. All gone now. It’s available in the states, but much more expensive.

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The tour ended around four in the afternoon. Since we’d parked in the shade, and our destination for the evening was not at all far, Rocinante had little trouble getting us to León by sundown.

Posted in El Salvador, Food, Honduras, Nicaragua, Organizations and businesses | Leave a comment

In and Out

Posted on February 5, 2013 by Henry

The first and only time I visited Hawaii was in 1986. I spent two weeks on Oahu, relaxing and enjoying the February weather. It was my first exposure to tropical climes, and I was quite impressed by—among many other things—the blurring of the concepts of “inside” and “outside”. It first struck me as I was leaving the Honolulu airport. I left the plane through the usual attached movable hallway attached to the airport proper, followed the signs to the baggage claim, and then more signs to find ground transportation.

I didn’t notice the transition, but suddenly I was aware that I was in the great out-of-doors. I hadn’t passed through any doors that I could see. Where there had previously been walls and ceilings and fluorescent lights, there were now trees and breezes and birds. But I didn’t recall any line of demarcation between the two. I wasn’t sure if had missed something, or if things were just really different here.

The rest of my trip convinced me the latter was the case. Sitting in a bar, watching birds fly in and land a foot from your drink, seemed to be commonplace, though unheard of where I’d come from. The local shopping mall had a roof, and in the heart of it it was indistinguishable from any other. But at its edges, it had a gradual transition with its surroundings, rather than define itself by excluding them. This was an unexpected and rather refreshing discovery.

As we’ve moved farther south this trip, through El Salvador and now into Nicaragua, I’ve noticed a similar approach to inside and outside. Even in Guatemala, where the altitude makes for some rather chilly evenings, many houses include a courtyard. Here, more do. Some rooms can be closed off from it, but others cannot. There is much less of a distinction here between being outside in the elements, and safe inside, protected from them.

However, this attitude does extend to other humans. All through Central America, those houses with courtyards (as well as those without) have barred windows and doors, and sometimes steel doors. If the house is not in the middle of the city, but on a larger plot of land, it is surrounded by a high wall, usually cinder-block, with wooden or steel gates, and topped with anything from broken bottles to coils of razor wire and electrified wire. A nice house/lot will often have this sort of wall/fence/wire separating it from its less-expensive neighbors, lest those houses provide indirect access.

It is the same in big cities and in small villages. On the island of Útila, it was relaxed a little bit, but not gone by any means. And while there are variations between countries and regions and socio-economic levels, nowhere is it reduced to anything like what we’re accustomed to in the States. Indoor and outdoor space can blend and merge, but public and private space absolutely cannot. What is tolerated and welcomed from the environment is most emphatically not accepted from other people.

In the back of my mind is the question of whether this is a recent development, or if this need of impregnable walls to keep one’s self, family and possessions safe is a long-standing aspect of the culture. Is the social contract that much different here, that plain closed doors and windows do not provide sufficient protection from others? Well, clearly it is, but has that been the case for a long time, or did the civil unrest of the sixties through the eighties make it much worse than it had already been?

I know that some research would likely provide answers to these questions. I just haven’t done any yet.

Posted in Buildings, Culture, El Salvador, Nicaragua | 1 Comment

More unplanned activities

Posted on February 2, 2013 by Elizabeth

We spent more time than we intended in San Salvador. It turned out to be a far prettier, cleaner, friendlier city than we expected; based on previous experience with Central American cities, we had planned to avoid it altogether, but, fortunately for us, logistics dictated that we break our travels there for the night. Our first attempt at lodging was the highly rated Joan’s Hostel (which, of course, we tried first because of the name), but there we would have ended up sleeping in bunk beds. That’s fine for those of us who are twelve, but a middle aged couple who haven’t even had their own private room for weeks on end draw the line at bunk beds.

Next on our list was a budget recommendation from our guide book and bible, the highly unreliable Rough Guide to Central America, in the high-end neighborhood of Escalón. We found the street without incident, signage being excellent in San Salvador. Well, without incidentally getting lost or heading the wrong way more than once or twice. But remember how Rocinante starts coughing and stalling at the end of a long, hot day? Yes, right in the middle of a giant intersection, fortunately only a block away from our destination. We coasted around the corner and parked, planning to walk the remaining block to the hotel.

Except, of course, there was no hotel on the next block. Or two blocks away. Or two blocks away in the other three directions. We asked a couple of people, and they had no idea. Okay, so no budget hotel; the book mentioned a “splurge” hotel very nearby, so we went looking for that. It, too, proved illusory; we asked people, we Googled, we Trip Advisored, but it seemed not to exist. It was starting to get dark, and since we try to avoid hanging out on the streets of strange Central American cities after dark, we were ready to take whatever we could get. Trip Advisor did show us a small hotel a few blocks away, so we set out to find it.

Unlike the other hotels in the neighborhood, Hotel Ataco actually exists. Not only does it exist, it’s lovely and homey: the rooms are clean and spacious, hot water is plentiful, the beds are comfortable, there are several sitting areas as well as a nice little garden, an excellent breakfast is included, and it’s very, very quiet. In general, cities are very loud in Central America; Guatemala is loud even in small towns (viz. the night in Santa Cruz del Quiche when we were awakened at three a.m. by a truck unloading tomatoes right below our window, and right in front of signs stating “No Parking” and “No Loading or Unloading of Cargo”), so a quiet city hotel is like an oasis in the desert. As if all these attractions weren’t enough, there is also a small salon attached to the hotel for personal repair.

As Henry has described, we spent the next day as cultural tourists: First, the very excellent MARTE, then the Guzmán Anthropological Museum. Lunch, then the Mercado Nacional de Artesanías, followed by the Galerías mall, which was built around a stately historic house (now gutted and inhabited mostly by Starbucks). Dinner at the same Taiwanese restaurant we had eaten at the night before, because it’s the first time in yonks we’d eaten anything non-local, and besides, it was great. I had the arroz pegazado.

Henry has described the following day of Rocinante maintenance; I took advantage of the salon and had three months of road scrubbed off my skin. Our plan was to leave in the morning, but Henry woke up with a runny nose and stuffed-up sinuses, clearly unfit to travel. Joe and I hung around and relaxed. The next day, the same, with the addition of a pounding headache on my part and an age-appropriate surly restlessness on Joe’s.

By nightfall, we were chomping at the bit. No matter how pleasant the hotel and how solicitous the hosts (as in this case: tea, soup, a trustworthy mechanic), when you’re in traveling mode, you need to keep moving. In the morning, we packed up and hit the road.

We headed directly east and got out of San Salvador easily, stopping only once for Mexican-style popsicles. (I chose green mango flavor; Joe chile-cucumber; and Henry chili-lime.) The road, interrupted by the city, turned back into the Pan-American highway, CA-1. CA-1 varies from a US-style four-lane divided highway to a two-lane lace of ruts and potholes, and everything in between. It was about noon, and we were tooling merrily along on a four-lane divided section with concrete barriers on both sides when a loud crashing sound emanated from the rear left of the car. Henry slowed to a halt, put on the hazards, and opened the door to check. Yes, we had a flat tire. What’s more, it was a new used tire we had bought in Honduras to replace the previous tire which had been damaged on the road from hell.)

I mentioned that there is a wide variety of road on CA-1; by far the majority of the road is open access, lined with wide shoulders, and easy to pull off of. Not here, of course–not content to do it the easy way, our flat tire happened on one of the few lengths of road where there was no way to get out of traffic for at leasts a half a kilometer. We debated driving on the flat, but as anyone who has passed driver’s ed knows, that’s a bad idea. So, figuring that they would be more effective than those little orange hazard triangles, we set our brightest, most colorful suitcases out as barriers. Henry set to work releasing the spare tire from the undercarriage, while I provided shade with an umbrella and kept an eye on the oncoming traffic.

One thing about drivers in CA: they pay attention to the road. Unlike the States, you seldom see people texting or talking on the phone or eating while driving. Because rules and signs are regarded as suggestions, traffic is not predictable. Therefore, driving is a cooperative, rather than competitive, endeavor; drivers are constantly watching each other and puzzling out the best way to proceed. If an oncoming car is passing and heading straight towards you, you move a little to the right, the car being passed moves to the right, and then there’s plenty of room in the middle. Nobody barrels through intersections; they slow down and honk a little to advertise their presence. I felt a lot more confident that drivers would see us standing on CA-1 than I would have on any freeway at home.

After a bit, a guy walking by hopped over the concrete barrier and came over to help. Soon thereafter, a police truck pulled up, lights flashing. Three uniformed (and, as always here, heavily armed) policemen got out. Everyone admired our tire, which was not just punctured–it was shredded. Strips of rubber and steel belting hung off it like fringe. One of the policemen retrieved the jack from their truck to boost the van higher than ours could. Another kept watch on the traffic. The third chatted in English with me and Joe; it turned out he had lived in the US for a couple of years. With all the assistance, the spare tire was installed in no time, and everybody helped cram the luggage and tools back into the van.

The chatty policeman started to describe the location of a nearby llantería (tire shop), but, obviously picturing us wandering helplessly about the countryside on our tiny spare tire, interrupted himself with instructions to follow them. We all climbed back into our vehicles and they set off at a stately pace–so, for the second time in a week, we found ourselves trailing behind a Salvadoran police truck.

They led us past a couple of roadside tire stands to a small but very well-organized shop with a smiling and efficient proprietor. After examining all the possibilities, the owner, Henry, and the three policemen agreed on the best tire for the job, and the price was lowered from the $35 on the tag to $30. The fact that the tires here were, unlike almost anywhere else in CA, labeled with prices, and reasonable ones, was a huge point in its favor. The police ascertained that everyone was happy, shook all our hands and wished us happy travels, jumped in their truck, and roared away. The tire shop owner and his assistant, meanwhile, double-checked the new tire, prepped it thoroughly, installed it, checked and cleaned the spare, reinstalled it, and saw us off with smiles. And we were, once again, on our way.

(Yesterday, one of the employees where we are currently staying, the Azul Surf Club, pointed out that yet another tire was flat. This is the fourth flat we’ve had so far, all on different tires. The last time before that I had a flat tire was 25 years ago.)

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Posted in El Salvador, Gear | 10 Comments

Wrestling Rocinante

Posted on January 30, 2013 by Henry

Two weeks ago, we pulled into Santa Ana, the second-largest city in El Salvador. It was late afternoon, and Rocinante was coughing, gasping and stalling as we came into town, looking for a hostel. The first place we tried was full up, but the proprietor was very friendly and helpful, and gave us good directions to the second choice. We stalled only two or three times more before pulling into the secure parking area of the Casa Verde hostel.

The hostel was great: spotlessly clean, containing nice rooms with good beds, hot water and WiFi. Two kitchens for guest use. A TV room stocked with many DVDs. There was even a small pool, for crying out loud. Reasonably priced to boot. Good thing, as we’d pulled in without any real alternative at that point. As it happened, the hostel was first rate, and we spend a lovely night there.

Santa Ana itself, however, was no great shakes. The city is filthy. Trash is piled up everywhere. The streets and sidewalks are in poor repair. There are gaping holes and missing manhole covers all over town. This is bad enough, but made all the worse by comparing it to the many clean and lovely small towns we’ve visited in El Salvador, both before and since. We wondered if it was common to the country’s large cities, or just some aspect of Santa Ana itself. Suspecting the former, we grew leery of visiting San Salvador, the capital and largest city.

We’d come to Santa Ana for two purposes beyond the usual exploration and sight–seeing: to find a mechanic to investigate the van’s increasingly problematic tendency to stall when hot, and to get my hair cut. After we’d settled in for a bit, I asked the hostel’s proprietor about both of these goals. He said he’d call the family mechanic in the morning—one who makes house calls—and told me about the hair–cutting shop across the street, also open in the morning. Well, that was easy.

The mechanic showed up in the morning, discussed the problem with us, and took the van back to his shop for diagnosis. We wandered about the city, enjoyed the markets and got disgusted by the trash. In the afternoon, the mechanic told us that the ’scope and other diagnostic aids had shown no detectable problems, but that the fuel pump was very noisy. He recommended replacing it, but the part itself would cost over $400. We decided to see if we could just be very nice to the old one, and make it last the rest of the trip. And in the mean time, I’d gone across the street and received a very good haircut for one whole dollar. No lie.

Fast–forward almost two weeks. Coming out of Armenia, we decided to risk it, and set out for the museums, culture, and possible other mechanics of San Salvador. When we arrived, Rocinante was limping a bit, but soldiering on for the most part. We rejected one possible lodgings, failed to find another, then embraced the Hotel Ataco, a lovely and reasonably–priced little hotel in the higher–end section of town. We settled in and found a fine Taiwanese restaurant just a few blocks away.

The next morning we took a cab to visit a couple of museums mentioned in the guide book. The first, El Museo de Arte del El Salvador (MARTE), was devoted to depicting the history of Salvadoran art, with extra exhibits featuring a few contemporary practitioners thereof. It was quite possibly the best art museum we’ve ever visited: highly focussed, very well–curated and laid out, and every piece in it was interesting and engaging. Not a clunker in the place. The second museum, Museo Nacional de Antropología David J Guzmán, had some interesting exhibits and artifacts, but was not nearly so well-done. It would have been fine, but for comparison to the first. Then we walked around this section of town, noticed how clean and pretty everything was, stopped in several places for street food, found a gluten-free bakery, and gradually wound our way back to the hotel.

At this point I was still on the fence about trying to find another mechanic. But in the end, I realized that the stress of worrying about the fuel pump every day was preventing me from enjoying our travels as much as I might. So we asked the hotel’s proprietor if she knew a good mechanic. I was immediately heartened was she asked, “mechanical or electrical?” She made a phone call, and a couple of hours later, the mechanic arrived. We talked a bit, I popped the hood and started the engine. He opened the radiator cap and looked inside. Sitting in the van with the hood up, I couldn’t see his face, but Elizabeth later told me a look of great surprise had crossed his features. What I could see was him dipping two fingers into the open radiator throat, and pulling out a huge wad of red–brown mud. The radiator was full of it.

We speculated on how this might have happened, and he gave a price for flushing out the radiator. It was quite reasonable, we readily agreed, and thought that, just maybe, we’d solved the hot–weather stalling problem. The work took most of the day, and by late afternoon the mechanic and I took the van for a test drive. Everything was fine, so we talked about changing the oil and the air filter. We arranged for him to return at eight the next morning and finish the work in time for us to be on our way.

Since this was Friday, and we were in the big city, Elizabeth checked around and found a synagogue where we might attend Shabbat services. She talked with some one at the temple, and got general directions, but was unable to learn a lot more. We didn’t even know if the congregation was reform, conservative or orthodox. But we got dressed about as nicely as we possibly could (not so great after three months on the road, but not bad), and went knocking on their door. We were welcomed into a small, nicely appointed synagogue, and met a bunch of nice people, many of whom spoke English. We met the rabbi and discovered that he is originally from Argentina.

This was very interesting, as six years ago Elizabeth and I went with Kol HaLev—the Temple Beth Emeth adult choir, with which I sing—on a performance tour of Argentina. We visited several cities, including Buenos Aires, Rosario, Cordoba, and a small town called Moisesville, which had been founded by Jewish immigrants in the mid nineteenth century. When we told the rabbi here of Kol HaLev’s Argentinian adventure, and where we had gone, he told us that was born and raised in Rosario, and had sung in the choir at the big temple there, where we had also sung, for fifteen years.

Services were very interesting. They were almost completely sung, mostly in Hebrew with just a little Spanish thrown in. The rabbi occasionally mentioned page numbers in the prayer book, translating them into English for our benefit. Almost all of the prayers/songs were familiar. Some were nearly identical to how they’re done at Temple Beth Emeth, others were different but recognizable, and some had the same words with completely different melodies. It was actually a lot of fun. About forty people attended, many of them wandering in and out as services progressed. Rather casual.

During services, Joe looked around and noticed that one of the elderly ladies there had been at the art museum when we visited. She was unmistakeable, as she’d been about the only other visitor at the time, and we had exchanged greetings then.

After services, the rabbi introduced us to his wife, also from Argentina, and we continued our discussion of Kol HaLev’s trip there. It turned out that she was born and raised in Moisesville, and also sang in the choir in Rosario, where the two of them had met. We swapped notes about Argentina, met more of the congregation, including the woman from the museum, shared bread and wine, and went back to our hotel feeling quite refreshed and invigorated. It had been an unexpectedly pleasurable event.

The next morning, I woke up with a miserable cold. The mechanic showed up, and got to work, and I went back to bed. He finished a couple hours later, but while under the engine he’d noticed the front brake pads worn down to their limit. So we asked him to replace those as well, and I went back to bed, again. He finished about mid–afternoon, and we all relaxed, knowing that the van would be in excellent shape when next we took it out.

Unfortunately, that would not be that day, nor the next. My cold was no better in the morning, and Elizabeth had started feeling lousy as well. We took solace from the fact that we were in a very nice place, where the people liked us and took good care of us. Although we were anxious to be on the road, it was much better to be miserable in a comfortable bed in a nice hotel, than in uncertainty on the road.

Mañana.

Posted in Culture, El Salvador, Gear, Health, Preparation, Religion | 4 Comments

A hit and a miss

Posted on January 30, 2013 by Elizabeth

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Yuca fritters with syrup and chicha, an alcoholic beverage made from rice. I ate three servings of the fritters, but the chicha I ended up pouring down the sink, where I’m sure it scoured the drain clean.

Posted in Food | 1 Comment

Over the Volcano

Posted on January 25, 2013 by Henry

As has been mentioned here once or twice before, Joe likes to jump into water, whether from high places or whilst sporting SCUBA gear. Elizabeth seems most in her element in the dozens of museums we’ve visited, or winding through village marketplaces. My preferences run closer to E’s than J’s, but what I’ve enjoyed most of all this trip has been hiking through the mountains, forests, jungles and deserts. Yesterday was likely the best one so far.

The previous night we spent at Lago de Coatepeque, a caldera lake formed by two adjoining volcanos. It’s a beautiful lake, but it’s almost entirely surrounded by private homes, all with high-walled perimeters. From the road down at the level of the water and houses, it’s difficult to get a glimpse of the lake. There are some restaurants and a couple hotels interspersed among the houses, and the view from these is quite lovely. Likewise the view from the road farther up the caldera’s interior. There are many lookout points with spectacular views.

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About five kilometers from the lake as the crow flies, are three more volcanoes, contained within the Cerro Verde Parque Nacional. Since Rocinante is Earth-bound, and because the roads in these parts are, to be kind, interesting, and also because there is much to look at in between, it took us a couple of hours to drive there.

The oldest, lowest and greenest of the three is Cerro Verde. It’s covered with trees: more jungle-y toward the base and more pine-y toward the top. If you squint, you can almost see it as part of the Smokies. The next tallest, and the newest, is Izalco. It started as a hole in the ground about 250 years ago, and has been growing ever since. It’s a dark, stark cone of volcanic rock and ash, and has erupted as recently as 2005. Rounding out the trio is Santa Ana, by far the tallest, with dense vegetation at the base, fading out gradually toward a barren peak.

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At the park office on the side of Cerro Verde, one can arrange one of several available guided hikes. The easy one, to the peak of Cerro Verde, takes about 45 minutes. The grueling one, to the peak of Izalco, takes longer, but as we’d already done something very much like that, we all three decided to pass. The hike to the peak of Santa Ana and back takes about four hours, and looked promising. We decided to give it a shot.

All the hikes are guided, and accompanied by a couple of police officers (for safety, one supposes), one in front of the group and one in back. Our group consisted of the three of us, a dad and his two middle-school-age sons, and a couple of young women whose acquaintance we never quite made. The eleven of us set out at a reasonable pace through the forest/jungle, mostly shielded from the sun and quite comfortable. We saw much interesting vegetation, home to many butterflies and birds. As our altitude increased, the vegetation grew sparser, and the sun became very bright. And warm. And drying. The terrain reminded me somewhat of the Sonoran desert, in southern Arizona and Mexico.

Occasionally we’d encounter other groups, earlier risers than we, making the return trip. They assured us that we were almost there, and that achieving the peak was worth the effort. As we grew more tired, hot and dehydrated, I became skeptical. E and J stopped more often to rest and pull on their water bottles. At one point, I even found myself getting dizzy. We pressed on.

Then we reached the top, or close enough to it to see what it’s all about. Completely hidden from below, the peak of Santa Ana is, surprise surprise, a volcanic crater. It drops for maybe a couple hundred feet of beautifully stratified rock, past which it’s filled with cloudy, pale green water. Wisps of smoke and steam are visible in the water, and rising up from its surface. It takes a minute to realize that this is a clear indication that the volcano is still active. Standing and watching the water, rock and vapor, one also notices the clouds slipping between the mountain peaks and dissipating in the valley below. And oh yes, to the south you can see many miles of the El Salvador coastline and the Pacific beyond. The word spectacular does not come close.

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At the beginning of the upward trek, the two boys hiking with their father decided to try out their English on us. We exchanged pleasantries in both languages and got to know a little bit about each other. Kenneth is fourteen and David is eleven. They live and go to school in San Salvador, where their Dad, Nelson, is a doctor, and their mom writes software. [Somebody else we met recently told us that Anglo names are very popular in El Salvador these days. Go figure.] As the hike grew more strenuous, the conversation dwindled. But at the top we all relaxed, shared food and talked some more, and then much more on the way down, when it was easier to catch one’s breath. Nelson’s English is about on a par my my Spanish (not so great), and we switched back and forth between them. Kenneth is very smart, nearly fluent in English, studies history, and had many questions on a wide range of topics. E shifted easily into teacher mode. All three of our companions were warm and friendly, and their company added another layer of enjoyment to the day.

Back at the park offices on Cerro Verde, we discussed where we would spend the night. The park had a few cabins for rent, but these were small, grim, and not inexpensive. Down the road there were two other places with cabañas. One of the officials at the park said he liked Campo Bello better than the other place, so we decided to give it a try.

It turned out to be also not cheap, but worth every penny in view and charm. The cabins are like ferro-cement igloos, very clean, and overlooking yet another amazing view. This one was from high on the side of Cerro Verde, looking south over the valley toward the sea. Turning around, we could see behind us Santa Ana, the peak we had just climbed. We gathered wood and made dinner on the stone grill just outside the front door, and watched the sun sink into the Pacific. The lights came on in the various cities and villages around the valley, some of which we had visited, others we’d seen only on the map. The stars came out, the sky turned black, the wind continued to blow, and we retired to the igloo to watch Brave on my laptop.

IMG_1375 IMG_1353 IMG_1346 IMG_1362 IMG_1351 IMG_1349 IMG_1374 IMG_1371In the morning, we rose early (for us), cooked breakfast, and headed back down the road toward Armenia and San Salvador.

Posted in El Salvador, Food, Nature, photos | 2 Comments

An unplanned excursion

Posted on January 25, 2013 by Elizabeth

The idea of a Jewish community in Armenia is not so very far-fetched. Unless, that is, you are talking, not about the country in the Caucasus, but rather the town of Armenia, El Salvador. This pleasant town of 24,000 residents, not far from San Salvador, has a tiny, isolated Jewish community of about 90 people. Most are descendants of Jews forcibly converted to Catholicism during the Inquisition, and some are Jews by choice. One of our goals, from the outset of the trip, was to visit the community of Armenia.

At the Hostel Mama y Papa in El Bosque El Imposible, we met Daryl, a young Australian Jew, who expressed an interest in the community of Armenia. When we met up again with him and his traveling companions (Fabian from Switzerland and Mike from Denmark) in the foodie town of Juayua, we invited them all to come with us on a day trip to Armenia.

We left bright and early at the crack of nine the next morning. Armenia is only about 50 kilometers from Juayua, so it was entirely feasible to travel there with all six of us crammed into the four and a half seats of the van, visit for a bit, and then get back to our hotel before dark. We’ve taken to planning our travel pretty carefully, because the most recent problem with poor Rocinante is with the temperature sensor in the fuel pump; when the gas tank gets too hot–after, for example, traveling for too many afternoon hours on hot tarmac–the fuel pump thinks the engine is overheating and it shuts off, causing the car to stall. Therefore, we travel mostly in the morning, and not too far in any given day. And we always park in the shade.

We glided down the mountain from Juayua, past booths selling wickerwork, with three of the Salvadoran volcanoes in view. We arrived at the junction town of Sonsonate in good time. The rest of the trip was all along the flat on good roads, and went very smoothly. We saw a sign that read “Armenia: 5 k” (and also, interestingly “Lourdes, 13 k”). Yay! we were almost there.

Up ahead was a police check point. We see these regularly throughout Central America, and have almost never had any kind of difficulty. The first (and until today, only) problem we had was a 1000 peso ($75) bribe we paid in Mexico. The problem was this: because of the Canadianness of the seller, our car is registered in British Columbia. BC, unlike anywhere else I know, uses the original purchase agreement signed over to the current owner in place of a title document. In other words, we have legal paperwork showing that we own the vehicle, but it doesn’t look “official.” The policeman in Mexico claimed it was not, therefore, official, and was prepared to write us a citation which would, he said, cost us 2000 pesos and require us to spend the night in the town–a town so undistinguished I can’t remember the name of it–possibly in jail. Unless, of course, we just gave him 1000 pesos. Which, of course, we did, after which he was all smiles and handshakes, and wished us the safest and happiest of journeys.

We learned two things from our Mexican experience. First, we should never admit to speaking much Spanish at all at a checkpoint; it makes it too much trouble to explain to us what they want in terms of bribery, so they give up before they start. Second, we needed better-looking paperwork. At our next stop, we created a very official-looking certificate of title from the Province of British Columbia, with the state seal and the VIN of the car, and Henry’s name. It has worked like a charm everywhere. Police, customs officials, immigration: everyone accepts it. We’ve never had a single problem with it since then. (And we’ve only been asked once why our car is registered in Canada while our passports are from the US. We simply said that we live very near the border, and the customs official just grunted and stamped our passports.) Thank you, Photoshop!

But back to the present day, where we are at the police checkpoint only four kilometers from Armenia. We were waved over. We pulled to the side of the road. Before Henry rolled his window down, I said, “Remember, we don’t speak much Spanish!” “I can probably help you with that,” Fabian said. “Nooooo,” we said in unison, “We.Don’t. Speak. Much. Spanish.” “Ah.”

The police asked for Henry’s license, which he handed over. (I should add that, on the advice of another traveler, I made laminated copies of our drivers licenses before we left home, so as not to release actual documents unless asked. It was one of these that Henry volunteered.) Then they asked for our customs certificate for the car. We pulled out the notebook in which we keep all our important documents, and then remembered: there was no paperwork coming into El Salvador. We crossed from Honduras to Perquín, in the western mountains, and had the easiest, most pleasant border experience, almost as pleasant as going to Canada in the old days. Everyone at the border was very friendly and helpful; they examined our passports, took a casual look in the back of the van, and waved as we pulled away. We had assumed that they knew what they were doing, and naturally, we didn’t request more paperwork than they offered. Apparently we should have.

The checkpoint police were not happy. We searched through all the documentation for the car, and through our passports, and couldn’t find anything at all about our entry into El Salvador. They looked over our shoulders, murmuring “No, es de Guatemala,” “No, es de Honduras” as we leafed through the papers. They assured us there was no problem with our passports, but insisted they needed the customs document. There were five different policemen at the checkpoint, and at various times each one came over to the car to ask us again if we were sure we didn’t have it. We had, by now, given up on not speaking Spanish, and were doing our darnedest to explain and understand.

They asked us to wait. We weren’t supposed to be on the road at all, apparently, without the customs paper; they were trying to phone their superiors for instruction, but this was complicated by the fact that it was Sunday and no one could figure out what to do. All five of them milled around, variously on cellphones, sitting in the police truck, or waving over other motorists for a brief check.

We sat in the car. Now, remember that there are six of us: Joe and I sharing the passenger seat and the three young men–each one well over six feet tall–crammed into the back bench seat. We never turn the engine off at a checkpoint, so that we can leave immediately. But after a half hour, it was clear that we weren’t going anywhere any time soon. Henry turned the car off, and we made ourselves comfortable. Our hopes of reaching Armenia dwindled by the minute.

One of the policemen ambled over to the car, and asked me, in a friendly way, to explain how we were all together. I said, again, because most of what I said at any point needed to be repeated at least once for a different policeman, that Henry, Joe, and I were a family, and that the other three were friends that we had met recently. He asked for their passports, and here we met with another glitch–none of them were carrying a passport, having left them in the hotel for safety. This was met with concern and scolding, but no definitive punishment; however, it added to the overall irregularity of the situation.

After about an hour of waiting, and at least four different cellphone consultations, the police determined that we needed to drive to the customs headquarters in San Salvador, over 40 kilometers from the check point. I explained that because we were staying in Juayua, we would need to go back there afterwards, and that our car was having troubles and might not make it. I promised that we would go tomorrow to get the paperwork, and that we really would do it, because we didn’t want to drive around without it either.

“No. Hoy.” the policeman (whose name turned out to be Eric) said, very firmly.

I then objected that we wouldn’t be able to get through the city, get the document, and get back to Juayua before dark; there was no way, I said, gesturing to Joe, that I was going to drive through the mountains after dark with el pequeño.

“Hmm. She has a point,” one of the police said. “That wouldn’t be good.”

They consulted among themselves more, heads together over our tourist map of El Salvador. After much discussion, they came back with a new plan. They would escort us to the Guatemalan border at Hachadura, on the coastal highway, CA 2.

“That’s even farther than San Salvador!” I said, adding up the distance markers on the map. “Look–it’s at least 80 kilometers to Hachadura!”

“No, really?” said a policeman, taking the map and checking it himself. “She’s right, it’s pretty far.”

“Yes, but the road is very flat and smooth.” said another policemen. “We go there all the time; it’s a quick trip. We’ll escort you back to Juayua so you’ll be safe.”

A couple of the policemen reminded us that they held Henry’s drivers license and the title to the car as surety, and instructed us to follow them them to the border. (It was good to know that our handiwork was so convincing, but of course we planned to do as told in any case. All five of them had great big guns.)

It was clear that we weren’t going to get out of this. But since we were backtracking toward Sonsonate, I asked if we could drop Daryl, Mike, and Fabian, so they could catch a bus back to Juayua. After another round of discussion and consultation, they decided that would be okay.

We squeezed back in the van. The police picked up their orange traffic cones and tossed them in the back of their pickup, all five of them piled inside, and they pulled out with us following. We were headed the wrong way, so at the first opportunity to turn around, all four of the police who had window seats stuck their arms out, two with the traditional left turn signal, one with a bent-arm left signal from the right side of the car, and the fourth signaling a “blinking light” by opening and closing his hand. We made the u-turn perhaps two kilometers from our goal.

I had requested that we stop for a bathroom break, but as the police led us past two gas stations without stopping, it appeared they had forgotten. We pulled into the next gas station and watched the police truck drive off down the highway. By the time I was done, though, they had circled back around and come back to get us. Darn.

Quite soon, we arrived at Sonsonate, and the police pulled over at a bus stop. Daryl, Mike, and Fabian were all set to jump out and hop on a bus, headed, if not for Armenia, for a short ride back to the comfort of the hotel. Ha. The police had been discussing the situation during their drive, and had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t safe (they said) to just leave them at the bus stop, and that the three guys needed to come for the whole trip. Why it wasn’t safe to leave three grown men at a bus stop in broad daylight on a Sunday in a provincial town, we never learned.

We arrived at the Hachadura about an hour later. This was where having a police escort was an advantage; the border was choked with big trucks, but our police just hopped out of their car and ushered us right past the line. It wasn’t worth saving that time, though, since we were immediately shuttled into a dank, dusty, grim, bureaucratic fugue state.

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First we were escorted into a room where we were asked for our passports. When the situation had first started to get complicated, Henry had called the US Embassy in San Salvador, just in case. The duty officer there was looking up the Salvadoran regulations and precedence while we were driving to the border, and I wanted to check in with her; we had no cellphone service there, so I asked if I could call from a land line. The official refused, which made me very nervous, so I refused to hand over the passports until I made the call. We had a little clashing of antlers, but I finally decided to let him win. A little while later his superior came into the room and I both got to complain about him and call the Embassy, so that worked out well. The duty officer said that it was all legitimate and was the fault of the customs officials at Perquín, which was unfortunate and inconvenient. Still, I felt better knowing that she knew where we were and what was happening.

The afternoon dragged on. We dealt with another official who was so busy chatting with a friend (who seemed not to have bathed for weeks) that he couldn’t attend to us for a half an hour. We dealt with a couple of other officials. We were sent to another office and waited in line for a while. We were sent back to the first guy. Our five policemen hung out, sometimes with us, sometimes outside, sometimes off in the snack bar. They helped explain the whole thing for us a couple of times, but once it was clear that the paperwork would be complete, they shook all our hands with big smiles, and left. So much for our safety.

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After several hours, several repetitions of our story, and much waiting, we had the customs document clutched firmly in hand, and we were finally free to go. We ran to the van, clambered in, and headed straight for the exit gate. Of course there was an official checking documents there, and of course he stopped us. He asked where we were coming from, and we launched into the story more time. “Wait, what?” he said, confused, at which point I’m afraid I just leaned forward, groaning, and smacked my forehead on the dashboard. Luckily, the official laughed and said, in English, “I think your wife has had enough!” and let us go.

We made good time on the way back, unescorted, on the hot coastal highway and then up into the mountains. But remember how the fuel pump shuts off when it gets too hot? We were about eight kilometers from Juayua, all uphill, when Rocinante started to stall. We made the last bit of our eight hour, 160 kilometer adventure in 100 meter increments, at an average speed of about 10kph.

Daryl, Mike, and Fabian took it all in very good spirit, which was kind of them. Sometimes traveling is fun, and sometimes, well, things don’t happen they way you planned. And it was hard not to see the humor in the whole fiasco.

Meanwhile, five police officers spent a total of 35 man hours escorting us to the border for a single piece of paper, having abandoned their checkpoint station in one of the busiest drug-trafficking regions in the world. But we’re legal now, and it didn’t cost us a penny.

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