No U-Turns Allowed

This morning, at the last minute, we had to cancel the planned trip to the Pacific beaches we had been so looking forward to experiencing. In the wake of the monstrous earthquake that recently devastated parts of Chile, warnings had been issued for a tsunami that threatened the western coast of Central America. We had arranged to borrow the Es Artes pickup truck and already had our overnight bags packed in the back seat when we received word of the danger.

Truck keys in hand, we decided we might as well take advantage of the situation. Frank suggested we drive down the long steep hill to the nearby port on Lago Suchitlan. We had already made the trip on foot and didn't need to prove anything by repeating that hike. Maybe a boat trip would take some of the sting out of our disappointment.

Upon arriving at the sharp bend in the road that leads to the right and down to the tourist centre and concrete boat ramp, we noticed another road veering slightly off to the left and over a hill. Not in any hurry, I decided to steer the truck that way and see where it led. The initial stretch was lined with expensive homes mostly hidden behind impressive gates. After a bit, the road began to descend sharply into the valley and the quality of the houses followed suit. As the road grew steeper and narrower, we began to have misgivings. With no place wide enough to turn around, continuing downward seemed to be the only option. The brakes were holding up better than my nerves as the prospect of finding a turn-around spot grew dimmer and dimmer. Eventually the twisting and turning cobbled road simply ended and became an unused footpath through the wooded ravine.

Only one choice remained now: backing up the hill to a wider spot. After nudging the shift lever into reverse, I eased out the clutch and applied some throttle. With most of the weight of the truck bearing down on the front wheels, the well-worn back tires immediately started to spin on the slippery cobblestones and we made zero progress. My palms were becoming moist by this point, and it wasn't just due to the heat. A second attempt with more gusto only made the tires spin faster and we could smell the acridly distinct aroma of burning rubber. We could always walk home to the hotel, I thought, and I hadn't wrecked anything yet; but the prospect of telling Tito and Tatiana that their truck was in the ravine was more daunting than the hill.

Pushing in the clutch and relaxing the brakes, I deliberately let the little Nissan roll as far forward as I dared, even though that meant we were practically in the woods. With my right arm stretched across the top of the seat and my neck twisted into a pretzel to allow a better view over my shoulder, I willed the truck back up the hill, the rear tires screaming, scrabbling for traction on the smooth stones. The curves were coming up fast, but I had to maintain precious momentum by keeping my foot to the floor as we bounced and lurched drunkenly backwards up the hill. Finally, we reached a place on the road wide enough to get the nose pointed in the right direction. Seconds later, we passed another truck barreling down the hill. They say timing is everything. Had the other truck arrived at one of those blind curves just a few moments earlier, this story might have had an entirely different ending.

And what is the ending? We drove down to Puerto San Juan without further adventure. Unable to negotiate a reasonable rate on a boat tour, we walked along the shore and watched a couple of farmers repairing a barb wire fence that reached out into the lake. A dozen cows grazed on the scruffy grass and weeds. Judging by the number of cow pies festooning the ground on the public side of the fence, there had been a prison break, and it hadn't been recent.

Back at our own ranch, we enjoyed the sun for awhile, walked into town to buy some bananas and the last two loaves of bread at the bakery, and then spent the remainder of the day in blissful indolence. We failed in all our attempts to find live coverage of the Canada/USA hockey game and had to rely on CNN and CTV web headlines to keep us up to date. Ironically, it was the BBC online service that provided the joyful news of Canada's victory.

Moon Over El Salvador

Technically, the moon is not full this month until tomorrow night. But the friendly white face I see staring back at me from a cloudless sky is pretty darn close to perfect tonight. The setting of the sun and the arrival of a gentle breeze drew away most of the blistering heat of the day, leaving just enough to make walking downtown a pleasure. I know snowbound readers must be getting tired of weather updates from the tropics. Sorry. Your cold reality will soon be mine as well, so I'm trying to appreciate the climate here as much as possible in my last few days. Writing about it helps sharpen my awareness.

I played Ted the Tourist today. After a late breakfast, I donned my full Gringo costume of bright white New Balance running shoes (does mentioning the brand name merit some compensation? Even a tee shirt or a pair of shoelaces would be nice) and a camera slung over my shoulder. Frank and I trudged up the hill in the scorching heat to Pascal's gallery. I had noticed a few interesting pieces in the gift shop last week and this morning I chose a few souvenirs to take home. The salesperson carefully wrapped up each item in newspapers, and when I expressed concern that they might be damaged by airline baggage handlers not known for their light touch, she added a blanket of bubble wrap around each bundle. I left the store with everything packed neatly in a paper shopping bag with loop handles, just to complete the tourist image.

The rest of the day was spent acting like someone on vacation. I slathered on some sunblock and hung around the pool, in and out of the water, for the rest of the afternoon. The remainder of this lazy day was equally uneventful. Downtown for drinks on the square and then a simple but delicious pasta meal around the corner at Harlequin's.

And now I'm alone on the hotel terrace. Off in the distance I can hear loud dance music playing, muffled and not at all unpleasant. The pool pump had been making soft splashing noises up until a minute ago, but it just shut itself off and the silence of the night is deafening. There is not one dog barking, not one rooster crowing. Other than the crowd at the disco, has everyone else gone to San Salvador for the weekend? And taken all their pets and livestock with them?

If I wake up in time in the morning, we're planning on driving to the beach tomorrow.It's apparently a two and a half hour drive, so we'll probably stay overnight at the ocean. That way we'll be able to avoid the San Salvador-bound evening traffic, watch the sun set over the Pacific and see the entirely full moon reflected in the water. Because I don't intend to lug my lap top to the beach, tomorrow is shaping up as a blog-free day. Maybe we could all use a break.

Lunch on the Run

A couple of days ago, our traditional lunch at Villa Balanza was a little more traditional than I had expected. Tatiana knew from our habits that we would show up around noon; she and a few others from rehearsal at the chapel arrived moments after we had taken our seats. Special arrangements with the owner had been made. We weren't even offered the usual choice from among the three daily specials. 'Don't worry about it', Tatiana said. 'You'll like it'. Hmm, I thought. That sounds ominous.

Before long, two waitresses bearing large trays glided our way and set down identical meals in front of each of us. Except that maybe Tatiana's serving looked a little more generous. Hmm, I thought again as I eyed the dish before me. Not wanting to initiate an international incident, I politely began to pick away at the scrawny leg (perhaps) sitting off by itself on the plate, a safe distance from the vegetables. It seemed to be meat of some kind, but with more bones than anything else. The little bit of flesh there was proved fairly tough. Maybe that's why the vegetables were nervous. If it was chicken, this particular specimen must have spent every day of a long hard life running from the Colonel. I can't remember which of us innocents finally posed the inevitable question. Garrolo was the answer. 'Oh, what's that?' I asked. Lizard. Despite what everyone always says about exotic food, garrolo doesn't really taste like chicken.

Frank and I left the restaurant intact, neither of us stretched out in agony in the cargo bed, and Tito drove us back to work at Escuela Taller. One of our guys was out behind the central building watering the pavement when he spotted something up one of the trees and shouted out a battle cry - in Spanish, of course. You guessed it. The 'before' version of today's special. The rest of the guys were out there in a flash, excited as anything, throwing sticks and trying to capture a free lunch. But the garrolo was even faster, and he dashed into a nearby pile of scrap wood before they could even think about sticking a fork in him.

Nearing the Finish Line

There is nothing like a blank monitor screen and a flashing cursor to scare one into sobriety. One of the beauties of this tiny town is that we're able to get everywhere on foot. If there is any place on earth that punishes drunk walking, it most certainly is not Suchitoto. That is not to imply that the local citizens stagger around in a stupor. Far from it. But living here has reminded me of how obsessed we North Americans are about rules. Sure, there may be heightened risks in driving a vehicle on tires smoother than a pane of glass, but overall, common sense seems to prevail over blind obedience to an imposed code of behavior. It's refreshing to see drivers work things out creatively on the narrow streets, even if it means bending the 'rules' a little bit. I haven't witnessed an accident yet. Rarely do you hear a horn blare, and if you do, it's probably someone honking hello to a passing friend. And there is definitely not a police cruiser in every rear view mirror.

The folks at Es Artes hosted a lovely candlelit gathering on the cobbled courtyard of the offices. A very simple affair - a large cooler full of beer and a pot of pupusas in the kitchen. The nearly full moon augmented the flickering table-top lighting; seeing the enclosed outdoor space in this way, lit by something softer than the glaring mid-day sun, rekindled my dream of seeing the courtyard transformed into a small rehearsal/performance area. Maybe some day...

I probably had more beers than pupusas, but I was advised to drink lots of fluids here because of the heat. There are no rules here at the hotel prohibiting midnight swimming but I think I'll post this and weave my way across the flagstone walkway to my room.

While we still have to assemble the modular units and install the nosing, our work at Escuela Taller is essentially over. The construction of the stage is finished, the plywood has been stained and sealed. Even the four masking flats were glued, screwed and nailed together today. The portable ticket/information booth only needs some fabric stapled to the front and rear walls to be complete - fabric that was shipped from Stratford, along with all the lights, dimmers, and other equipment and tools that sit in the Customs' sealed container, waiting uselessly in port for the local politicians and bureaucrats to allow its entry into the country.

Tomorrow is the last day at the school for the guys and gal who have helped us accomplish our goals. I only hope that we have had as positive an effect on their lives as they have had on ours.

These Eyes...

Work on the modular stage is on schedule, if such a word exists in El Salvador (I say that with sincere affection), to meet our self-imposed deadline of Friday the 26th. Provided we line up a biggish (I'm shocked Spell Check didn't yell at me for that one!) truck to haul the units over to the chapel at the Arts Centre, the new stage should be assembled and tagged together by Happy Hour. That's the Canadian optimist in me speaking. We'll see.

The portable ticket/information booth is virtually complete. We had discussed various roof treatments, but in the end we opted for a slatted look - not indigenously correct or at all waterproof but certainly cheaper, easier, quicker and, most importantly, lighter than the other options. Tomorrow we begin construction of the masking panels needed to block some of the late afternoon sun from streaming through the side doors of the chapel and consternating the lighting contingent. Mike and Mel, you owe us a beer.

After work today and a brief meeting with Tatiana, we tumbled into the pool. A gentle breeze blowing across the surface of the water actually made us feel, dare I say it?, cool. Following the refreshing swim, with the delicate touch of a safe cracker, I was able to finesse the shower controls into delivering a welcome hot water rinse.

It was during our regular pre-dinner gathering at Chomba's on the Square, where the members of Es Artes often congregate at dusk in that lingering moment between Tarde and Noche, that I embarrassed myself. Seated next to Tatiana, I was attempting to explain to her how Mario, the talented metalworker from Escuela Taller who had the run-in with the prop pig, had quietly given Frank a wallet he had made. The two have become close friends during the past two weeks; much of their bond is based on Frank's patience and generosity in sharing with Mario some of his knowledge hard won over a lifetime of transforming inarticulate steel into art. Stroll past the Elizabethan Garden in front of the Festival Theatre and take a close look at the life-size stainless steel William Shakespeare poised with silver quill in hand. Or the magnificent steed in the courtyard outside Stratford General Hospital. Each of them speaks eloquently of Frank's genius.

I was doing alright with the genesis of the gift. However, I suddenly ran into serious trouble when I began to describe the inscription carved into the wallet. My throat closed and my eyes filled with tears that I couldn't will away as I tried to repeat the simple words, written with such purity and honesty.
Para My Friend Frank,
de Mario
I know we may be teaching these kids valuable skills, but we're learning so much more.

One (And a Half) For The Birds

I know there are volunteers working all over the world, some of them living in straw huts with no electricity or running water, working fourteen hour days under horrible conditions, fighting poverty and disease, and never complaining. So I realize we're incredibly fortunate to be here in Suchitoto. But when you get used to something and it's taken away, I suppose it's human nature to feel slighted or hard-done-by.

I recently heard of a visiting Canadian staying in a first class hotel here whose room air conditioner suddenly quit working. For two consecutive nights! During a hot spell. Oh, the horror, the horror.

I also heard tales of a guest spending an hour in the normally scrupulously clean swimming pool last Sunday afternoon. The same pool that is scrubbed and vacuumed every morning at seven am. Spotting what he thought was a large and previously unseen flower blossom floating on the surface, the unidentified guest swam closer for a better look, picked up the blossom by what seemed to be the stem, and discovered he was holding the back half of a large mouse, or a small rat, by its long grey tail. The front half of the creature was never found; one theory is that a turkey vulture, one of the many that constantly circle over the adjacent ravine, might have dropped half his lunch on the way home from Rodent Hut.

But these stories may only be urban myths. Whether the events actually happened, I cannot say.

However, I can report with unbiased honesty and photographic proof that a pleasant little non-event for the memory scrap book occurred this morning on our way to Escuela Taller. We had stopped at a small hardware store in town to purchase some supplies. The floor space available for customers was literally the size of your dining room table. Less than that if you have a ton of kids or too much money. Walking around on the floor and squawking loudly were a couple of green parrots, each about the size of a starling, but resembling, well, a parrot. Frank finally convinced them to hop onto his lowered hand and up his arm they came. The two of them seemed quite content to perch on his shoulders, lovingly administering little pecks and bites to his ears and neck. When Frank had tired of the affection he gently placed them on the counter, but they wanted more, so up they marched again. We got a few photos, a couple of them taken on Frank's camera by the proud and smiling store owner on the other side of the metal counter. Who hadn't given his birds names, an omission I found rather strange.

When Frank had finally really had enough, he set them down once again, this time with finality. Naturally, I couldn't pass up the opportunity, so I invited them to climb aboard. They felt weightless but wonderfully alive on my shoulders. Then they discovered the beads I wear dangling on the end of two short braids behind my left ear. It sounded like a feeding frenzy back there. The tugging became firmer and more insistent and when I reached my hand back to loosen their grip I was rewarded with a warning bite on the thumb. It took Mr. Holte's intervention to pry them off. I'm not positive, but I think I had three beads in each braid when I left Canada. If we stop at the same hardware store on too many more occasions and the birds have their way, no one at home will recognize me.

Wheels and Half Circles

Very little to report on the work front today. Oh, we worked alright, but it was a bit of an effort. Thirty-five degrees sweetened with eighty-five percent humidity. The maypole got built, and the pocket in the riser to receive it. Lots of hand-sanding of the woodfiller. And Frank managed to get some stain on a few of the units. The entire litre and a half of water that I brought to the school at nine was out of the bottle and inside me by noon.

I have already mentioned some of the charms of Suchitoto. The narrow cobbled streets.The horses parked curbside. Cows plugging the main drag. The incredible vistas of the mountains and the lake. The hardware store where you can't browse but have to instead ask for what you want. Citizens poor in material things but rich in spirit.

There are also quite a few oddities that are not necessarily charming, but certainly novel and interesting:

Small variety stores selling soft drinks and snacks don't seem to open in the literal sense, at least not on Sundays. Iron gates remain shut during business hours. Customers approach the doorway, speak through the metalwork, pass their money through the filigree and then the owner passes out a Pepsi through the gate. Kind of like prison meals, only in reverse.

The wheel and rubber tire obviously rolled into town many years ago. All the cars, bicycles and 125 cc motorcycles, and the small pickups that are so prevalent, have something more or less round keeping the metal and oily bits from dragging on the pavement. Si. But handcarts and dollies? No. All over town, up and down the steepest hills, you'll see women walking along with huge baskets balanced on their heads (here we go again with that singular/plural nonsense). Young guys bearing ridiculously awkward and heavy loads on their stooped back and shoulders - huge tables or sacks of grain or giant jugs of water. The fellow in the procession last week carrying a car battery in his arms. The Coca Cola and beer delivery trucks have two wheeled dollies strapped above the back bumper, but they're from the city. Locally, I don't know if it's a matter of pride or poverty or perhaps even choice. The streets are teeth-rattling rough and the sidewalks are interrupted with minor cliffs every so often, so maybe a wagon would be a waste of time anyway.

Our beautiful hotel is definitely upscale and tourist-oriented. As warm as the climate here is, once in a while I feel like having a hot shower. The showerhead in my modern bathroom resembles a large hand-held hair dryer. There are even electric wires that snake down the wall and disappear into the device. CSA where are you? The small internal element can only heat a small amount of water as it streams past, so I either get a warm trickle or a cool drenching. On days like today, the cool drenching no es problema.

Nothing I have said should be construed as complaint or dissatisfaction. It's no secret that I love it here. The heat, the hills, the hugs, the hospitality. Everything here is wonderfully different. Even tonight's half moon, which is hanging in an ebony sky, presents a new face. In Canada, the current phase is a filled-in 'D' - go ahead, look out your window (if you can see luna through the falling snow). Here it's a silver cup waiting to be filled. With just over a week to go, I'm counting down my few remaining days here, and it is not with joyful anticipation of my departure.

Next Trip I Bring My Own Detergent

I arose quite early this morning to the first overcast day we've experienced in Suchitoto in two weeks. Still very warm, but no sun in sight. After showering, I gathered my dirty laundry and folded it into the same small plastic bag that the hotel staff had provided me last week.

My computer and drafting paper in one hand, the laundry bag in the other, I crossed the lawn to the front desk and asked the young lady on duty to please have the contents washed. She looked kind of alarmed, thinking I wanted it done right away. "No, no", I said. (Thank God Spanish and English share a couple of words.) "Manana", I assured her. Relieved, she carried the bag over to the adjacent counter where some of the other girls were working in the open kitchen. As I fired up my lap top, I looked across the deserted dining area and watched in amazement as girl #1 untied the knotted bag, sniffed the contents, and then passed the open bag over to girl #2. Who also stuck her nose almost in the bag and inhaled. They exchanged frowns and a few words and then laughed self-consciously when they noticed me observing them. I had folded the t-shirts to compact them somewhat (the bag is not large), so maybe there was some question about dirty/clean, but still...The next time I venture this far south of the border I'm definitely coming armed with more Espaniol.

After checking email, I spread out some paper and sketched a design for something Tatiana had spoken to us about. A lightweight, collapsible and portable booth for selling tickets, handing out brochures or promoting Es Artes events. Frank showed up on the terrace and we ate breakfast and then discussed and refined the design.

The next two hours were an exercise in frustration. In order to prevent offending anyone, I am not going to elaborate. I'll just say that Frank and I had a small plan that would speed up the completion of the stage and allow us the time to move on to the construction of the booth and some masking flats that we just found out about yesterday. Our plan didn't quite work out. In hindsight, I realize that my North American expectations overshadowed my patience. In the end, what happened or didn't happen was of no great consequence. The sun came out. We had a good day of R and R. As I keep reminding myself, the process is much more important than the product.

Drawing a Blank

Eleven pm local time and the blast furnace heat of the day has only relaxed a couple of degrees. There is not even the whisper of a breeze - the motionless trees surrounding the deck look like they're painted on the inky black backdrop of the sky and the water in the pool is an unrippled mirror.

This morning, after a late and leisurely breakfast, Frank and I returned to the terrace armed with drafting paper, scale rules and pencils. We cleared one of the dining tables, spread out our material and used the measurements we had gathered last week to draw an accurate floor plan of the performance space at the Arts Centre. Ed can now arrange the pine model of the set (which we brought with us from Canada) into an ideal configuration relative to the twelve columns that support the chapel roof. Much easier to slide around two ounce blocks than to lift and drag one hundred pound units in a quest for the perfect layout. Are you reading this Ed?

Mid-afternoon, we dropped off the drawing and I was slightly surprised to see so many theatre hopefuls sweating through the exercises and dance routines. Maybe that was what someone saw Elvis crying about in the chapel - it was too darn hot! There were almost fifty kids, and the artistic staff was certainly putting all of them through their paces. Frank and I had foolishly left our ballet slippers back at the hotel so we quietly disappeared through a side door into the relative chill of the 35 degree Suchitoto outside air.

After trying to describe yesterday's bizzare scene at Escuela Taller in last night's blog, I ran out of steam. What I left out was another curious event.

On our way downtown last evening we noticed that several houses had little 'shrines' set up on the outside wall, or on a table on the sidewalk. Houses here are built in the Spanish style: a block-long common wall butting right up to the sidewalk, each 'house' painted a different colour, the front door opening directly into the living room. So if you happen to be walking on the sidewalk (the cobbled street is the preferred option) and you look in an open door - the heat! - you'll often see outstretched legs inches away and feel like you're right in the living room with the family. Beyond the indoor living area is a walled, open-air courtyard.

The shrines we had seen were new, temporary and obviously religious, but we couldn't guess what they were for. We were soon seated on the usual wobbly folding chairs outside Chamba's Internet Cafe on the square. Coming slowly up the street towards us was a religious procession led by a couple of priests in white vestments. There was a gaggle of altar boys and a 4' by 7' platform borne on the shoulders of four sturdy fellows. On the purple fabric-covered platform was a 2/3 life size statue of Christ staggering under the weight of a cross. Stretched out behind these leaders were perhaps eighty or a hundred followers marching solemnly in loose, somewhat straggling, formation.

The group pulled up at the front of the small store immediately beside us, where another of the shrines had been set up. The priest intoned a lengthy prayer and the followers responded in unison. What was perhaps most interesting was the PA system. The priest used a microphone. A few feet behind the platform, someone held aloft a large, heavy speaker on a pole. I was unable to spot the amplifier, but I definitely saw a man carrying a huge car battery in his arms.

After a while, the procession started moving slowly past us and down the street. Hymn singing by a soloist was answered by a refrain from the folks behind. The procession turned the corner flanking the square and eventually vanished from sight. A guy came out of the store adjacent to the cafe and took down the white fabric that had formed a swag above the shrine (that's really not the correct word, but I'm stumped to come up with a better generic description that won't preempt the punch line. The R.C.'s reading this will have already figured out the simple mystery). A little boy snatched up the two pots of fake flowers that had adorned the site and trotted them back to his mum's business further along the sidewalk.

Much later, as Frank and I were walking home, we heard the familiar chanting and singing. Only then did the penny drop. The 'shrines' were the Stations of the Cross. The priests and parishioners were reenacting Christ's long march to Calvary, and they were still at it at this late hour. Incredible dedication and endurance.

All my years as an altar boy, including many Lenten services, should have informed me of what was going on. But that was a million years ago and I had never witnessed such an elaborate observance of the ritual. Please forgive me Father Charlie for I have forgotten.

Inside a Fellini Film?

After our short meeting at Casa Es Artes this morning we hoisted Eric's overweight suitcase into the back of our little rented pickup and rattled our way over the tumblestone streets to Escuela Taller. Even before we pulled into the steep driveway leading up to the locked gates of the school property it was obvious something was going on. Dozens of people were making their way up the hill and the small parking lot beyond the gates was full of vehicles. The courtyard was jammed with hundreds of people, some of them on crutches, some missing limbs, all of them looking beaten down.

The purpose of our visit was to show Ed the stage modules and let him experiment with different configurations of the risers, but I wondered how we could possibly achieve anything in these conditions. We had to politely cut through lines of citizens waiting in cues that snaked back and forth across the open space between the two wings of the school. There were even some people, many of them old and infirm, sitting on some of the recently completed units scattered around our outdoor work area. Tatiana was with us and initially had no idea about what was going on.

It turns out that Escuela Taller had been chosen (by the mayor?) as a meeting place for the people of Suchitoto who had been affected by the war. It was a census of sorts to determine what reparation could be made and to whom. I guess no one had thought it necessary to inform us of what had been planned for the day. The whole thing was extremely surreal - hundreds of sad-faced people lined up in the hot sun, each of them waiting for an opportunity to tell his or her story to some official seated at one of several small school desks set up on the pavement. I saw a few old women carrying their ID in small plastic bags. Another poor old soul was missing her lower jaw, probably blown off in the tragic events of a dozen years ago. Tired old men with deeply lined faces. Mothers breast feeding infants. There was no evidence of impatience or anger, only resignation and maybe a little hope.

As insensitive and irrelevant as it seemed, we diplomatically ushered the folks who had been using our risers as bleachers back to the courtyard, made sure they had chairs, and began setting up the stage. Like children playing with gigantic building blocks, we tried a number of different configurations and took a few photos. When Ed was satisfied, David and I carried one of the four by eight risers into a side workshop and I showed him how to patch a punky section of the plywood top. Meanwhile, Frank instructed a group of the students on how to fill the screw holes with the wood filler that Ed had graciously imported from Canada. Given the circumstances, the use of power tools was out. (We didn't need CUSO sensitivity training to tell us that.) We discussed some details with Ed and Tatiana, left the students with tasks that could be performed quietly after lunch, and took our leave.

Because he had a plane to catch, sometime around ten-thirty Eric had said his final goodbyes to the carpenters, tool fixers and prop builders, and to us, and slipped through the crowd to Tito's waiting truck.

And then there were two...

Comings and Goings

It's been a quiet day in Lake Suchitlan. (Sorry Mr. Keillor.) The three of us are more or less back to full strength. Eric worked away quietly on the pig that poked Mario in the eye yesterday, weaving broom material into the wire armature. Frank ate a lot of sawdust ripping the timbers into strips for the nosing. With the help of our eager little crew I glued and screwed the 1" x 2" pieces to the face of some of the risers. The rest will be done on site at the chapel once we have agreed on the final configuration of the modular units.

After lunch, I challenged the students to build one additional riser on their own, a copy of one of the four foot square units. We had a sheet of plywood and some off-cuts left over and I reasoned that Ed would appreciate having another option. It was great to see the group applying the lessons I had been teaching for the past several days, striving for accuracy and precision. Even though they continued to joke and kid one another constantly, they were seriously determined to make their riser at least equal to all the others we had built together. My approval seemed to matter to them, but I could see that their pride in being good carpenters mattered more. When they had finished their perfect creation I gently flipped it up on its side on the workbench, presented them with a marker and had them sign their names on the underside.

Ed Daranyi, the playwright and director, arrived in town late this afternoon. Frank and Eric had been sitting out in front of the local watering hole when Tatiana, returning from the airport with Ed and his son Trevor in the pickup, drove slowly past. Suchitoto is like Mayberry, only smaller. Naturally Andy and Opie hailed them, and an hour later, when I showed up ( I guess that makes me Barney), the impromptu party was in full swing. Ed's assistant Patricia, a lovely Salvadorian actress from the capital, had also joined the gang. We regrouped at Villa Balanza (where else?) for supper and made plans to meet at the offices of Es Artes first thing tomorrow morning. Sans cerveza.

Sadly, eball has to fly home tomorrow. He has been an absolute treat to work with, to share food and drink with, to have in our corner. His kindness and patience in navigating me through the mysteries of the computer world have been invaluable. His youthful optimism about the project has never wavered. Thank you and God speed Eric.

Pancakes and Cowboys

I just received an email from home this evening asking me, among other questions, if I had observed Pancake Tuesday yesterday. El Tejado presents the same breakfast menu every morning, and every morning I choose numero dos - scrambled eggs, hash browned potatoes, a sausage, bread and orange juice. For some unknown reason, yesterday morning I decided to break the routine and have pancakes and syrup. I certainly didn't know it was Shrove Tuesday. My guardian angel grew up Catholic, just like me, and he must have nudged my finger down to the bottom of the menu.

Frank was a bit under the weather today and opted to stick close to the hotel. He surfaced for a bit of fresh air later in the afternoon and managed the walk into town for supper, but he's still in some discomfort. Hopefully a good night's sleep will bring back the buoyant and irrepressible guy we know. Bonding is an overused term. I'm guilty myself. But the three of us, F and E and T, have really become a team here. When one of us is down, the others feel it immediately and profoundly. Just don't let Frank know I care about him so much.

Any Health and Safety Police reading this posting should log off right now. As much as we're trying to instill safe practices and work habits, there is a culture of casual disregard here that is difficult to change. Witness the condition of the welder in the photo. We can't very well insist that all the guys show up for work at the school in steel toed boots. Even if everyone wore full body armour and goalie masks, accidents might still occur. Today one of the fellows took a poke in the eye with the end of a piece of wire. No one's fault. But the problem was his refusal to seek medical attention. Maybe a machismo thing. After a few minutes of fruitless insistence, I phoned Tito, who came immediately and calmly persuaded Mario to go to the hospital. Thankfully, no serious damage had been done and the patient returned to the school with a bag of antibiotics and some pain killers.

The highlight of the day for me occurred a block from the school. We were on our way downtown for lunch and were forced to wait a minute or two while a farmer and his helper prodded a herd of twenty cattle over to the side of the main road into town. A cattle truck costs lots of money, uses gasoline or diesel fuel and, even in Suchitoto, probably requires insurance. God blessed cows with moving legs and hard hooves, so really, the event I watched today at noon made perfect sense.

One of the Many Pieces of Funky Art in Villa Balanza

More Exciting than the Ice Cream Truck - The Lumber and Plywood Arrives from San Salvador

Creating the English/Spanish Workshop Pictionary

R Crew and Our Crew - Learning a New Trade

Safety First! Believe It or Not, This is an Arc Welder. Check Out the 'Plug' Into the Receptacle

Frank at the Drill press that Eric Rewired

Bats in the Storage Room at Escuela Taller

Haircuts and Pupusas all 'Round

Not a lot to report on today. Frank shamed the local crew into finally cleaning up the scorpion nest of wood scraps piled up in the corner of one of the shops (see previous photo), although so far, the 'clean-up' has consisted of wheel barrowing the scraps out to the courtyard and dumping them in a new pile there. Someone is supposed to come and take everything away tomorrow, but we have learned that 'manana' doesn't necessarily mean within any particular span of time.

My two erstwhile (is that really a word? - spell check is currently having a siesta) amigos attacked the frightening electrical situation at Escuela Taller. Hemmoraging wires inspected, carefully reconnected and stuffed back into boxes hanging from the ceiling, new receptacles installed where needed, foil tape applied over gaping holes where knockout plugs should have been. There is a hardware store in Suchitoto but it's about the size of the washroom at your local Home Depot. Like the locals, we have been forced to make do with what we can find lying around on dusty shelves and hidden in crates in the storerooms at the school.

While Frank and Eric were busy with that, David (pronounced with a soft 'a'), Mario, Anselmo and Valentin helped me complete the final six risers. They are such a fun-loving bunch of guys, always laughing and joking, exchanging high fives, mocking our pathetic Spanish, teasing each other mercilessly. But they are also quick to lend a hand to each other and they perform the tasks I give them diligently and with quiet enthusiasm. Today when we returned from lunch they had strung out my 100 foot extension cable to the middle of the courtyard and set up a little barber shop there. One of them weilded a trimmer and a comb, another held a huge shard of broken mirror in his bare hands, as they took turns getting haircuts.

We left work/school early to allow time to cool down and clean up for our scheduled meeting with Mayor Martinez. We had begun to think he was a phantom and were considering printing tee shirts with 'Where's Javier?' on the front. Turns out he's a very busy man and a pretty decent guy with big hopes and dreams for his town.

Following the meeting, which lasted a couple of hours, Tatiana joined the Tres Amigos for dinner at our favourite restaurant, Villa Balanza. Delicious and satisfying pupusas for everyone, two beers each, and the bill came to $21.00. Try to find a deal like that in Stratford.

It's almost cool outside tonight. Perhaps the lower temperature will keep the barking dogs a little quieter. Oops. Having just uttered those foolish words, the yapping has begun. I guess it's not the heat that sets them off. The roosters will add their sonorous voices to the cacophony any minute now. But the beer is cheap and so far there hasn't been any snow to shovel, so I'm really not complaining.

Old Job, New Family

Fewer helpers were available today, but at least the temperature was up. I don't bother to ask any more what the actual number is because, as the locals have figured out, there's nothing you can do about it anyway.

Breakfast on the terrace. Truck ride to the school, me riding shotgun in the back. Tito had to slow to let the oncoming garbage truck squeeze past on the narrow street and I could have reached out and petted the horse tied to the lamp post right at that spot. He has a brightly coloured piece of fabric tied to his halter (the horse, not Tito) and I see him every morning in the same place. I think I'll name him 'Job'. After the dude in the old testament. I don't often use that word, but I thought it might, like, make me sound younger.

We actually did end up creating quite a pile of sawdust today, despite the heat. We don't really have a schedule, but if we did, we'd be ahead of it. We have most of the risers for the stage built and will probably finish the last of them by Thursday. Then it's just a matter of ripping the nosing - I threw that in just to befuddle the non-carpenter followers - filling the holes and painting or staining the plywood. Sorry Ed, you'll have no excuses.

Eric has begun making spears with bamboo, cardboard and muffler tape. He came back from the market this morning before breakfast with a bag full of palm leaf brooms which will be transformed into a wild boar on a stick.

Outside a tiny cafe facing the town square we enjoyed an evening meal that felt like a family reunion: Tatiana, her son and mother from San Salvador; her sister and her sister's partner from Oxford, England; Miquel and Maria and their son from around the corner. Even Tito and a friend showed up. Hellos and goodbyes always involve handshakes and hugs all 'round. This is not the place for a germaphobe. One of the young women we met at the CUSO-VSO prep course in Ottawa a million years ago - OK, it was January 28th of this year - was originally from Central America. I can still hear her parting words: 'The people there are going to want to hug you . Don't be afraid'.

Have I mentioned before that I love it here?

Happy Valentine's Day

Yesterday's entry, which didn't get posted until mid-morning today, was a real labour. And not of love. An intermittent Wi-Fi connection on the terrace at the hotel teased me into thinking I could compose online. Lost the signal, along with my draft, and went to plan B. Fiddled and fretted in Word for a couple of hours and then wiped out all my efforts with one errant, sleep-deprived key stroke. My cursing was silent but prodigious. Fell into bed extremely late and totally frustrated.

Still no signal from the terrace this morning, so after breakfast we strolled downtown. Frank and Eric checked out the market while I sat outside the Internet Cafe and tapped away. I had been up for several hours and I don't drink coffee. Neither soda pop nor canned juice was appealing. You guessed it. Cerveza. Well, I had to pay for my chair and the signal somehow.

It was pretty quiet downtown so we drifted back to the hotel and the pool. Lounged around like tourists, enjoying the sun and the sparkling water, until it was time to walk back to Miguel's for a late lunch. Miguel is Argentinian and the meal featured a lot of slow-cooked meat - chicken and pork and beef. Extremely tasty.

A nap would have been the perfect follower to the meal but I couldn't bear to let the glorious day go to waste so I sat outside by the pool, read and checked emails. Wireless working again! Oh yeah. One more thing. Eric helped me finally post some photos on the Blog. Nothing too embarrassing. Yet.

Craving something a little different, we went to a pizza place around the corner for supper. It's owned by the son of a retired fellow from Georgia who does laps in the hotel pool every afternoon. Yet another Frank. The pizza was fine but made me crave Pazzo's all the more. We walked off the cheese by heading downtown once again, this time to hear some live music in San Martin Park. A final hops nightcap on the square and then home again, home again, jiggity jog.

I know this entire entry makes us sound like lazy, beer-swilling slackers. Today, si. But Tito will be here bright and early in the morning to drive us to Escuele Taller. Wait until you see the sawdust fly tomorrow!

Under the Table(Saw)

Building the Great Canadian Tablesaw (Sierra de Banca)

Carpentry Shop at Escuela Taller - And I thought my basement was a mess

Eric and his Disciples

This is Tito

Eric above, Frank below

Water,Water Everywhere and only Beer to Drink

Late,late Saturday night, Feb 13th. I'll have to be honest. We goofed off today. Even though we had been expecting to drive to Escueler for a half day of teaching, the students had made an arrangement to take all of Saturday off. It's been a satisfying but tiring week so a day off came as an unexpected but welcome surprise.

After breakfast I pulled on a pair of decent walking shoes (I hadn't even bothered to pack my indecent ones). We set off on foot for Lago Suchitlan. The road leading there is paved with the ubiquitous cobblestones and it took perhaps half an hour to hike down the steep hill to the bottom. There we paid fifty cents each to enter a large covered pavilion housing a few small restaurants and a couple of craft/souvenir vendors. The place was virtually deserted. Some empty tour boats were pushed into the reeds lining the shore, a tiny truck had just dropped off some propane cylinders and, further along the water's edge, five or six fishermen standing knee deep in the lake. Their gear? - a small branch broken off a tree with a short length of string tied to the end. A far cry from the kazillion dollar bass boat, towering outboard and hi-tech fishing equipment you might see on The Fishing Channel, but these guys today looked like they were having a pretty good time.

It was a good workout climbing back up the hill in the heat of the late morning. Halfway up we encountered an English-speaking couple heading down. The guy, whom we've never met, addressed us as the three amigos. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Or maybe that's how the people in town actually refer to us.

The hotel pool seemed especially inviting after our sweaty walk and we relaxed in and out of the water for the rest of the morning. Hunger finally prompted us to walk into town to our favourite restaurant. I think I've mentioned it before - the daily lunch special, which is always delicious, comes to four bucks if you splurge for a beer with your meal. On our way there Tito rumbled up behind us in the pickup. Suchitoto is a very small town and you can't go far before you run into someone you know. (Tatiana only has to walk ten paces downtown before she’s giving some friend or acquaintance a big hug) Tito invited us to drop by the school later - not the trade school where we teach but rather the facility that includes the convent, class rooms, meeting halls and dormitory rooms. The Arts Centre.

After another terrific meal we walked the short distance to the school/convent. Fifty young students were there when we arrived. These are the kids that hope to become involved in the upcoming production of the play that Edward is working on. From what I have gathered, Suchitoto has a population of around 7,000. Today’s hopefuls had traveled in from the outlying areas, a collection of villages and communities whose residents bring the municipal total up to 30,000. Sitting in a wide circle on the floor, their shining faces beaming up at us, they listened intently as we three spoke of our passion for theatre and our desire to pass on the torch. Tatiana and Tito translated beautifully as we went (so Tito tells me) and I believe we were very well received. The kids were shy but they did manage to pose a few interesting questions, such as what had drawn us to the work and how a career in the theatre had affected our personal family lives. The experience reinforced the value of what we’re doing here. If our small contribution, followed by the efforts of those to follow, can help these young people realize a dream then the project will have succeeded.

On our walk back to the hotel we stopped at the home and studio of artist Miquel, another member of Es Artes. His place deserves an entire entry of its own – it’s full of art and spirit. Before leaving we made a plan to return there for a mid-day meal on Sunday. Every turn that we take here brings us closer into this welcoming community.

Just Another Day in Paradise

Writing offline is somehow not as satisfying as seeing my words go directly onto my Blog, but I am once again experiencing computer difficulties. Can’t get hooked up and not even Eric the Young can figure out what the problem is. Once again it’s Word to the rescue. Before supper tonight we met a gaggle of baby-faced Norwegians downtown outside an internet café. Four of them were surfing and emailing like demons. I’ll try to track them down tomorrow and exchange a beer for a word or two of advice on how to spread the Word.

Normal routine this morning. It was comforting to see Eric sitting out on the terrace waiting for me to complete the party of four. After a good breakfast and the telling of a few more theatre stories we said our goodbyes to Robert. He took the mid-afternoon flight back to Toronto and by now (Friday, 10:30 pm Eastern) should be safely home. He’s a great listener, a gentle soul with a refreshing sense of adventure and a ready laugh. We shall all miss him.

It felt exceedingly warm at Escuela Taller today. We heard later that the high was thirty-four degrees. If they talk about the weather here it’s of course in Spanish, and we don’t hear official pronouncements tracking the rise and fall of the mercury every half hour as we do in Canada. Given the attitude I’ve observed regarding just about everything else in this wonderful country, if it’s hotter than usual the locals probably just accept it and carry on without complaint. I’ve been drinking gallons of water, eating and drinking sensibly, and I feel healthier than I have in months. The cipro and Bromo Seltzer remain unused, the cough that hung around all January has been silent and my plantar fasciitis-plagued size elevens have been almost pain-free for the past five days. I’m sure I’ve just cursed myself by going public with this boring medical update, but so far, so good.

After slowly and deliberately gluing and screwing together the first of the risers for the stage, with our Salvadorian apprentices watching carefully, we let them take over, under our close observation, encouragement and involvement. By the end of the day we had assembled four complete 4’ x 8’ x 2’ risers. Not exactly a record-breaking pace, but given the heat, the language hurdle and the teaching mandate, I think we can be proud of what we accomplished. Sure, Frank and I could have asked the students to sit on their hammers and just watch us sail through the task in far less time, but speed and uber efficiency are not the point of the project. The stage will get built on time and it will be beautiful. And it will be the students who will build it.

I haven’t switched on the television in my room since we arrived so I’m not sure what channels are available, but I’m going to go inside and see if I can pick up some coverage of the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics. I’m fairly sure CNN and the big American broadcasters have a strong presence here. We might not be able to buy a ginger ale locally but most of our other cultural icons, like Pizza Hut and Wendy’s, are as thick in San Salvador as they are in Sudbury. It will be a sad day in Suchitoto when the first Burger King opens its doors.

Sawdust, Bananas and Blackboards

The end of another long, full day. I awoke with the sun this morning and as soon as I could focus my bleary eyes I tumbled out of bed and grabbed the lap top. It still felt warm from the previous night's workout, but then, everything in the room feels pretty warm to the touch most of the time. I set the trusty little Toshiba down on the mattress beside the pillow and cracked open the file I had created under the stars last night. Rarely content to leave well enough alone, I spent an hour re-writing before breakfast. Geesh!

Turns out the internet access problem had nothing to do with me. The staff had innocently shut down the system at a reasonable hour, when all sane guests would be either sleeping or having more fun than the www can provide. I have been assured that the problem won't occur again. Like everyone else I've encountered here in El Salvador, the folks at the hotel are accommodating and gracious.

Eric wasn't able to answer the bell for round four today. Too much heat and sun yesterday and maybe too many pupusas. Frank and Tito and I came back at lunch time to look in on him, then returned in an hour with a bunch of bananas and a couple of cans of Sprite. Strangely, you can't find ginger ale anywhere in town. When we came back to the hotel at the end of the school day eball was up and looking much better. Sleep and lots of fluids had done the trick. After the heroic work he accomplished yesterday he deserved at least a day off.

After the two senior citizens from Stratford had gathered and readied all the tools for today's push, we stood and chatted with some of the students as best we could. They are quite eager to learn English. Knowing a few more Spanish words would help us communicate more effectively than waving our hands around and making tool sounds.
The plywood top of the new extension we had made yesterday for the table saw became a make-shift blackboard. I drew a little sketch of a table saw, pencilled in 'TABLE SAW' beside it and then further over to the right 'SIERRA DE BANCO.' Then hammer, and drill, screw and hand saw, and so on. With each new drawing I had to ask for the word in Spanish. Soon I was printing in pronunciation guides for the Spanish names while Tito penciled in his version of how the English word should sound. We all laughed at the way each side was mangling the other's native language, tongues rolling and twisting around the unfamiliar sounds. But it was good-natured laughter, the kind that draws friends closer together. The whole little exercise had started spontaneously. It was done to fill the time while we waited for the plywood and lumber to arrive from San Salvador. I hope that chart never gets erased.

At ten thirty the materials arrived. Everyone chipped in to help offload the treasure. With the help of our keen carpenter assistants David and Nelson we managed to get a run-off table for the saw built before lunch time. In the afternoon our little team had cut to dimension all the plywood required for the four main risers of the stage - sides and ends and supporting ribs. It was hot and dusty and loud. The saw dust clung to my damp tee shirt and arms. But once again, it was a good day.

Today's Blog is dedicated to Eric. Hope you're feeling much better tomorrow my friend.

A couple of Robert's photos

Bonding, and not just with Elmers

I have been maddeningly unsuccessful in several attempts to get online tonight. Which means no emails, coming or going. And no way to post a new Blog entry. As usual, I’m not sure if the problem lies with my ineptitude, the Wi-Fi connection, or the pre-supper adjustments I made to get hooked up with another mail service. For a tantalizing ten minutes I was able to finally send, as well as receive emails. Now, three hours later, I seem to be entirely cut off from the outside world.

Rather than give up entirely, I have decided to click away on the keys for a while in Word, reasonably confident that I’ll be able to save and retrieve this document and paste it on my Blog page in the morning. Getting online? Just have to wait and see. For now, my thoughts are fresh and it’s been a great day. The sand man is calling to me but he’ll have to wait just a little longer.

I had stayed up too late last night struggling to find words. Fatigue had turned my brain to porridge. When I finally got to a point that could be considered a conclusion I gently closed the lap top and tip-toed silently across the courtyard to my room. Post cur, pre rooster, the place is as quiet as an empty church. Before I turned out my light I cranked up the room air conditioner. The noise of the fan helped to drown out the eventual crowing and I actually got a decent night’s sleep, even if it was a bit short. I woke up an hour before the alarm went off and used the time to reflect on the past couple of days and plan a bit for the one that lay waiting for us like an unopened gift.

In what I hope will become a regular ritual, Frank and Eric and I once again met on the terrace for breakfast. Words really cannot do justice to the tranquil beauty that we behold every morning. I will post a few pictures as soon as possible. But they will not be able to convey the sweet smells, the feel of the soft breeze, the gentle strains of the song birds, the air of expectancy and promise. We’ve only been here for three days and I already know leaving is going to break my heart.

We have become friends with another Canadian staying at El Tejado. Robert Crew, formerly of the Toronto Star. A great guy who has been sharing meals and the odd cerveza with us. He has a pretty good grasp of Spanish and has been helpful in augmenting our pathetic hand gestures. Some of the photos that I hope to post on this forum were generously given to me by Robert. He volunteered to volunteer with us today and was a welcome addition during our first real day of hands-on work at the school.

Tito joined us for a coffee on the patio and then the five of us piled into the pickup and rumbled along the bumblestone roads to the school. I happily rode sitting on the sidewall of the cargo bed, hanging onto the roll bar, getting the best view of the happy faces lining the streets, going about their business; sweeping the sidewalks and the gutters, doing laundry, filling the enormous baskets that the women carry effortlessly on top of their heads (I’ve waved the white flag on what form to ascribe to that last word. ‘Head’ singular doesn’t seem right. All the women can’t possibly share one head. But ‘heads’, plural, implies that they all might have a real problem in any area that concerns headwear, haircuts or decision-making. I welcome suggestions from any grammarians in the house), preparing food, washing their cars, playing and laughing with their children. And they all smiled warmly and said the abbreviated ‘dias’ as we drove slowly by. Every few blocks we’d encounter a horse parked by the curb being loaded up or waiting patiently for the day’s labours to begin. The pace of life in Suchitoto is tropical. And enviable.

It’s approaching the witching hour so I’m going to sum up our day with the students. The first thing we did upon arrival was drag out the massive home-made table saw from a storage room and set about making it more suitable for our purposes. Eric rewired the plug and the power box, Frank jumped into the fabrication of steel extensions and legs and I sat in the shade sipping the pina coladas I had smuggled in hidden in the pockets of my cargo pants. By the middle of the day, with the enthusiastic help of the students, we had turned an abandoned piece of dead weight into a really fine machine easily capable of accurately and safely(?)ripping all the plywood we’ll need for the construction of the stage. Eric was especially productive, working with a fascinated little group of students, teaching them how to revive a whole mess of derelict power tools found hiding in a big wooden box. In a scene resembling an updated version of an old master’s painting, the students gathered around and watched and learned and tried. Over the course of the day a pile of disembowelled routers and sanders and drills became an organized collection of functioning tools. It was magical to watch. Not just the resurrection of the broken DeWalt and Bosch tools, but the change in the relationship – from ‘us and them’ to simply ‘us’. Frank and I experienced the same transformation working with our respective, and respectful, teams. There was teaching and there was learning but there was also much more. The joking and the teasing, going in both directions, was so real and honest and trusting that I knew by three pm that the hardest part of our task is now behind us.

After school? A skyped conversation with Ed D in Stratford from the offices of Es Artes. Then pool, drinks, supper with the whole gang (tres amigos, Rob C, Tito and Tatiana) at Gringos, a ride back to the hotel in the pickup and bed for some, blog for the more foolish.

blogs and dogs and roosters too

Eleven-thirty pm local time (never mind what the 'blog posted at xxx' says. I still haven't figured out how to correct that four hour discrepancy) but it feels like much, much later. It has been a very full day, following on the heels of an interesting night.

After I made my way back to my 'Wi-Fi'less room last night I pretended to read for about ten minutes before I gave up that charade and switched off the bedside light.

There are, according to the most recent census, a million and twelve dogs in Suchitoto. Whether they're strays, I can't say, but most of them look underfed and a bit fearful. Not the kind that encourages a spontaneous scratch behind the ears. In any case, they all try to get the last word in, starting around ten o'clock at night. Canine Facebook. The barking went on non-stop for hours. Either their network went down or exhaustion finally overcame me, but at some point in the hot, still night I drifted off to the Land of Nod. But not for long.

I am not that familiar with the job description of your average rooster. Common knowledge holds that their morning summons to rise and shine coincides more or less with the sun's first peak over the eastern horizon. Not in Suchitoto. The locals here get to work around three am, and they don't quit until the sun is well up in the sky. Overachievers, to say the least. They were in fact so loud that I was convinced that several had somehow made their way into my room. A careful morning inspection of my locked door and still-intact screen proved that theory false.

But these are trifling complaints. I absolutely love it here. The air is soft and fragrant. There is a spectacular view of Lago Suchitlan from the terrace here at El Tejado. That's where I am right now, the only creature stirring, tap tapping on my keyboard. The pool is a sparkling blue jewel surrounded by palm and mango trees. I already mentioned the warmth of the folks in town - we are always greeted with a kind smile and a 'buenos' by every single person we encounter. Those who are married are equally friendly. The food is delicious, the beer is cheap, the relaxed pace of life addictive.

But the real joy of being here is in the team. Frank and Eric have been incredible, not just for enduring my snoring and pushiness, but in their continued enthusiasm and dedication to the project. Our Technical Director, Tito, is a laid-back, easy- going guy with a quick and gentle sense of humour. He picked us up at the airport in San Salvador and helped us load our heavy bags into his little truck and I liked him immediately. Tatiana joined us for breakfast this morning and I finally got to meet the person Frank had been raving about for months. She is the heart and soul of this project and I feel honoured to be associated with her.

After breakfast we drove over to the near-by site of the convent (it's referred to as something else here, but I'm not about to wake up Frank to ask him the name) and met Sister Peggy. Even with the bat poop-splattered walls (or maybe because of them) the chapel is breathtaking. Vibrant accoustics. Immense potential. If everything works out it will be a wonderful place for the launch. We discussed various options, took some measurements of the room and then headed off to the trade school, which is about five kilometres from where we're staying.

Conditions at the school were not as bad as I expected. Things are a bit messy but there is a lot of equipment and a very positive attitude. We met with about ten of the students, watched them at various tasks. They will alternate between what they are doing now - some metal fabrication and carpentry work - and the building of the modular stage with us. All of us, the young and the not so young, then gathered in an outdoor covered area where we outlined our objectives and answered questions. Tatiana translated beautifully. A nice al fresco lunch was followed by another look around the facility. We then established a priority list of our immediate goals and agreed to show up the next day wearing steel toed boots. The question of shorts or longs has not been resolved, but given the heat, I think I'll probably bare my knees.

The final stop was at the headquarters of Es Artes. It's a gem in the rough, possibly with more potential than the convent. There is a cobblestoned (Tito refers to them as tumblestones) courtyard with a huge tree off to one side that is just begging for a performance / rehearsal stage. Maybe someday. In the offices there we finalized the plywood order, discussed a few more details and were then sent off to enjoy the rest of the day relaxing by the pool. Which is exactly what we did.

My writing tonight has been even slower than usual. Glacial. Knowing the roosters are probably pacing back and forth already, warming up their vocal chords, itching to get busy, I'm going to hit the hay.

Before I sign off I would like to say that I am currently unable to send emails. I receive them alright but the few that I've sent have come right back as undeliverable. Until I solve that riddle this blog will be my sole voice to the outside world. Not very personal, but rest assured that I am doing just fine.
Other than the roosters and mad dogs, this is paradise.

Here at Last Lord, Here at Last

Hard to know where to begin. I'm so far past the need for sleep that I have no idea what I'm running on. Empty, I guess. So in no way will I be held accountable for anything I may say. What's that expression from the American cop shows, something about Miranda rights? Except she's a character in the Tempest, so that can't be it.

The Airporter arrived in Baden right on schedule in what is usually the middle of the night - 4:30 am. I believe I had managed about an hour and a half of sleep somewhere between one and three. Everything about the ride into Toronto was more or less exactly as I had imagined. Except that the rear seatback of the van came up to a point somewhere below my shoulder blades. Sleep would have put my head in danger of snapping off, so I had to delay the snoring until we were somewhere in the air far above Lake Ontario (I would have told you it was halfway to our destination, but Frank and Eric have informed me the noise started almost before the plane had leveled off).

I'm actually writing this from Frank's room. He must be closer to the WiFi (sp?) source. I can't seem to get online from my room 50 yards away. So I'm going to cut this short. The irony is that I finally have so much to talk about.

In a nutshell, the plane ride was smooth, pleasant and uneventful. At least during the times when I was awake. The airport in San Salvador was extemely busy, line-ups to get into the line-ups; but again, there were no problemas. See, I'm learning already! The heat is shocking. The country is beautiful. The people warm and friendly. Suchitoto is totally charming. There is so much more I want to share, but...

Frank is such a gracious host, he would never ask me to leave. But it's time we all got some rest. We have an eight am meeting with Tatiana and Tito on the terrace at the hotel, then another meeting with Sister Peggy at nine, followed by a tour of the school.

Definitely, to be continued...

'Twas the Night Before ...

I'm feeling a lot like the Ed Grimley character on the old SCTV series - the boy who couldn't wait for Christmas. Even my hair bears a resemblance to antsy Ed's - I've been pulling at it in frustration for much of the evening. The switch-over to the lap top didn't go as smoothly as it might have and then Blogger decided to give me grief over my password. My self-confidence on the computer front is shaky at best. The water wings are deflating as fast as the tide is rising. Thank God the under-thirty Eric is aboard.

I spent an hour or so outside today nailing thin strips of wood across the ramp I built for our poor old Airedale last week - she can't manage the steps to the deck very well anymore, but the ice and snow had turned the ramp into a toboggan run. The finish nails I was using were too small to grasp with gloved fingers so I worked as quickly as I could with bare hands. The sun was brilliant today but what was the temperature? Minus 10 degrees or something. As my fingers grew more and more numb I couldn't help but think that in less than twenty-four hours I would be stepping off a plane into a 30 degree wall of heat.

Here we are at T minus five hours and counting. The bags are packed and standing by the front door like two stocky sentinels. I've checked and re-checked all my lists, gathered my documents, counted my greenbacks. After weeks of planning and preparing I am finally ready to go. The only thing left to do is to try to get some sleep.
If the planets align and Blogger, the lap top and the internet all co-operate, the next time you hear from me will be from Suchitoto.

Two Sleeps to Go

More like one and a quarter, to be accurate. The Airporter is scheduled to roll into my driveway at 4:20 am Monday. Because the drive to Pearson will be made under the cover of darkness the majestic scenery and award-winning architecture all along the stunningly beautiful 401 will be sadly unappreciated. Rhythmic snoring from the back seat will ensue. Sorry Frank, even after all those years of 8 am calls, I've never been a morning guy.

My bags have been dragged down from the attic. Tomorrow I cram. What do I really need for the trip? My passport, my newly stretched boots (thanks Dimitri) and a pair of pants, or shorts, depending on the current whim of the Suchitoto fashion police. Anything else I manage to squeeze in along with the skilsaw and the other tools currently spread out on the dining room floor will be bonus.

Today's funeral service in Stratford was remarkable for the display of courage and strength and
eloquence which I witnessed. This forum is not the place for public comments on such a private matter, but if you're reading this, my friend, I will say that my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.

A final word to those who have expressed reservations about signing up as 'followers' of this journal. Don't worry, be happily anonymous. Too many of those curious little pictures in the followers column (does anyone else find the blank head and shoulders image kind of creepy?) and I might be tempted to give up my day job. So far though, the editors of the Globe and the New York Times have made no effort whatsoever to contact me. Even the guy down the street who publishes the Baden Outlook every week or two has been strangely silent.
Go figure.

Day Two and a Half

Later that same night...

The Story Barn was packed and the evening was enriching; full of tales, a few tears, laughter and song. For those who were there tonight, thank you from the bottom of my soft heart for your love and support. The incredibly generous audience of listeners and tellers donated over three hundred and fifty dollars to the Project. The hugs and handshakes and encouraging words were priceless. I am indeed a lucky man. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, check out http://www.thestorybarn.ca

When this evening's earlier post went out to the world I noticed that the time stamp was off by four hours. Newbie that I am, I would believe anything about how all this works. Is there a blogmaster in a submarine an hour out from the Californian coast, reading these rambling posts and then releasing them to the web in his own time zone? A twenty-something with bits and bytes in his veins could easily convince me of that, or just about anything digital. If tonight's entry goes out marked as 'eight-forty something pm', then I suppose I'll have to figure out how to fix that glitch. But not tonight. It's approaching one am where I'm sitting and tomorrow is another big day.

Day Two

A mini-blog is all I dare attempt tonight. As the departure date looms ominously closer, my heart rate increases and my to-do list seems to lengthen. Is it too late to convert to Buddism?

The morning was spent sifting through emails, making a few phone calls and, I have to admit, sneaking an egotistical peak at the blog site to see if any new followers had signed in. Then a mad dash into Stratford. The new work boots I bought last night (guaranteed to be bat and cockroach resistant) needed a bit of stretching so I dropped them off at the cobbler on Wellington Street. Amazing to be able to find one still alive. Then I hurried over to the Festival where I was met by Robbin - bearing great news, I might add! Sorry, can't say any more. We sorted out a few details and said farewell for the nineteenth time.

Then I headed to the basement of the Festival and threw myself upon the mercy of the heroes in IT. Not 'it', like the 'it girl' from the forties, but IT as in 'information technology'. Paul and Mike and, most especially, Andre helped get my new-to-me lap top figured out and bagged up. Heading off to Suchitoto with this marvellous little Toshiba under my arm and optimistic hopes of regularly sending back letters and postings brings to mind the image of an old man who has just learned to swim in the shallow end of the pool. With plastic water wings. Trembling chin thrust forward, he dips his bony feet in the Atlantic and strikes out for the other side. That's me. A wing and a prayer.

A few more cheerful good byes and best wishes from various friends in the theatre and then I made for my truck parked near the Discovery Centre. The lovely Laura Burton was parking her car in the space behind. I certainly wanted to bid her adieu so I leaned in through her open side window to give her a hug and a quick kiss. The power window suddenly started closing, almost trapping my outstretched hands and the end of my nose. Is this a side to her that no one has ever witnessed? Laughing her inimitable laugh, she claimed to have hit the wrong switch, but I wonder...

The afternoon found me in Kitchener buying a couple of pairs of cotton pants. Bare legs are apparently frowned upon in El Salvador. Especially mine. (An email from Tito in Suchitoto was waiting in my inbox when I got home. 'Bring shorts', he said. 'It's hot hot hot!') Some sunglasses. And two buckets of screws for the project. Like missionaries of old, we set sail for foreign lands to spread the gospel of Robertson.

It's the first Friday of the month. Storytelling in the Barn is about to begin at any minute. I need to get away from the Project for a couple of hours.

Guess this wasn't as mini as I predicted.

Day One

February 4th, 2010. The first day of my first ever blog.

To all those unfortunates who somehow stumble upon this posting, I offer the quintessentially Canadian qualifier: I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the mistakes and omissions you're about to discover. I'm sorry for all the typos and spelling errors. My self-taught, two finger keyboarding skills are primitive and my trusty old Funk and Wagnalls is too heavy to pack. There will be many times when I'm too tired or busy or just plain fed-up, and my postings, or lack of them, will display that all too clearly. There will probably be more navel-gazing than is comfortable for either of us.

My aim is to share my thoughts and views and feelings about the Stratford/Suchitoto Project. I am not the voice of the Stratford Festival or anyone else. There will hopefully be a few photos. And maybe even a laugh once in a while.

Before I go any further I must thank a few people, secure in the knowledge that I'll undoubtedly leave out the most deserving. My wife, Mary-Eileen, for her unwavering support and love. Frank Holte for getting me into this mess and for his irreverent sense of humour. Eric Ball for his patience and youthful exuberance. Robbin Cheesman for her tireless hard work. The folks at CUSO-VSO in Ottawa for their generosity in sponsoring this endeavor. My two brilliant children for their help in pushing me onboard the computer band wagon last year. Joan for encouraging me to write. The tellers and listeners from The Story Barn. My sister and brothers.

This is beginning to sound a lot like a really boring Oscar acceptance speech, so I'll leave it at that. To the rest of you, and there are many, thank you, thank you, thank you.

This journey began for me a couple of years ago when Tatiana and a few others from El Salvador were touring the backstage area of the Festival Theatre. I was briefly introduced and became immediately intrigued with the concept of the Project. Helping the people of a small town in a distant country just coming out of years of civil war. Getting a school and a theatre started. Having an opportunity to give something back after thirty-five years in theatre. But my work schedule seemed to preclude my involvement, so I put the idea aside as another one of those things that I'd like to do but would probably never get around to actually doing.

Fast forward to December 3rd 2009. A chance sighting of a notice that there was to be an informational meeting on the Suchitoto Project at Pazzo that night at 7 pm. I guess it was a case of being in the right place at the right time. Others might interpret it as 'a sign'. In any case, I phoned home to say I was staying in town for awhile. A few hours later, I had signed up and the wheels were in motion.

Christmas in Baden began December 17th with the arrival of daughter Julia from France. A wonderful whirlwind of celebration with friends and family followed for the next two and a half weeks. I can't pinpoint the exact date, but one day in early January Frank called with the welcome words "You're in!". The past four weeks have been devoted almost entirely to the Project. I've spent more time on my computer than is healthy. Sent and received more emails than I ever thought possible. Waded through pages and pages of information. Filled out more forms than Neil Armstrong ever did before his big trip.

Last weekend we Tres Amigos (Frank, Eric and that other guy) spent three days in Ottawa taking a CUSO-VSO preparation course. We're now entering the final few days before we head out. There is still much to be done. A couple more meetings, a few more emails, and the inevitable last-minute packing. We're taking some tools and hardware along with us onboard the plane - staying under the weight limit will be a challenge.

Hopefully the next blog will be less about me and more about Suchitoto.

Stay tuned...