El Zonte Human Connections

A woman in the village at El Zonte put my hands into a bowl of masa one Saturday afternoon and showed me, step by step, how to make a pupusa. She laughed at my first one. She laughed at my second. She did not laugh at my third, which she looked at for a long time. She ate my fourth. She did not say anything. I have not made one since. I have a very good memory of the bowl.

Before you leave the house, check your wallet for small bills. The US dollar is the currency here, which makes life easy, but a pupuseria in the village is a small place, and a large bill at lunch means someone has to go and find change while the line waits. Then order, eat, and pay with what you counted out. I do this walk most days and I have been the person with the large bill more than once. It is not fun for anyone.

You crossed the black sand at El Tunco at noon in bare feet and total calm, while the rest of us hopped from one patch of shade to another like startled birds. I was the one with sunscreen on my ears only. You nodded at me, kindly, and kept walking. I have been practising for three weeks. I can now stand on one spot for nine seconds. My feet are still in training. I would like to ask how long it took you, and I would like you not to say a number.

My surfboard fin broke at El Tunco on a Saturday and the nearest shop was closed. A stranger on the beach pulled a spare out of his bag, helped me screw it in, and said, return it Sunday. On Sunday we surfed together and the fin ended up staying with me. He says he is still waiting for it. I am still waiting for him to stop being kind. We have not resolved either problem. We surf on Sundays. The fin has started to feel like a small, shared animal.

A pickup truck full of fishermen stopped for me on the coastal highway near El Sunzal one hot afternoon and made room in the back. They did not ask where I was going. They drove me to El Zonte and waved when they dropped me at the village. I was in a hurry and could only say thanks. Next time I will bring them something cold. I have carried two cold drinks on that road for three weeks now. The truck has not come. The drinks have gone warm. I have drunk both.

I come from a country with a lot of coast, but I am new to this one, and the water at El Zonte beach looks different every morning. Some days people swim far out and other days nobody goes past the wet sand. The ocean currents are strong here, and I would like to learn to read the water instead of guessing. How do locals decide whether the water at El Zonte beach is safe on a given day?

I was alone at Palmarcito beach at lunchtime with no food when a family under a thatched roof waved me over and gave me a plate of pupusas with curtido. I tried to give them money, but the grandmother pushed my hand away and gave me another one. They asked about my country for an hour. Their questions were precise. How many hours to the airport. What is the soup like. Do you miss it. I said, yes. I think about their table whenever I eat alone. I eat alone less now.

I was the only person on El Zonte beach before sunrise, and you walked out of the dark with a surfboard under one arm and a thermos in your hand. You sat ten meters from me, poured two cups, set one on the sand halfway between us, and went back to staring at the waves. I drank it. We never spoke. It is the best coffee I have had here. I have been back at 5.30 every day. The cup has not returned. I brought my own thermos. I left it halfway.