Los Gringos Climb a Volcano

What's a Central American trip without volcanoes? The Central American Volcanic Arc (CAVA) stretches from the Guatemala-Mexico border to the western Panama, and in turn constitutes a link in the Pacific Ring of Fire. In fact, the closure of the Central American Seaway between the two Americas and the birth of the Central American isthmus had to do partly with increased volcanic activity. Volcan Santa Ana is El Salvador's highest volcano, and, we read, a very achievable four hours' return hike. So, on our second day, we set out to do just that.

Morning arrived on our second day like a swindler - I had forgotten that the time on our iPad was still Singapore's, and hence we awoke a full two hours earlier than intended. At five in the morning, the hostel was desolate like any hostel never was before - even the small, squarish pool in the corner was boarded up. For breakfast we had the previous night's pizza left-overs (we were too lazy to step out for dinner). It was just as well that we bumped into Daniel, a Swede fellow traveller, outside the kitchen. Like us, Daniel planned to climb Volcan Santa Ana that day, and alerted us of the hostel owner's recommendation that we take the 7.30 am bus to the trailhead instead of the 8.30 am service as we intended.

Below: Volcan Santa Ana, our first successful volcano ascent together - achievement unlocked.

Bus 248 to Cerro Verde, where the hike to the top of the volcano begins, leaves from the La Vencedora terminal not far from the hostel. La Vencedora isn't like most bus stations we've been to. First of all, it looks like a badly stocked provision store. We didn't know how we would board the bus, because there was no signs of a berth. Only the rows of plastic seating hinted at something like a transport hub. When the time came for the bus to depart, the iron door in a corner was opened, and we found the buses we were looking for. Second, an armed guard patrols the ground. He holds a rifle, not a pistol.

The bus ride was an experience in its own right. Not since Senegal have I encountered anything similar. If those long bus rides in Senegal made me fall in love with reggae then this one did the same for reggaeton. It also seems that in El Salvador, buses aren't just a means of getting from point A to point B, they provide a thriving marketplace as well - as the stream of vendors which board at major stops prove. These come on and sell anything from fresh produce to socks to padlocks. If you aren't hung up on getting your stores from Cold Storage or Waitrose you can pretty much by anything and everything by way of these vendors.

At the entrance to the Volcanic Complex, we paid our admission fees under the watchful eyes of three soldiers. We had slightly over an hour to wait as the hike cannot be done unguided, and the daily tours begin at 11 am. Each group then sets off with the appointed guide and a police escort (consisting of two policemen: one who walks ahead to the crater, and another who brings up the rear).

Below (from top to bottom): Maria versus Ana (the hulking green giant in the background), who will prevail?; chilling at the makeshift cafe, literally, as the clouds rolled in.

The route up was fairly straightforward, though it hardly qualifies as easy. First we had to descend the 566 steps from Cerro Verde and then from the bottom it was about an hour and 15 minutes or so up to the crater of Volcan Santa Ana. There were three viewpoints (los miradores) along the way: the first a rickety flight of wooden steps leading up to a similarly shaky platform which overlooks the nearby Lago Coatepeque, the second a slightly sturdier one from where Volcan Izalco is visible and the last which looks down to the crater lake atop Volcan Santa Ana.

Below (from top to bottom): Lago Coatepeque from the first mirador, moments before it was engulfed by cloud; Volcan Izalco, behind Cerro Verde where we started our hike, the youngest volcano in El Salvador. It was born in 1770 in a corn field on the southern flank of Volcan Santa Ana. Continuous eruptions over the following 200 years (ceasing in 1966, just before a hotel meant for eruption-chasing tourists on Cerro Verde was completed), spawning a 650-metre high volcanic cone. These highly visible eruptions earned it the moniker El Faro del Pacifico (Lighthouse of the Pacific) from passing sailors.

Somewhere between the first and second miradores we lost the main group, not because it got steeper but because it became more sustained. For the rest of the way, our guide Kevin led the main group some hundreds of metres ahead, while we huffed and puffed behind with Leas (this was how we heard his name pronounced as he introduced himself), our accompanying policeman. The scenery aside, Leas's patience was the other highlight of the hike. He showed good humour throughout his three hundredth and sixty first amble up and down Santa Ana, the ease with which he accomplished it betraying his forty years.

In my halting Spanish, we spoke about football (all about Barcelona and Real Madrid here in Central America; followed by the local rivalry between FAS and Metapan), gas prices (ours in Singapore still capable of drawing gasps internationally, and not because it's cheaper), the local wildlife (about there being jaguars sometimes in nearby Lago Coatepeque), both our families and work. There was little for me to share where the last-named topic was concerned, obviously. Leas has fifteen years in the force, four in the city of San Salvador, eleven here. I have three.

We drew some cheers when we finally made the top. The others had been there a while already. Despite the clouds getting in the way of what promised to be a spectacular panorama, we retained clear views of both the crater lake (reminiscent of Kawah Ijen in eastern Java, though smaller) and the flanks of the volcano - lifeless scree descending into gradual verdure. There is something to be said about standing atop a volcano, its titanic forces of fire and rock asleep beneath our feet. We know so much, and yet so little, about these giants, for guess as we might, we can never foretell their moment of awakening. Leas was on neighboring Cerro Verde on 1 October 2005 when Volcan Santa Ana hurled skywards a column of ash and rock, the last time it did. It was amazing, he says. (2 unfortunate souls perished, though.)

Below (from top to bottom): Jaffa Cakes give you wings; almost like looking out of an aeroplane.

Below (from top to bottom): Maguey in bloom on the arid upper slopes of the volcano. The fibre from its leaves are used to make rope and clothing and the liquid from its stem yields a spirit known as pulque (those from some relatives of the maguey yield tequila when distilled); a tired traveller contemplates the lusher lower slopes.

Going down proved nearly as tiring as going up was for Mary's tired legs. A thick fog had developed by the time we got to the trailhead, where the rest of our party was gathered in various horizontal positions of repose. The cheers were a little more feeble now, but it hardly mattered - we had climbed our first volcano together!

Achievement unlocked.

A Very Short Introduction to Central America

Some have asked why we have chosen to head to Central America and not remain in the USA after the conference. Well, my argument is that since my flight tickets (counting Mary's too since I'm paying for it) is effectively half-priced (MOE paying for mine), we might as well go further afield. It isn't hard to get tickets to the USA from Singapore (I ain't saying tickets are cheap) if we wanted to visit again in future, but opportunities to hang around in the Western Hemisphere for three weeks don't come by easily.

Below: our first good vista in Central America, on the rooftop terrace of Hostal Casa Verde in Santa Ana, the morning after we arrived.

Also, some people forget that America isn't a country, but two continental land masses only recently linked by a narrow isthmus between three to five million years ago, and that the US isn't the only United States in America. There is a United States of Mexico, and once upon a time a short-lived United Provinces of Central America - today Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua, sovereign states which fall firmly within the Latin American politico-cultural orbit. But what is Latin America? Where does it begin? And why is the pre-modifier 'Latin' applied to an entire swathe of land which holds more than 60% of the Americas, almost as if it were a minority? Shouldn't there be an Anglo-America instead? Yet even the nature of Anglo-America, were it to exist nominally, is changing. And to focus on these pre-modifiers ignores its history before 1492. We've come to see those other Americas.

Below, a sample of Latin America: A portrait of Latin America, according to the Uruguayan journalist Eduardo Galeano in his "Open Veins of Latin America" (1973), a place which has known only exploitation and suffering since Columbus; a breakfast of bread, bacon, plantains, re-fried beans and the daily headlines - gang-related violence in the nearby city of Sonsonate and futbol.

The journey from Boston was blissfully uneventful. We sat next to Luis, a graphic designer, aspiring graphic novelist, and massive anime and manga enthusiast. Luis grew up in Texas and lives now in San Salvador, the Salvadorean capital. He also shared with us the series he has been working on. The storyline in Slice of life revolves around this pair of Latino-American sisters, their white American friend and a Japanese fox spirit who the sisters accidentally free from captivity. None of this has been published yet, for Luis isn't sure about whether to self-publish and build up a gradual following or wait around for a publisher who might be willing to take a punt on this project. I commended its tri-cultural nature - American, Spanish and Japanese, based clearly on his background and interest - and asked if he wanted to consider marketing it as a language learning resource. The one thing I wasn't sure of was whether my suggestion inadvertently relegated the dignity of his masterpiece.

We shared a taxi with Luis to the Terminal de Occidente in San Salvador, where Mary and I boarded Bus 201 for Santa Ana, El Salvador's second city. It was the especial service, which meant theoretically that it doesn't stop to pick up passengers along the way. As you might have guessed, la linea especial became la linea especially crowded as the bus seemed to stop every two minutes to pick up passengers. We hadn't space to stow our backpacks, which ended up on our laps and leaving us literally mere millimetres of breathing space.

Santa Ana, when it first appeared to us, was a brash cacophony which we could almost hear sneering like it or not. The street signs were tiny, every movement kicked up dust which we felt, smelt and tasted, we shared the narrow sidewalks with electricity poles, street lamps, uncovered drains, unpaved stretches and unpicked litter, and nearly everybody stared at us. It was going to be a challenge looking for Hostal Casa Verde (an oasis in the midst of it all) where we would be staying for two nights. But everybody we approached was always ready to help and always with a smile, which really made the difference for us.

Below: smiling on the same rooftop terrace. Hostal Casa Verde was in a quiet neighbourhood within the city centre, away from the endless traffic of the main arteries at the city centre's edge.

The three-century-long Spanish colonial presence bequeathed to many Latin American cities and towns their grid layouts. Municipal life centred on a plaza central or a zocalo (a bigger version of a plaza central), where the city or town cathedral would also be built. Some streets are named, most are numbered. Those that ran north to south are called avenidas and those that ran east-west calles. Santa Ana was no different. Our exploration of the city was brief, restricted to the main plaza and the streets surrounding our hostel - basically wherever our feet could carry us.

Below (from top to bottom): 6 Avenida (read "avenida sexto"), festooned with power lines as most other streets seemed to be; a typical courtyard found in many colonial houses in Santa Ana, this one belonging to Cafe Expresiones.

The other notable landmarks on Santa Ana's main plaza, apart from the Neo-Gothic Cathedral, are the Teatro de Santa Ana and the Alcaldia Municipal (the City Hall). Both the cathedral and theatre were built during the boom years of the early twentieth century on the riches brought in by coffee, El Salvador's el grano de oro (The Grain of Gold). Even at half past nine on a weekday morning, the plaza manages an unexpected bustle. But it was a different story when we walked into the cathedral. People enter to find their moment of silence, in prayer, in reverence or simply in solitude. It was a welcome respite from the mindless to-ing and fro-ing of daily transactions, which being on holiday sometimes does not exempt us from (the vacation version involves packing as we move from one place to another, finding out when transport comes and goes, and figuring out where we can get our daily supplies, and food).

Above (from top to bottom): posing in front of the cathedral; the long march to the altar; and a local boy who preaches to pigeons.

Below (top to bottom): El Teatro, and the Santa Ana City Hall.

We have had a soft landing in Central America, la linea especial aside. But we didn't really come for the cities and the towns. We came for the volcanoes and the landscape, and we would have plenty of that in the coming days.

Our Columbian Moment

20 November 2014 was our 12 October 1492 (believed to have been the date on which land was glimpsed by Columbus's forlorn sailors, on their seemingly hopeless westward voyage). Our Santa Maria, Columbus's flagship, was the less elegantly christened Lufthansa LH 422. Before then Mary nor I have never set foot on America - that land beyond the encircling sea which I hitherto knew only from books. Our San Salvador (where Columbus made landfall, today in the Bahamas) was New England. However, we did not arrive seeking gold and silver, and bore no baptismal flame in our hands. We did also acknowledge the great unknown into which we were stepping, quite unlike Columbus who died still utterly convinced that he had stumbled upon Japan when he arrived in the Caribbean.

Below: meeting the natives, the first an inhabitant of Boston Common, and the second a brief sojourner on most Bostonian plates.

In January earlier this year I was given the chance to participate in the National Council for the Social Studies (NCSS) Conference, which would take place in Boston between 21 and 23 November. Besides being a marvelous learning opportunity, for which I'm very thankful, it afforded us an opportunity to visit America (in case some wonder, I refer to the continent). But since I'm no longer teaching this year, I had to work right to the very day of our departure, and the excitement only became palpable as we queued to board the plane at Terminal 2 in Changi.

Our biggest fear en route was getting through the nearly 30 hours that stood between Singapore and Boston - Mary finds it hard to sleep if she isn't horizontal, while I find it a little harder to, if she isn't. But I purchased us some peace for about $40 - which gave us more leg room. After briefing American immigration on the details of my most distant relation, and picking up our luggage, we walked out into the bracing New England autumn (winter is late this year, apparently).

The NCSS Conference this year was, quite suitably, held at the John B Hynes Veterans Memorial Convention Centre, given its focus on Civics. John Hynes was mayor of Boston between 1950 and 1960, and was a key figure in the Boston's municipal modernization. The opening of the well-known Freedom Trail also took place in his time as mayor. The Hynes continued contributing to the city beyond John's mayorship - one son became a news anchor, another taught at Boston University and the last served on the City Council.

My one highlight was listening to and meeting Jose Antonio Vargas, introduced as a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist who declared his hitherto concealed status as an undocumented immigrant in 2011. This was a hot topic at the moment, given President Obama's controversial announcement recently permitting undocumented immigrants to apply for work permits in certain conditions. He paid tribute to his ex-teachers, his ex-principal and colleagues for providing encouragement and support in those nervous years before his fateful 2011 decision. He called on the audience to empathize with many undocumented immigrants, some of whom have become American in everything but legally and whose families, like his, made painful sacrifices for them to lead better lives. And he delivered a rousing alarum - citizenship is not an entitlement, it is something you earn. Something for us to ponder, and to take back to Singapore?

Below: Jose Antonio Vargas, if I had to choose why this year's Conference was worthwhile it would be him; posing with Soon Leong after our last session at the Conference on Sunday.

There wasn't much in the way of sightseeing in those three and a half days, most of which were concentrated in the Back Bay Area between our hotel and Boston Common. We visited Copley Square, Newbury Street and Boston Common (as yet we did not have time for all that freedom stuff - oops). But it was sufficient to give us a sample of Boston's history.

Below (from top to bottom): Copley Square, named after the prolific painter John whose works depicted scenes from colonial America. To the right stands Hancock Tower, the tallest building in New England at 241 metres, one-time subject of a Chicken Little-esque hysteria about whether or not it was in danger of collapsing; the Romanesque facade of Trinity Church.

Newbury Street, as was the rest of Back Bay, was reclaimed from Boston Harbour from the mid-nineteenth century. That didn't explain its name though, which was derived from the 1643 Battle of Newbury, an engagement during the English Civil War in which the Puritan-led Parliamentarian (which came eventually under Oliver Cromwell's leadership) forces decisively turned back the tide of Royalist advance. Very little remains Puritan there today - the street has been converted into a shopping district which would surely leave the Lord Protector in apocalyptic apoplexy.

It was in Newbury Street where Mary discovered the joys of shopping in the homeland of mass consumerism - Banana Republic (I remarked to her that we were visiting the original ones in the following weeks) and Kiehl's ranking amongst the more memorable stops. Kiehl's prices in the USA were almost half that in Singapore. And fears of being robbed meant we never walked into Banana Republic back in Singapore. But the Newbury Street experience involved more than just mindless spending - Raven Used Books at number 263 offered knock-down prices for acclaimed titles, throwing wide open to all the doors of this temple of knowledge.

Below (top to bottom): these stately facades were built in the latter part of the nineteenth century when Newbury Street was a well-heeled residential district; the last ember of autumn; L.A. Burdick Handmade Chocolates and its chocolate penguins, even the exterior looks chewable; standing at the junction of Berkeley and Newbury Streets, what used to be the New England Museum of Natural History, today the flagship store of Restoration Hardware (which sells furnitures).

Our original intention was to just walk through Boston Common to get to the Downtown area. However, we ended up spending more time than we bargained for - thanks to the antics of overfed squirrels. Having spent four years in England, I hardly gave the scurrying squirrels more than a half-glance. Mary learnt she could entice with the promise of food. Not food, I must emphasise. But the promise of food. So we fished for squirrels with the single piece of Lindt Raspberry Truffle given to us when we visited the store earlier. Most were quick to lose interest once it became clear we weren't at all ready to part with the bait. One tenacious individual came a little closer, and wrestled the ball of chocolate from my outstretched fingers. No bother, we thought, it's wrapped. It was unwrapped within seconds.

Then Minh and Berto spotted us, and offered us some real peanuts. Minh was originally from Vietnam, Berto from Honduras, and both have this inexplicable connection with the squirrels. Berto would simply sit on a bench, click his tongue, wiggle his fingers and have squirrels all over him in an instant. Mary has this video of me trying to replicate what Berto did, though it made me look rather more like a pervert. The scent of nuts proved to be more alluring than that of Lindt, as some of the photographs below can attest.

Below: I thought Boston Commons was just another average park, and then I saw this tree (below). In a way a lot of other parks have what Boston Commons has, and more, but the real stars were the squirrels. Nobody can ignore the Bostonian squirrels. It seems, however, that they are most attracted to nuts.

We left before it got dark, as we planned to have dinner with Samuel early that evening and also as our flight to El Salvador the following morning was at six. We are far from done with Boston - but what are the chances of us being sucked once more into Banana Republic and Kiehl's after sixteen days in Central America?

After 525,600 Minutes

3 years ago, I proposed successfully to Mary, nearly half a year after an earlier proposal caught her off-guard. Today we celebrate a year together as husband and wife. There are so many things I have to thank Mary for - not simply for the year that has just passed but for all the love she has given so unstintingly since we got together in 2010.

We planned a very untypical Sunday - quite unlike our quotidian trinity of church, nap and 夜市人生. Yet plans seldom materialize as they are conceived. I purchased a bouquet from Desmond, a Guangyang alumnus whose subtle fingers work wonders with flowers. However, the restaurant where we made reservations for dinner on Sunday does not offer overnight storage for gifts. It was just as well, for leaving the bouquet unwatered for 24 hours did not previously cross my mind. So we spent the first few moments of our anniversary trying valiantly to recreate the immaculate beauty of the bouquet within a vase. Only old adages redeem our derivative efforts.

Below: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The bouquet, before we took it apart and gave it the tousled look, was really quite exquisite.

So on to the day's plan - a year before we both turn thirty, we stepped into a water theme park for the very first time. In our childhood there was Fantasy Island, but Sentosa more often than not remained an island fantasy for us. There were few reasons to visit - Harbourfront Station did not exist, my parents were not theme park people and East Coast Park or Pasir Ris were more popular choices amongst our schoolmates for outings. Things are a little different now - there are more transport options, there is Vivocity to draw the crowds hither and the Indonesian beaches on Sentosa's south coast have become the places to be seen in swimwear.

An 11 am arrival - only just - preempted the throngs that weekly descend on Adventure Cove. This fleeting, relatively queue-less window of opportunity necessitated some strategic prioritization. The queues were only one of several unfortunate inconveniences - the others being having to fork out $20 for a large locker (my colleague tells me that upon entry he charges straight to his favourite thrill literally holding his change of clothes: just put there lor, nobody will steal la), having to contend with those whose rushing adrenalin has crowded out all vestigial good sense, and generally feeling like being on an assembly line of manufactured fun.

Below: the inhabitants of Rainbow Reef, which looks very much like a real reef. And no, we couldn't get Nemo. Coming before 11 am on the weekends is best - the queues really really lengthen after that.

Well, of course, manufactured or not, fun was fun. Mary and I took a profiling test during our marriage preparation course two years ago. One of our greatest differences, this test revealed, was our propensity for thrill-seeking. It might surprise who between us is more the swashbuckling sort. Here at Adventure Cove, the only price to pay is patience. The look on Mary's face, when after half an hour in line they suspended all outdoor attractions just before it was our turn to go on the Whirlpool Washout, was unforgettable.

But there are also pursuits for those for whom patience isn't their strongest suit. We detail below 4 ways in which we enjoyed Adventure Cove without frittering precious minutes away on avenue queue.

1. Floating our worries away on Adventure River

Where do we get one of those floats? We asked a lifeguard as we waded into the Adventure River. Just wait for the next one to float by, was his languid response. The course winds around the entire theme park, functioning at the same time as a waterway between different attractions.

Below: congestion, the inescapable demographic predicament of modern living.

2. King Ray

No Royal Wee here, but that's how some friends call me. (I don't begrudge that, in case some are wondering. In any case, Rui in Chinese is pronounced as Ray.) We spent a good while near the stingray aquarium, admiring the effortless grace with which they glided through the water. I would have to head to Australia to assume the mantle of the next most frequent mispronunciation. Yes, you guessed it - though these King Roo photographs wouldn't be as easy to pull off.

Below: no m'am, their names are similar, but that sure as blue sky ain't your husband.

3. The outdoor jacuzzi

The aptly named Big Bucket Treehouse in Adventure Cove is the place to be if one would like to experience rainfall of biblical proportions. Children flock here to splash water at each other. Adults gather to have water splashed at them.

4. Reliving our childhood

The Big Bucket Treehouse also comprises two winding slides, with markedly less daunting queues (which clears more quickly too) than their much taller and vastly more popular counterparts. These two slides also attract a very different crowd, from which we often stand out, by several heads on most instances. It is also a captive audience: the tiny faces ahead of and behind me were often the same ones from earlier queues. Yes, yes, I lingered to make up for lost time.

An afternoon downpour later made the decision to leave easier. True enough, as a member of staff shared, the changing rooms started to become congested from 4 pm. The painfully long hours between our previous meal and the next we staunched with a quick bite from McDonald's, where we were chased off our seats by a lady of Chinese extraction - civility dissolved on an island awash with money.

For dinner we booked a table at Spuds and Aprons atop Mount Faber. The food wasn't bad, and that most patrons chose to dine al fresco meant we nearly had the whole indoor section all to ourselves. Seats by the window afforded fine views of Singapore's southwestern coastline - where modern glass and steel buildings punctuated a horizon of distant smokestacks of Bukom and Jurong Island and the even more distant peaks of the Karimun islands.

At the end of an enjoyable, albeit exhausting, day I can only say one thing - may there be many more anniversaries for us to celebrate. And memorable ones too.