i am embarked

Rainwater

El Salvador has two seasons: wet and dry. The dry season is wonderfully sunny with bright blue skies. It's great for going to the beach or drying your clothes in the sun, but there is no rain and the landscape slowly shifts toward brown as the months go by. The rainy season is, well, rainy. Most every afternoon and evening you can expect rain. The floors are constantly being mopped, everything is wet and moist, and the mold and mildew thrive. Drying clothes becomes more of a challenge as you fight the clouds for sunlight and try to dodge the rains. 

Our home in El Salvador is up on a mountain of sorts in a town called Los Planes de Renderos. We live just far enough on the outskirts of town to be out of reach for city water. It wouldn't be drinkable water, but it would be fine for washing dishes, taking showers, and flushing toilets. Since the water won't come to us, we have to bring it to the house. Every two days a large truck arrives with 8 cubic meters of water and partially fills our two cisterns. It's expensive. So as the rainy season approached last spring, we made plans to start catching some of the free water that would be falling from the sky on an almost daily basis. Additionally, the rains would force us to make greater use our electric clothes dryer, which meant a higher electric bill. We hoped to offset the increase in our electric bill with a decrease in our water bill. That was the plan anyway. 

Rain water collection is fairly straightforward. Collect the runoff from a clean surface like a roof or watershed and pipe it into a tank. Nature and gravity do most of the work. You can make it fancy with multiple tanks, first-flush filters, and other enhancements, but we aimed to keep it simple to start. 

The roof of the house is flat, which makes it a great place to run clothes lines, but a lousy place to collect water. All the water from the roof flows to a corner drain, down through a concrete wall and then out to the street. There's no place to intercept the water while it is still higher than either of our cisterns. It's also rather dirty since it's running straight off the flat roof. 

The house has two cisterns. One is on the top floor, and one is on the ground floor at street level. The top cistern is accessible from the roof through a hatch in the floor. When the water trucks come, we pull a hose up to the roof, pop the hatch and fill it up. If we could catch water up on the roof, we could pipe it directly into this cistern. Once that cistern is full, turning a couple of valves moves water into the lower cistern. Seemed like a perfect setup. 

All we needed was to create some sort of collector for the water. Using the roof itself was out, but the steel railings that ran the perimeter seemed like they might provide a decent structure for building some kind of watershed.

My goal was to build something on a budget without using expensive materials. I thought about buying lumber and corrugated tin sheets and constructing a watershed, but it would have been expensive. Also, I wanted something that would stay out of the way and be easy to take down in the dry season.

So, I did what any modern man would do when faced with such a project: I got on the internet and started searching for ideas and designs. Most of what I found focused on using existing roofs –something I couldn't do. Since I wanted something temporary, I started thinking about using tarps. However, I couldn't find any information about using tarps in rainwater collection. I figured most people probably weren't looking for temporary systems, and that tarps probably start to deteriorate after awhile and perhaps even leech some chemicals into the run-off. Since we wouldn't be drinking this water – or even be using it to grow food – I wasn't particularly worried about the water quality (at least for now). I figured it couldn't be much worse than what we were getting from the trucks. I had seen things wiggling across the oily surface of the water in our cisterns more than once. It's why I always brushed with bottled water. 

With no information on tarps to be found not the internet, I decided I was about to be an innovator. Or an idiot. 

The roof is a concrete U lined by steel railings with a section of steel laminate filling in the remainder. I suspect the laminate section was added after the original construction once it was discovered the exposed terrace level below was mostly unusable during the rainy season. The steel railings run around this laminate section providing a sturdy frame on three sides. I figured if I could use this frame, I could save on construction costs. It would also put the collector in a part of the roof that was never used, keeping it out of the way but still high enough to run down into the cistern. 

Ultimately, I decided to suspend a sloped tarp between the railings on a series of wires using the eyelets installed on the tarp's corners and edges. I would use turnbuckles to tighten the wire and keep the tarp taught. Along the lower edge of the sloped tarp I would install a gutter to collect the run-off and pipe it into the cistern. A simple enough plan. So I headed off to Freund (the local hardware chain) to buy some gutters, PVC, wire, fasteners, turnbuckles, and the largest tarp I could find.

The first step was to mount the gutter to the lowest railing. I drilled the holes on a slight diagonal to ensure the water would flow towards the drain and used zip-ties to hold it in place. Cheap and easy. 

Next up was suspending the tarp. This proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated due to the wind. Each gust turned the tarp into a sail, pulling it up in the air. I enlisted the help of some of the kids to hold the tarp down while I ran the wires. 

I got the wires as tight as possible and then started using the turnbuckles to add as much tension as I could. (Worth nothing: I was using cheap wire that had no tension rating. I worried each turn would snap the wire and send the ends flying around like a whip.) 

After several hours of tightening, retightening and cranking turnbuckles, it looked like I might be finished.

The slope wasn't as severe as I had expected. I didn't realize how much the tarp would sag under its own weight, and I couldn't get everything as tight and secure as I'd like, but I grabbed a bucket of water and hoped for the best.

Drats.

The water collected in the center of the tarp and stayed there. Nothing made it to the gutter. The pitch of the tarp wasn't severe enough to overcome the sag. Frustrated after hours of work, I quickly and somewhat frantically decided to immediately move to Plan B. 

I cut the PVC-to-gutter connector apart to create a crude drain. After hours of fighting to keep the tarp from snagging and tearing, I was now going to cut a whole in the center and install a drain. If the water was running to the center, that's where I'd collect it.

It didn't work, the water flowed around the drain as it was still higher than the lowest point of sag. I decided that to fix this I would need to raise the lower end of the tarp to the top railing. This would hopefully provide the necessary pitch to drive all the water to the drain. I also invested in an actual sink drain and a tube of silicon sealant to install it. 

While doing this I realized the tarp wasn't holding up well under all the pulling and stretching. The eyelets were starting to pull away from the tarp, some of the wires had snapped, and the sag in the center had gotten worse.

I made an effort to shore up the eyelets wherever I could.  

Plan C. Ready.

A initial bucket test showed promise. So I waited for it to rain. 

Failure. 

Under the force of an actual rainstorm, the tarp continued to sag and left the drain sticking up in the middle with a large pool of water all around it. Water collected in the pool until the weight finally pulled the tarp loose and popped the drain all the way out. 

Plan D. I decided to "peak and valley" the front side, hoping to give a little more structure to the tarp along with some needed vertical height. I would reinstall the gutter, and all the water would run out of the valleys.

Once I saw it finished, I didn't even bother with the gutter. It wasn't going to work. The tarp had stretched during the previous attempts and sagged to the roof below. When the wind blew (which often happens when it rains) it flapped like a sheet in the breeze. 

Plan E. I was convinced my problem was height, and decided to raise the backside of the collector. The guard and I harvested some bamboo from the empty lot next store. Then Miguel and I put up the equivalent of a make-shift soccer goal. 

Taken all together it may be the ugliest thing I have ever built. While my first design may have been a failure, it at least looked impressive. This looked terrible, and worked about the same.

I finally surrendered. Using a tarp was simply not going to work. At least not in this setup. Perhaps this had been why I couldn't find any information on the internet about using tarps. I made a note to share my findings and hopefully prevent some other eager fool from embarking on a similarly doomed project. 

I was still, however, determined to collect water. 

Plan F. I decided to spend more money and build a proper watershed. Since I could get as much free bamboo as I wanted from the neighboring lot, that meant I would only need to buy the corrugated tin. I started cautiously, only purchasing 3 sheets. I also enlisted the help of a visiting American team to construct this beefier collector. 

We reattached the gutter and built a frame for the tin sheets. We did all of this using bamboo and wire, carefully placing our supports over the support beams of the existing steel roof below.

Because we were building on the laminate roof, we couldn't securely attach the support posts. The front and sides were sturdy, but the frame was essentially resting on the roof. This would eventually prove problematic.

The next day, we attached the tin sheets, again with wire.

It looked good, and it seemed sturdy. When it rained, we collected water. I felt like we were finally making some progress. 

Encouraged, we decided to expand. We purchased more tin sheets and the frame was extended the full length of the gutter. 

We were collecting water, but not nearly as much as we had hoped. We talked about extending the watershed back to double the surface area.

Then, one windy night, we discovered our new design was not so strong after all. Without being attached to the roof, the support posts were easily picked up by the wind and the whole structure was knocked down. 

We rebuilt once, but then it happened again. By now, the rainy season was almost over. The ruins of the water collector were being used to dry clothes in the sun. 

As slowly as it had been put together, it started to be taken apart. The pile of bamboo, wire and tin sheets were just a reminder of all that had gone wrong. The tarp made it's way downstairs to work as a drop cloth during painting projects. Some of the tin sheets ended up as the roof to a rabbit cage. Much of the bamboo wound up serving as fence posts for the chickens' yard.

The rains will come again in April. This time, perhaps, we will be ready.   

One Year

I took one last look at the crisp, beautiful, sunny fall day from the driveway of my parents house, and then I left. A year stood in front of me. I didn't know then what I would miss of home, or a year later upon returning, what I would miss of El Salvador. Between those two days was a great unknown.

One year later, it is no longer a space waiting to be filled, but a space overflowing. I could never write a proper tribute to that time. I could never capture the importance of it all. That so much of it turned out so differently than I had expected only underscores how necessary and extraordinary it was. It was one grand experience, but it was built by hundreds of little moments. Each one capturing or teaching something new.  

I learned to live without steady water for a time, and I guarded every drop that came through that faucet. 

I realized I love hanging my clothes out in the sun to dry. 

I learned you can make friends even if you don't speak the same language.    

I tried to control the chaos. Then I learned to love it and realized that order for the sake of order is no better than chaos for the sake of chaos.

I was Santa Claus. 

I saw fireworks stretch to the ocean from the top of the roof. 

I watched the sun rise from the mountain and the sun set from the beach.

I learned how to use a machete. Not just swing it around.

I discovered I had plenty.

I learned to want less.

I learned surfing is hard. I failed both times, but loved it. 

I climbed up volcanos and down inside them.

I ate the world's best hamburger.  

I celebrated a lot of birthdays.

I snapped thousands of photographs. 

I drove thousands of miles.

I changed lots of tires.

I jumped lots of cars.

I discovered how far you really can drive on empty. 

I held a baby one week who died the next.

I fell in love with the kids all over again. 

I held hands and gave rides on my shoulders. 

I got peed on, spit at, bit, hit, kicked and punched. I also got hugged, and then forgot about the rest.  

I learned that for a kid, living in a children's home – even the best one in the world – is hard and it sucks sometimes. And you wish that you could give them a perfect family, but you can't. So you hope you're good enough and that they know how much you love them. 

I found a year can pass faster than you'd like. 

Toni

I never knew Toni, but the girls in our house did. They all attended the same youth church on Saturdays. I had heard his name before because one of the girls had a crush on him. And since I never had the chance to tease a younger sister about a boy, I jumped on the opportunity. Every weekend I would ask her, "Oh! Is Toni going to be there?" always to be answered with "He is just my friend!" On Monday, her friend fell victim to the brutal gang violence that fills the streets of El Salvador. Toni had been murdered.

That Monday morning Toni left on his bicycle, as usual, to sell bread on his regular route. When he didn't return at 7:00 they thought it strange. When he wasn't back by 10:00am they knew that something had happened. He wasn't answering his cell phone.

At times it is easy to forget how dangerous a grip the gangs hold on this country. There are reports in the papers and articles online, but they seem distant. Much like stories of crime in your own hometown. They always seem to affect other people. Until one day they don't. 

El Salvador can be a very dangerous place for a teenager. Kids without options, kids without opportunities are prime candidates for gang recruitment. When your life is going nowhere the allure of friends and money and power can be unstoppable. Or sometimes it's just intimidation and peer pressure. Everyone else in your neighborhood is part of the gang, and perhaps you're safer on the inside than on the outside. Whatever the reason, it is a problem that feeds off of hopelessness.

More than anything, the youth of El Salvador need hope. They need to believe that their future can be different, that they do have a choice, and that where they are now is not where they will always be. Bobby and Britney provide that hope to the youth in their church. They serve the kids who don't fit in anywhere else. They love them, support them, and show them that God has a plan for their lives. Every single teen in their church is a victory. A triumph of light over darkness. A choice to live in hope instead of fear.  

Izalco

Our first attempt to climb Izalco was foiled by a traffic jam. The climb leaves once a day at 11:00 am with a guide and armed guard, and by the time the cars on the 1 got moving again it was going to be too late to make it. So we turned around and tried again a few days later.

Izalco used to be known as the "Lighthouse of the Pacific" because of its near constant eruption from 1770 to 1958. However, today it lies mostly dormant, save for some steam vents in the crater, and is safe to climb.  

Lots of signs to the top.

Graffiti in the crater. 

Sitting around a steam vent. 

Bolas de Fuego

On November 3rd, 1658 the eruption of Volcan Playon sent balls of fire raining down on the town of Nixapa, forcing the villagers to flee. They resettled in Nejapa, where nearly four hundred years later the eruption is commemorated every August 31st with Las Bolas de Fuego – the Balls of Fire. Young men paint their faces, don semi-protective clothing and throw gasoline soaked balls at one another as locales and tourists alike cheer them on.

The streets are lined with vendors hawking traditional foods, drinks, t-shirts, lights, glow sticks, and anything else they think you might want.

Prior to the main event, there are bands playing, fireworks flying, and men running through the streets with wooden horses over their heads shooting sparklers and smoke.  

There are also police and medical crews to keep the peace and rush in should anything go wrong. 

While there are two teams in the Bolas de Fuego, there really is no winner. They simply throw fireballs – in fits and starts – until they run out. This year the sides were split along political lines. Before everything got started, we visited the youth center where the FMLN team was gearing up.

Young fighters.

Spongebob is ready.

The balls are made of tightly wound rags and soaked in gasoline for month. They are roughly the same size and weight as a baseball, but not as hard and a whole lot hotter.

After all the players were ready and the crowds formed in front of the cathedral, we waited for the teams to emerge and begin the fight. 

After a few test throws, it started.

Eventually we decided to leave our spot on the sidelines and get down on the street where the action was taking place. It almost seemed safer among the fireballs than among the drunken and pushy crowd. At least on the street you could move if you had to – and I did. I jumped from spot to spot snapping photos, shooting video and dodging the occasional fireball. 

Crowds gather around one side's stash of fireballs. 

Occasionally a stray fireball will find its way into the crowd.

As the night wound down, the end came several times. Just when you thought it was over another volley of fireballs would appear. This one is almost a direct hit. In my rush to jump out of the way I hit the button and stopped recording just before impact.  

Throughout the whole event vendors wandered in and out among the flames selling drinks.

Nothing will distract this man from selling. 

Finally, before heading home I stopped to pose with one of the balls of fire. 

Patient 09500-11

After three days of splitting headaches, fevers, chills, and sleepless nights I decided to go to the hospital. The risk of whatever treatment I might receive seemed to outweigh the risk of meningitis, dengue or whatever other ailments the internet told me I might have. 

Not sure where else to go, we headed to the local hospital. The emergency room is a large open space with a few small rooms for consultation on one side. The rooms are labeled with cutout foam letters much like what you would find in a primary school. There are rows of hard connected plastic chairs giving it the look of a bus station. Three gurneys sit near the door with rusty poles to hold IVs. The counter at the far end is where you check in. Your information is entered onto a form fed through a typewriter. I was "JUSTIN DAOUGLAS KLUSNIK".

Everything looked old. Nothing looked recently cleaned. The box ceiling lights are yellowed and dim, some are blackened. The walls are streaked with handprints, scuff marks, and dirt. The floor needs a mop and polish. There is a suggestion box by the door. 

We arrived fairly early in the morning, and didn't have to wait long. They called us into the office and I sat down on the table. Dr. Wendy Gomez seemed well-kept, professional, and like she knew what she was doing. It put me somewhat at ease. I laid down and looked up at the florescent box light above as she pushed and poked at my stomach. The cover was missing and dirt and old cobwebs had collected in all the corners. I watched a spider spin a new web. "Where does it hurt when I push here?" "Does it hurt when I let go?" Rachel translated the questions and answers where Wendy and I didn't understand each other. My stomach was fine. I didn't have appendicitis. I could bend my neck. That ruled out meningitis. She ordered blood tests and a urine sample.

We walked through the waiting room to another set of rooms on the far side.  "This needle will be clean, right?" "Yeah." I laid down on the table. Everything in the room looked worn down. The walls needed a scrub and a fresh coat of paint. I watched the technician put on gloves and carefully peel a bandaid in preparation. Again, it made me feel better to see some attention to cleanliness. There were boxes of syringes and needles all individually wrapped on the table. I wasn't impressed by the room, but it seemed like anything they stuck me with would be sterile. I barely felt him push the needle in. I definitely felt him take it out. Blood drawn from the vein is darker than you'd expect. Good thing the bandage was ready. 

Next was the urine sample. This one was up to me, and I couldn't squeeze a drop. Rachel walked down to the tienda and bought two Gatorades. I drank them both and still couldn't produce. We waited. I sat on one of the gurneys by the door. Nearby was a man who looked like he had been on the losing end of a bad fight. His face was swollen. His friend was also buying him Gatorade. 

I decided to give it a try. I walked out the back and down a short ramp to the bathrooms. They were dark. The floor was wet. There was no toilet paper. The lid of the tank was a piece of wood. The walls were streaked with things best left a mystery. I kept my distance from the toilet and leaned against the back of the door – the cleanest place I could find. I attempted to relax every muscle in my body. At last.

Based solely on the color of my sample they decided they wanted to put me on an IV for dehydration. I decided that the blood sample was as far as I was willing to go with needles for the day. We said we'd come back in a few hours for the results of the tests.   

***

My platelet count was low. I was at 116,000 and the normal range is between 150,000 and 450,000. As a result, the nurse said she needed to perform another test and that it might hurt a bit. She put a blood pressure collar around my arm and started to inflate it. Apparently we would do the test right in the lobby. She continued to inflate and deflate the collar. So far, so good. Then she said she would need to leave it inflated for five minutes. 

I sat on the chair with my arm on the desk in front of me. I could feel a tingle in my arm as it started to fall asleep. The tingling turned sharper  as the oxygen in my arm ran out. Then it felt like driving rain. I tried to breath deeply and smoothly. The surface of my skin felt like it was being hit with a sand blaster. I could barely move my fingers. My hand adopted an awkward, deathly pose. I could move my fingers, but just barely. The sensation was unnerving. I could feel every cell in my arm screaming for air. "Two more minutes." I put my head on the desk and tried to focus on breathing. My arm felt swollen, dead, disgusting. I breathed harder. It wasn't the pain that was getting to me, but the sickening feeling of my dying arm. Fearing I might pass out, Rachel jumped in and they stopped the test. As they took off the collar they briefly looked at my arm to see if any spots had emerged. None. That ruled out dengue. I made my way back to the gurney by the door to lie down as the blood rushed back into my fingers.

A few moments later a man covered in blood was carried to the door. He looked like he had been hit by a car. They grabbed one of the other gurneys, hoisted him on, and wheeled him into an area of the waiting room closed off by three curtains. His feet stuck out the end. Most of the doctors and nurses on shift hurried inside. Feeling less in need of a gurney, I made my way back to the chairs. 

Rachel returned with some medicine. The urine test had indicated a urinary tract infection. This seemed strange as I had no symptoms of a urinary tract infection and they are extremely uncommon in men. It also failed to explain my fever and headaches.

I was instructed to return the next day to have my platelets checked again and given a few pouches of "Hidrator" mix to drink. It tasted like slimy salt water.

***

We returned the next morning for another blood test. We checked in and sat down. A short while later a woman was wheeled out of one of the small appointment rooms on a gurney. She was going into labor and she looked it. The position of her body suggested the baby might arrive at any moment. They moved her through the waiting room and into the set of rooms in the back. 

They called my name and we went to get my blood drawn. I had planned to lay down again, but there was a big stain where my head would rest so I decided to remain seated. I watched the nurse unwrap the needle and syringe. Out the side door, Rachel watched the face of the woman giving birth. A few moments later I saw them place a baby on a scale through the back door.

We decided not to wait around for the results and told them we'd be back in a few hours. 

***

Once again, we checked in and waited. Eventually I was called into one of the consultation rooms. We sneaked a peek at my test results while we waited for the doctor. It looked like my levels had gone up. When the doctor came in she explained that, in fact, my levels had never been low at all. Apparently there was something wrong with their machine and everyone tested low yesterday. This further lowered my confidence in the urine test.

Since I was feeling better I decided my adventures at the clinic would come to an end. I took the medication they gave me on the chance they might be right, drank a lot of water, and got some rest. Provided I don't suffer any ill effects from these exploits I'll consider the experience an education on healthcare in the developing world. All my consultations and medicines were free – even as a foreigner. Remarkable considering how clearly the clinic needed money. Certainly my bill in the States would have been different. Then again, I imagine the outcome of the tests might have been different as well.   

Machu Picchu

July 30th, 2006.

After four days trekking, we arrived.  

Morning in Machu Picchu.

Window to the Andes. 

Atop Huayna Picchu.

If you arrive early enough, you can climb Huayna Picchu. It is the larger of the two peaks you see in most pictures of Machu Picchu. The path is steep. They make you sign your name in a book before you start and sign out once you've descended. It's how they'll know if you've fallen. From the top, you can look out and see the Andes – mighty and mysterious – in all directions. Below you, the ruins; their footprint shaped like a condor.  

Among the ruins of Machu Picchu. 

July 27th, 2006

The high pass at Salkantay on the trail to Machu Picchu.

Salkantay

July 26th, 2006

We woke at 4 am and climbed into the white microbus that sat idling outside in the cool Cusco morning. The inside was dusty and worn. The frames of the seats had rattled their way through the corners of the cushions over many miles. We quickly zipped through the narrow, empty cobblestone streets to pick up the remaining members of our group. People continued to cram inside as bags continued to be piled on top. The van creaked as everything adjusted and settled into place.   

When we hit some of the smoother roads outside the city I started to drift in and out of sleep. Others dozed with their heads against the windows; a shirt or jacket wedged against the glass partially dampening the shakes and rattles.    

Some time later, I opened my eyes and saw large rocks in the road. I thought perhaps there had been a landslide and no one had cleaned it up. Things like that make sense when you're only half awake. I fell back asleep. I opened my eyes again and saw more rocks, and a twinkling on the road. Broken glass? Had their been an accident? The van slowed. I looked out the front window and saw a large crowd filling the street. Rocks and glass were everywhere. Burning tires lit up the road. What was this? Where were we?

We rolled up to the crowd and our guide, Jaime, hopped out. It was a transportation strike. No one was allowed to pass. They were protesting for higher wages. Lower gas prices. Something. It wasn't clear to me. Jaime continued to talk with the protesters but they wouldn't let us pass. He hopped back into the van and we quickly made our way down a side street towards the railroad tracks. Blocked again. Burning tires covered the tracks. A few minutes later the mob arrived. 

And then we discovered our tire was flat. The glass and debris in the road were no doubt to blame. Amidst the commotion, our crew hopped out to change it, but told us all to remain in the car. 

"Is it ok to get out and use the bathroom?"

"Ah. No." 

I looked out the window at the burning tire next to us, Jaime negotiating with the protestors, and our crew changing the flat. The sun wasn't up yet.  

I don't know what he said, or what he paid, but eventually we were allowed to pass. However, given the widespread nature of the strike we would have to stay off the main roads for awhile. 

We barreled down a dirt road through a thick morning fog. The frames of the seats continued to work their way through the cushions. You could feel every spring. The visibility was 15 to 20 feet. The van fogged up completely. One of our porters took off his shirt and gave it to the driver who reached out the window and used it to wipe the windshield. He must have known this road because you couldn't see anything.

Having avoided all the road blocks we once again took to tarmac roads. Someone requested a bathroom stop. We all leapt from the van and ran to the ditches. The time and terrain had been working on all our bladders.

We stopped for breakfast in Mollepeta. It was the last meal we'd eat at a proper table for several days. From here, it was off the tarmac once again.

The road up to the trailhead looked like it had literally been scrapped from the side of the mountain. Probably because it had been. The van bounced and swayed over the large chunky stones beneath the tires. To the left: a wall of rock. To the right: a near vertical drop. Everything rattled. We continued to climb.

One strong jolt, a loud scrap, and then we came to a stop. We had blown another tire. There was no extra spare. 

It was only another 8 kilometers to the trailhead. We'd start walking here, and they'd send the horses back for anything we couldn't carry. So we were off. The van now behind us and Salkantay – the Wild Mountain – before us. Our feet would carry us from here all the way to Machu Picchu. 

July 16th, 2006

Looking down on Quito, Ecuador.