Life in the Savior hasn’t been uneventful lately, I just haven’t been writing. The blog merits an update. You merit an update. Thank you for caring.
Let’s go back two weeks, to San Salvador, Estadio Cuscatlán, where El Salvador played the U.S. in a World Cup qualifying game. There was the possibility of a poor game between El Salvador’s less-than-mediocre squad (which hasn’t been paid in some months) and a strong U.S. team that had just dominated México. There was also the possibility of getting hit with bags of urine; it had happened before. Gringos make good targets. Despite these discouraging factors, lots of volunteers were excited to go to the game.
I showed up with my PCV friends, most of us dressed in Salvadoran jerseys, to find that my ticket had been sold to someone else—confusion between the two Gabriels in Peace Corps El Salvador. El Zachador and Jenny had just convinced the doorman to let them in for free, citing the rumor we’d heard that gringos got free admittance. The rumor was bogus, but Jenny’s blond cuteness was not. I tried the same thing, in bad Spanish, despite not being as easy on the doorman’s eyes. He and his buddy flat-out denied me. I switched to good Spanish and continued wheedling, to no avail. But finally a third, higher-ranking doorman walked up and let me in for no good reason. 5% of my monthly budget saved! A good start to an amazing game.
The game was amazing. I sat with about six other volunteers, four rows up behind one of the goals. We were in our seats over an hour before the game started, and the energy was already incredible. Chants and waves flowed around the stadium as if governed by the sixth sense that controls flocks of birds. I could look out at the crowd and count on one hand the number of people not wearing blue or white. I thought it was loud and energetic already, but when the Salvadoran goalies came out to warm up, I could feel the roar in my whole body. And when the American goalies came out, the chant of Culero! Culero! (roughly, “gaywad”) was intoxicating (apologies to my gay friends and readers). The Salvadoran fans in front of us, curious to see our reaction, turned around, only to see us chanting harder than anyone, and doing the middle finger tomahawk chop. We were their friends from then on.
We talked and joked quite a lot with the Salvadorans around us. A cousin of Cheyo Quintanilla, El Salvador’s star forward, was sitting right in front of me. There was also a man who’d flown down from Fairfax, Virginia just for the game; and a woman who joked with El Zachador and Jenny, who both live in the department of Sonsonate, about the reputation women from there have for being big-chested, waving her breasts at us in her hands. Everybody bought each other beers.
When El Salvador scored, and then scored again, the celebration was incredible. We were slapping fives and hugging each other in big knots and jumping around and screaming like the town crazy person. By this point I was fully committed to rooting for El Salvador. No more bullshit like I’d been telling people in my village, “Well, I’d like El Salvador to play well and preserve their pride, but they probably can’t beat the U.S.” El Salvador was ahead 2-0 and I was thirsting for more gringo blood. Take it to ‘em! Bring ‘em down a peg, those arrogant North Americans! Maybe the senior doorman had let me in because he could see in my eyes the latent potential for swearing a blue streak in Spanish at my own countrymen.
After the game I talked to a trainee who told me about cheering when the U.S. finally scored, and I immediately thought, “What a tool. Only an idiot who’s just been in the country for two months would cheer for the U.S.” But of course I normally root for the U.S., and I look forward to them doing better in South Africa in 2010 than they ever have in a World Cup. I apologize for my reflexive thoughts to the trainee who didn’t know I thought them.
In the second half the Salvadorans who’d been playing their hearts out, and truly outshining the powerful U.S. squad, started to go down with cramps and injuries. The gringos tied it up, but only on an offsides goal that wasn’t called back, and another goal that was scored while a Salvadoran player was down on the field. Rooting for El Salvador really got into my blood in that stadium. Ever since I’ve been wishing that the offsides had been called, or the U.S. had done the courteous thing and kicked the ball out when that player was down, or the ref had called a penalty for El Salvador when it probably should have been called. They came so close to winning! It would have been only the second time against the U.S., and everyone would have been so happy.
The headline in the newspaper the next day was so sad: ¡La tuvimos! We had it! …But we let it slip away…
Oh well, the rest of the evening was still fun. El Zachador, Jenny and I met some rich young Salvadorans and went out to the Arab country club with them. It was fascinating to me to see where the rich Palestinians who control most of the agriculture, industry, and politics in this country relax. The pool was large, the tables were spaced discreetly, and the hummus was delicious.
