We playin ba-sket-ball...

Basketball is barely on the radar screen here in El Sally. There is a national league that gets a dreary mention once in a blue moon in what must be the least interesting country for sports news. The game scores share similar numbers with that of women's high school basketball games, and the level of play is blatantly obvious after observing 10 seconds of any game.

At least the teams of El Salvador's Liga Superior have cool names. Here's a team called Denver, clearly named after one of the US's most formidable basketball meccas:

And then there's a team called "And 1", not intimidated by any advisory, even copy-right infringement.

Last, and most certainly not least, the fanciest goddamn team in El Salvador, Roll Royce (people don't believe in S's here):

I apologize if I inadvisedly got you hooked on all that is Salvadoran hoops, it's a sticky, fast-acting athletic quicksand that is sure to entertain for all the wrong reasons. For all your Liga Superior info needs, please direct yourself here. You're welcome.

Being so challenged in the way of soccer, I was delighted to discover that my community has a pretty happening basketball scene. There are two basketball courts (only one with hoops that are fully intact), 15-20 active basketball players (both male and female), and there are pick-up games FOUR times a week. 

Playing sports a good way to get to know people. Comradery, teamwork, improved communication skills and confidence building are all developed through a simple game. I have definitely experience these benefits through playing basketball with my community members. However,  through the countless pick-up games I have played with them, my community members have helped me develop some secondary skills such as shit-talking, lying, scapegoating, taunting, and fouling. I can't be certain but I'm sure the basketball court in my community shares many similarities with that of the recreational yard in any US prison.

First off, it's important to mention that people come to PLAY. And by people I mean the women. I find it great that there are so many women that are involved in athletic play in my community, especially in a sport so uncommon as basketball. You might be imagining young women, using their youthful energy to push themselves athletically and have fun while doing it. Not so quick. While there are women like this that come out, the are far the minority.

Instead, there are a lot of 35 year plus women. These women don't look like traditional basketball players. Many play barefoot or in sandals, are vertically challenged, and like many of the men that play, would be considered more on the stoutly side of the human figure. Matching their unorthodox looks, these women's playing style is unlike any that I have seen before. Being that most of them would not be allowed to ride a majority of roller coasters in the US, the stay out of the paint. Instead, they cluster on the three point line (despite the fact we count threes and two-pointers as the same for whatever reason). For the most part they don't concern themselves with passing. When left unguarded, she plants her feet shoulder length apart, and holding the ball at the poles,  tucks it behind her head and then catapults the sphere towards the distant hoop. Anyone even with a vague notion of basketball basics would scoff at this bizarre catapult technique. However, what's more bizarre is that they make it. Most often with nothing more than a soft swoosh of the metal net. 

Needless to say these women are hungry. They come out day after day, unfazed by the strong gender roles and go toe-to-toe with the men of the community. We play in coed teams, five on five or even chaotically six on six, and naturally there is no ref. Now men do commit personal fouls, but if we did have a ref, many women would be ejected from the game twice as fast as their male counterparts. Whether it be a general misunderstanding of the game, or more likely, revenge for a lifetime of machismo bullshit, these women come out swinging: elbows, slaps, hits to the face. If you have the ball, they make you pay for it. And when it's not physical abuse it's emotional.

The blame game is played by everyone on my community court, men and women alike. José gives you a shitty pass "COME ON GRINGO! PONTE LAS PILAS!". The player Susana is guarding shoots and scores, " GRINGO, POR QUE NO MARCAS!?". Maybe it's just me but while it seems like everyone gets blamed, it quickly turns into a game of Blame Whitey. "You could have done this, why don't you pass more, why didn't you make it, gringo, gringo, gringo, gringo". It was annoying, and currently still is annoying, but I take it as my practice in patience. A practice I sometimes lose at, but I've discovered that on the basketball court people communicate through shit-talking . It's part of the game and it's nothing personal. 

In all, it's a whole lot of fun. Blood, sweat and insults. It's always worth it.

If it doesn't look like a rose and doesn't smell like a rose, it's a rose

My days are starting to fill up with activities now, and by "fill up" I mean a combined total of 3 hours of activity out of a possible 16 hours a day. I'm getting there, from Cuerpo de Paseo to Cuerpo de Paz.

With my free morning I went over to my ageless host grandmother's, La Niña* Lucia, house to retrieve my clothing( yes, I pay other people to do my clothing for reasons I will not go into here, don't judge). I walked in through the open door and saw she was in the add-on kitchen in the way back, a kitchen made of sheet metal and logs. With the think smell of burning wood coursing through the house, I knew something was cooking. She always gives me a big smile when she sees me, and her metal teeth never cease to sparkle.

What cooking looks like here (and not what tortillas look like)

I asked her what she was up to. She replied, "Just toasting some coffee!". I look at the comal, the metal disk that serves as a cooking surface and I see some very yellow coffee beans. "¿Corn Coffee?" I asked, only to receive another warm smile and a resounding "¡Sí!".

It took me awhile to figure out that people call a whole bunch of different things coffee here. It seems like it should be straight forward. There is a plant that is called the coffee plant, hence the beans that come off this plant should be called coffee as well. However, according to Salvadorans, the culinary alchemists of Central America, corn makes reference to the cob harvested from corn stalks, but once said corn is kerneled and roasted it miraculously converts itself into coffee.

You might be asking, "Maybe they call it coffee because it has a similar taste after the whole process is done?"

No.

The only thing the two liquids, roasted corn liquid and coffee have in common is their color.

As if that is not appetising enough, they introduce a colorful crowd of additives, trying to add flavor this molten maize. Clove, cinnamon, and quite literally tablespoons upon tablespoons of sugar are added until the point of saturation. Ready to serve!

Alas, there is "real" coffee to be had, real meaning coffee that is made out of coffee. Just good luck finding it anywhere already prepared to serve.

*Women are referred to as "girl" instead of "Miss" or "Mrs" here as a form of respect. Who knows why.

Punishing Pupusas

I'm convinced that people that say they have no regrets in life have far too many regrets to accept. Over the past six months of being in country, by far my greatest regret is not keeping a pupusa tally.

My two close friends have done this since day one, slowly but steadly advancing until hitting the 100 mark. Like a prisoner who has lost track of the years, I often wonder how many of these grease-disks from hell I have railed in total, being that of the two homes I've lived in, BOTH have been pupuserías. I guess I will never know.

However, I do know my personal best for one sitting has been four. Naturally, if I told this to any Salvadoran, they'd laugh and brag about the time at Tia Sole's the slammed 8....WITH CURTIDO* Y SALSA. I, on the other hand, immediately start hate myself upon surpassing the three-count. The only thing more remarkable than  the sheer amount of grease that a pupusa is capable of holding, is the sheer denial of Salvadorans as to how much grease is actually involved in the process. It is for this reason, and many, many others, that I no longer like to watch my food being prepared.

Apart from the obvious uses of grease in the pupusa making process, ie the frying, grease is used as the backbone of this dish. The most common pupusa is that of frijoles con queso. Salvadorans turn refried beans into deep-fried beans. On one occassion, I saw my host mother dump approximately a liter of corn oil in a medium sized pot of beans. A LITER.

As we all know, oil does bodly harm. Not only to the digestive system, but to your poor gringo fingers.

No one has ever eaten a pupusa like this, EVER:

Nor should you ever bee seen eating a pupusa like this, because fuck tools right?

Instead, you must punish your fingers by ripping this grease-covered, hell-pocket apart as quickly as you can, like so:

Despite all this pain and regret, I rarely miss my nightly appointment with my pupusas. Chicharron, revuelta con loroco, I can honestly say it's never hurt so good.

*(this is curtido)