Quetzaltepec
The boys were handed 15 yards of braided polypropylene rope, a serrated knife, dried meat, and plátanos secos carefully wrapped in a woman’s headscarf. As Elio packed these items into his small military-issued backpack, Omar and the troop leader stood silently. Words were not exchanged; words were not needed. The only thing being traded at a higher value than words that summer were MP5s – and plane tickets. Either way, the Asociación of Salvadoran Boy Scouts had nonexpendable funds.
The boys began their journey towardsQuetzaltepec, the highest volcano in the northwest region of El Salvador. These trips were an escape from the civil war, the guerra, tearing their country apart. The jungle–a place with wild hogs, snakes, active volcanoes, and winding rivers–was a welcome diversion from this guerra.
Elio and Omar advanced, reaching a clearing. Omar glanced up to see the sun setting across the west side of the tree tops. He knew they still needed to cross the Jiboa River in order to reach ground where they could camp for the night. He bit back the fear he felt when thinking of the Jiboa.
They walked briskly towards the sound of rushing water. As they approached, the scouts walked downstream until they reached an area lined with fallen trees, creating a pool in the river’s rushing waters. Omar placed his bag on his head and instructed Elio to follow. He began across the river, bobbing up and down as he struggled to gain a foothold in the rocks beneath him.
Nearly at the other side, he turned to shout to Elio “Cruzas!”
Head still turned, Omar put out his foot, expecting to touch solid ground. In a split second, he was knocked off his feet. Submerged in blackness, he spluttered and struggled as he lost his pack to the waves. He managed to get his head above water, but still struggled to keep his head above its currents; he was powerless in this new guerrabetween himself and the angry water.
“Elio! Ayúdame!”
He struggled to see Elio as he ran along the shoreline keeping pace with Omar as he was rushed down the river. Omar attempted to read Elio’s lips.
“Cuidado...arbol…cascada!”
Watch out...tree...waterfall!
‘Waterfall...Where?’ he thought, searching wildly for the waterfall. Whatever breath was left in his body escaped with the impact of the tree as it crushed into Omar’s ribs. He scrambled to wrap his arms around this life line.
“Elio,” he screamed “la cuerda!” He wrapped his body around the tree as Elio ran back upstream to grab the rope. The waterfall was within meters of Omar’s tree, however, this tree was crumbling under his hands. He stopped then to pray for Elio to hurry, to throw him the rope; and save him from drowning.
When Elio returned with the rope, he threw it to Omar but it was too short. Omar knew he had to swim out from the tree to grab the end offered to him.
It was difficult to hear over the roar of the cascada as he pushed away from the tree and snatched the rope. Elio heaved with all of his might against the raging river with Omar in tow. Reaching the clay shore, Omar took several minutes to ungrasp the rope. His knees were locked beneath him and arms like gelatin from the exertion. Both boys looked back at the river, still panting.
There were to be many times in Omar’s – my dad’s – life when moving forward was his only option, and he did so. When his life was in danger, he “crossed the river” once more by leaving everything he knew in El Salvador to start a new life in another country. He was never anyone’s victim, got an education, started a family, and taught us all to persevere, regardless of the odds.
Omar taught me what it takes to reach Quetzaltepec.
