10–17 September 2026 · Joya de Cerén to Playa Toluca, El Salvador
Thursday the 10th I left the coast at nine, and the hour was not a preference. Both archaeological parks I wanted close at four. San Andrés cost three dollars for a foreigner. Joya de Cerén, a few kilometres on, cost ten, it is a UNESCO World Heritage site, and the guide is free and included, so I took the guide. Thirteen dollars of admissions for a day of ruins, on the one dry day in three. A hundred and twenty-six kilometres in the car, most of it spent doing arithmetic against the closing time.
Friday did not go to plan. I left Santa Ana at a quarter to one for the Ruta de las Flores, and past Apaneca the road was torn up and impassable. The day got rebuilt on the move. Apaneca was 16.6 degrees when the coast was 25, which is nine degrees in an hour and a half of driving, and I had not packed a layer. Coming down toward Sonsonate the road runs through Nahuizalco, and the whole town is making furniture: wicker and wood, workshops open to the street, finished chairs standing out on the pavement, the same trade door after door. I photographed it from the car and did not stop. The drive home went into hail. Nearly two hundred kilometres, the longest day so far.
Saturday and Sunday I did not leave the rancho. A hammock between the two almendros, the storm building offshore, a long nap in the middle of it. Twelve days in, it was the first day with nothing in it on purpose. I did find a scorpion on the bedroom floor at half past three that morning, tail curled over its back, and I have been shaking out my shoes ever since.
Monday at four I walked out onto the beach and had it to myself in both directions: vehicle tracks, driftwood, ramadas at the treeline, a low shore break on black sand. Then I walked the community with the caretaker, and a small shop made empanadas and handed them over. Not sold. Given. The reason offered was that they never see gringos out here. They were empanadas de plátano, ripe plantain mashed into a dough, a pale custard inside, fried and dusted with sugar. Closer to a fried sweet than to anything the word makes you expect. They were very good. A young girl spoke good English, unprompted, in a place where there is almost no occasion to practise it. I don't know where she got it.
The shop is an open yard off a sand lane, with no sign, palm roof and plank tables and four or five dogs asleep in the sand. It took me a minute to understand that the yards along that lane are not a picturesque edge to the village. They are the village. It is a street, and these are people's homes. One of them is about twenty feet by twenty and is a roof and three walls. Open-sided makes sense in this heat, since you want the air moving through. But four hundred square feet is four hundred square feet, and the distance between that and a walled villa with a pool a few minutes up the road is not explained by climate. Both things are true.
Thursday the 17th the caretaker brought breakfast up to the gate from the village: two fried eggs, warm buns, fried plantains and beans. Four dollars, plus one for the walk. The same morning I walked the lanes behind the villa and sat a while with the local women. No cell service, the translation app misbehaving, so it ran on gesture, the words I have and patience. It was still a good visit. One of the village dogs has decided I am hers. My first Spanish class started that day, and I now know where it will get used.
Ledger: San Andrés $3, Joya de Cerén $10. Empanadas, free. Breakfast delivered to the gate $4, plus a $1 tip for the walk. Eggs in the supermarket, $5.50 a dozen.