Vashon Island News Record

PARKES WRITES OF CENTRAL AMERICA (Continued from page one)

play it, not including the accompanists. one for the drums, one for the bass violin and another who occasionally contributes the sad, sad notes of the saxophone. They played that night, I am sure, everything they knew and some others. Our house across the street is two hundred feet back from the road but we heard the music that night about as plainly as if we had been among those present. Strains and adaptations from "Solomon Levi" "Rule Brittania" and "Tipperary" punctuated or punctured our dreams or filled the wakeful hours. About the only tune they didn't have was "Yes. We Have No Bananas."

And on Sunday morning they marched the party out in procession towards the polling place, 200 or more of them, and all day long they stood. or sat. in line, some of them frankly asleep and snoring, along the public street waiting for a chance to vote. and, believe it or not. even until Monday after noon some of them were still in line. How's that for getting out the vote and keeping it out? They fed them and watered them and slept them on the spot until their votes were cast. And all through those days and nights the cannon crackers roared and the bands played and a vociferous democracy proclaimed its power and its intention to rule itself. And thus far, as I have said, there has been no revolution and it looks as if the man who got the most votes would get the office.

And this week, after the election, there has been a fair in town and so this week too the bands have played. the cannon crackers and the sky rockets have roared at all hours of the day and night and when we hear them at 4 a. m, we don't know whether we are hearing the last of yesterday's celebration or whether they are starting off for another day.

It was a gala night last night on the public square. We were part of the show. It was exactly like riding on a merry-go-round except that we didn't have to pay to get on. The band played in the center of the square and two lines of people paraded the four sides of it in both directions. Amazing types of humanity. All grades of society from the mayor to the bootblack. Portly ladies in all their finery and darkskinned Indians in gay shawls and bare feet.

We joined the throng and paraded with them, then sat on a stone seat and watched the rest of the show go by. Bands and fireworks; gayety and laughter. And food. What would poor Food Inspector Case have done to it? I wonder. Here's a roast turkey on one sidewalk stall. It looks good enough to eat. Here's a dish of sad looking fried eggs. Here's some soup. served in a coconut shell with black beans afloat in it. And a great variety of sugar confections and cakes or gooey looking messes too numerous to mention and too sickly to describe, all laid out along the line of march ready for anyone who feels the need of nourishment and has the price, on stands, on the curbstone and even to the middle of the street.

It was a continuous performance apparently without end, and we could not stay until the tumult and the shouting died and the turkey, eggs and soup were all consumed. And probably they were not anyway·for today is another day, and tonight, as I write, so near are we to the public square, that I can hear the music of another night at the fair and, in imagination, I can see and smell the rest.

This is Latin-America as it appears to a newcomer. It may be novel and unusual to us but to the other 99.44 percent, all this was commonplace and only. we were unusual enough to be worthy of a second glance.

We came to El Salvador via New Orleans to Guatemala, a four day sea trip through the Gulf of Mexico. From Puerto Barrios, Guatemala's, to San Salvador is an all day ride on a narrow gauge railway that attains a height of about 5000 feet in crossing the mountain ridge of the backbone of the continent. So winding is its pathway over a large part of the way that 30 miles an hour is about its best speed and much of the trip is made at less.

Crossing the frontier the train stops on the Guatemala side and we show our passports and vaccination certificates. Then it moves over to the Salvador side and we show them again and have our baggage examined. Anyone without a vaccination certificate is vaccinated there and then, on the train. A conscientious objector would, I presume, be left on the ties.

We are 30 miles from San Salvador the capitol, in the hilly region. From the top of a hill 600 feet high in this town, at an altitude of 3500 feet above sea level we get a wonderful view of the surrounding country. Many hills and ravines covered with tropical vegetation, a large lake in the foreground, just beyond is an active volcano and in the distance the binoculars bring to view the waves of the Pacific Ocean breaking on the beach.

We are getting accustomed to the country and its language. It is, of course, Spanish, but with variations. both in pronunciation and vocabulary And where there is a choice of words they usually use the one I don't and speed, in conversation is their middle name.

Tropical foliage is beautiful and abundant either cultivated or wild. In our immediate vicinity we are surrounded with oranges, bananas, coconut palms and many other varieties of tropical plants while in the shady places beneath the taller trees the coffee plants are cultivated.

I don't know which are more abundant tropical plants or tropical insects. We have seen many varieties of the latter, some of which saw us first. We don't have to go to the ant here in order to consider her ways. They come to us and show small consideration of our ways. Scouts come along first and if they find anything they want they call out the reserves and come in an endless chain, through devious ways and carry astonishing loads away in a short time.

Among other animals we also have three dogs and a cat. Of the dogs Joy is anything else but one. She thinks the world revolves around her last litter of pups. You can easily guess where Spotty got his name, and Tobo is a big and rather mournful looking individual, very affectionate and always is carrying something in his mouth, pleading for someone to play with him, He is a true Salvadorean flea hound and between his periodic scrub baths he has much business to attend to. Sambo, the cat, is more reticent than the dogs and thus far I have not been admitted to his circle of friends. He is coal black and has his meals served on a high shelf on, which the dogs look with envious eyes. At times too we have a mouse and we are hoping that Sambo will get acquainted with him soon.

Of many things I shall undoubtedly know more soon, whether I read the papers or not. This, I am sure, is long enough for the present contribution to human knowledge. If you think it is too long just cut off the end and leave off the beginning, if you can find out which is which, and then it will fit in anywhere.

We have thought much and many times of Vashon Island since we left, and of our many friends there. To all such may we add a word of greeting and of hope that we may meet again.

Here they have taken my middle name and turned it into Spanish. It is spelled Jorge and they call me Don Jorge. This is pronounced haw hay which makes it sound like the conversation of an army mule. To you folks I prefer to remain as ever,

Sincerely,

W. G. Parkes.

Cojutepeque,

El Salvador, Central America.