When I first mentioned my trip to El Salvador to friends, family and acquaintances, the overwhelming majority of responses followed a certain pattern. First came the raised eyebrows, then the inevitable question: “Is it a mission trip?” After my subsequent response that, no, I wasn’t about to build a church or spread the “good word,” came the warnings. I’ll catch the Zika virus. I’ll be kidnapped and held for ransom. I’ll get food poisoning. They ranged in degree of severity and types of consequences, but they all stemmed from a pervasive fear of “less-developed” countries despite supposed good intentions.
Let me start off by claiming I am not an exceptionally adventurous person. I don’t actively seek out opportunities to push myself out of my comfort zone, yet when I’m presented with one, it’s unlikely I’ll turn it down. So when my best friend offered her family’s home country as a potential Spring Break destination, and I successfully placated my mother’s fear, the flights were booked.
El Salvador is a country plagued with violence and poverty: I knew that. A cursory Google search for El Salvador reveals a variety of anxiety-inducing headlines, most citing rising murder rates, gang violence and travel warnings for U.S. citizens. Editorials like The Guardians’ “One murder every hour: How El Salvador became the homicide capital of the world” detail the effects criminal gangs have had on a country already haunted by a recent civil war and widespread poverty. So, I prepared myself for a slightly different trip than the Royal Caribbean cruise on which so many of my peers would be guzzling overpriced drink packages.
It was undeniably dissimilar. Driving out of the airport, we were surrounded by makeshift homes of discarded sheet metal, truck beds packed to the brim with passengers and unsmiling guards clutching AK-47s. The line to apply for an American visa stretched for blocks past the U.S. Embassy. Barbed wire and 20-foot walls surrounded every home and school. We had to strip ourselves of any and all jewelry before stepping outside the front door. Salvadoran friends discussed armed robberies in unaffected voices, characterizing them as inevitable realities.
Despite all this, I never felt unsafe.
This could stem from a couple of different sources. For one, I may just be oblivious. Additionally, I was constantly surrounded not only by friends, but also by El Salvadorans who were so overwhelmingly caring and generous that homicide rates and barbed wire were the last things on our minds. But more than anything else, it was the sheer beauty of the land, customs and people that erased — if only for a moment — the lurking presence of danger beyond the walls.
Coming face-to-face with a country that has so much to offer yet cannot seem to escape a cycle of violence and oppression is a jarring experience. Above all, it forces you to re-evaluate your privilege, perspective and sheer luck. In the words of my best friend’s father, “I’m lucky because I get to visit and enjoy all El Salvador has to offer, and then I get to leave.”
Trips to underprivileged areas so often toe the line of voyeurism, an ethical dilemma I was constantly reflecting on in the last week. Yet, only by accepting the good with the bad, the beautiful with the ugly and the picturesque scenery with the barbed wire can you truly maintain a realistic impression of the world. I could really take this to the next step and philosophize the hell out of that realization, but I’ll spare you.
I can’t even begin to convey how grateful I am to my friend and her family for taking me in and pushing me outside my U.S.-shaped comfort zone. I never would have thought a Spring Break trip would come to mean so much.
Marisa Papenfuss is a UF English junior. Her column appears on Tuesdays.
