They Just Show Up Dead

Yesterday Basilia and her mom and I took a bus ride out to Chalatenango, a city a couple hours north of San Salvador. Basilia had succeeded in tracking down her old classmate Deysi who lives in Chalate, and we had an invitation to go out and meet her family.

Chalate has a quaint city center, all the downtown streets having these covered arcades that give the place a Wild West look. It's said to be one of the hotter places in the country, and it was living up to this reputation yesterday, so the shade provided by the arcades was appreciated.

Since Basilia had last seen her, Deysi has gotten married to Jose Antonio and has a seven-year-old boy, Kenneth. They live on a quiet, leafy side street five minutes' walk from the town center. I was surprised to learn that their tiny two-bedroom row house cost them $45,000 five years ago, making it probably more expensive on a per square foot basis than an entry-level home in Arcata at that time.

As I strolled around town with Jose Antonio, I asked him about crime in Chalatenango, wondering if it's the main thing on people's minds there, as it generally seems to be in San Salvador. He dismissed the concern, saying his town is a safe place with no gang problems. "If anybody starts making trouble around here, they just show up dead in the morning," he said casually. That took me awhile to digest. There is a deep streak of violence underlying so much of Salvadoran society. Even peace and safety, where they are found, seem to owe their existence to fear and violence lurking just out of sight.