I (Think I) Live in El Salvador

I think I live in El Salvador, but these days - it's hard to tell for sure.

After 90+ days of lock down, on June 16 we exited quarantine and the country began Phase One of re-opening.  What does that mean? We can now get our hair cut, our car fixed and construction is resuming.  Even better, we can go to the grocery store any day we like.  Restaurants are open for take-away and one can drive about the country without encountering police and military checkpoints.  

What it does NOT mean, however, is the re-opening of the airport, parks, beaches, mountains, shopping malls, or non-essential stores.  By mid-August, we're supposed to go to Phase Two, which would reactivate the critical public transportation system - but that next step is only penciled in for now, and lightly at that. 

Unfortunately, this good news is set in front of a backdrop graphic of COVID-19 cases as steep as the Salvadoran landscape. Which means that this may be the status-quo for a while longer.

You can see the lengthy preamble of our quarantine time before the ascent. 

As most of us worldwide can relate, these past four-plus months have lacked a horizon to which we could aspire. To create such a destination, even while knowing I'm kidding myself, I've gotten lost in the daydreaming and distraction of imagining other places and times. 

I've spent hours on real estate websites, wondering what it would be like to have a few acres in Wyoming or a lakeside cabin in Maine?  I've become entranced by HGTV's House Hunters International, Lakeside Getaway, and any of the She's a Designer, He's a Carpenter! folksy home remodeling shows, remembering a time when closet size or water damage to the sills was the worst of our problems.  

I've pored through the Projected Vacancies list of overseas assignments that might, maybe, could possibly be available two years from now when we move again.  

I've added murals to our garden walls like some folks add tattoos to blank spots on their bodies. 

Broadening our horizons.

Slightly larger than life sized.

But the best thing I've done may simply be riding my bike through our neighborhood, letting myself feel movement, wind, a changing horizon and just a bit of speed.  I see, smell and feel the bank of foggy clouds that linger over the range of hills separating San Salvador from the coast, dissipating into vapor as it reaches towards the city.  It smells like San Francisco - Golden Gate Park to be exact - and lets me imagine I'm somewhere else.  I know those clouds mustered over the Pacific, which assures me that although unseen - it's still there.  

I've used all the above to remember that there's more life beyond the tiny slice of horizon visible from our one-mile tether, and that I still live in El Salvador.

Then something dawned on me. 

Staying completely within the current Salvadoran Phase One restrictions, and our internal Embassy restrictions, my husband and I could still actually get out into this country.  We could drive ourselves in our own car, masks on, and at least SEE something new.  We couldn't DO much when we got there, but we could see it. We could just get out and stretch our eyes a bit. Not a vacation in the sense of being able to wake up to a different environment and popping out to a cafe for breakfast, but a sensory vacation offering new sights, faces, smells and sounds nonetheless.  

Which is why we got in our car and headed an hour west to the city of Santa Ana.

The first thing that struck me as we merged onto the Panamerican Highway just minutes from our house, was how busy the roads were. 

What? Where are these people going and what are they doing? Were we the only dorks who were actually abiding the quarantine this whole time while the rest of the country was going about its day?  (And the corollary to that: Oh, now I see why the virus is spreading...)

Construction is now permitted. Safety - still optional. 

The next thing I noticed was how vibrant and alive the landscape had become since we last saw it in March. The corn, seeded with the first rains of early May, had already grown head-high alongside the road, some in larger-scale farms, but most commonly, clinging to steep hillsides in patchworks of "milpas."  The milpa is the traditional cultivation of the two sustenance crops (corn and beans) on one's own acre, lot, or just a patch out back.  They're laboriously tended by macheted hands, taking advantage of every bit of soil - regardless of its location or inclination. 

Not a seed, in all senses of the word, falls on infertile ground in this country. 

Patchwork of milpas. Just don't drop a tool on this incline. 

The next thing, well I can't say that we "noticed," but more accurately the next thing that slammed us in the face, was just outside Ciudad Arce, about 35 minutes from home.  On a long, straight stretch of rural highway we found clusters of families sitting by the roadside waving white flags at passing motorists. The white flag, be it a piece of cloth, a plastic bag, or in one case - simply a paper plate speared onto a stick, has become the signal of desperation and hunger for families deprived of their means to earn even their previous meager income due to the pandemic.  We'd heard about them in the news, but until that moment, we hadn't seen them.  They sat under cardboard or palm frond lean-tos offering little shelter from the sun and rain, and waved their pleas for help.  In the time it took us to absorb what we were seeing and pull to the shoulder from highway speed, we'd already passed through their corridor.  But with the car stopped, my husband dug out the dollar coins from his pockets and tucked them aside for the return trip. 

Shortly after, we pulled into the historic center of Santa Ana and found a unexpectedly bustling city.  At least 95 percent of people on the street wore face masks as they stood in lines for the bank, grocery stores, or fast food take-aways.  I was also surprised to see street vendors out and not being chased off by the active military and police presence.  However, the central plaza park was still cordoned off with yellow police tape, and we could see many businesses closed and boarded-up.  Although in hindsight, I don't know if they were like that before this all started.

The neo-Gothic Catedral de la Senora Santa Ana was hard to miss. Built originally in the late 16th century, and then reconstructed in the early 20th century after a lightning strike burned the original version, its tall, decorative spires reached far above the low cityscape, its  bright white facade a pretty compliment to the petite-four pastels of the historic buildings anchoring each side of the plaza. Due to current restrictions, the cathedral was off-limits to visitors, but was being thoroughly enjoyed by hundreds of resident pigeons. We look forward to seeing the interior another time. 

Catedral de la Senora Santa Ana

Teatro de Santa Ana

Irony of the times: You are no longer free to enter Parque Libertad (or carry your gun... thankfully)

Yeah clock tower, I know how you feel. I've lost track of time, too. 

Pastel Santa Ana row houses

Imprinted sidewalk surface from a era when even what we walked upon should be beautiful. 

Still anxious about being out in public like this, we walked just a two-block square to get a quick feel for the place, stopping to say hello to only one person whose eyes caught mine as we passed on the sidewalk. 

"Alison" sitting primly on her handkerchief. 

Not wanting to press our luck any further, we got back in the car and found a drive-through for lunch on the go on the way out of town.  Just beyond Santa Ana, we left the highway at El Congo where the road rose up to the lip of the enormous caldera that gives home to Lake Coatepeque.  At a mirador along the narrow road, we stopped for a tailgate picnic of burgers and an incredible view.  

Lake Coatepeque

 In other circumstances, a masked man with a machete coming towards you would be terrifying. But this is El Salvador.

We retraced our route home towards Ciudad Arce and found families still on the roadside. But this time we were prepared and my husband pulled off the highway four times to offer a few dollars to each group. As our car came to a stop on the shoulder, the families leapt to their feet to rush my window, the children more mesmerized by seeing us and peeking into our car than the fact that I was handing them coins. Not long-term help by any means, but at least enough for beans and rice for a few days. 

For very many reasons I didn't take pictures as we stopped, so I must apologize for the quality of these photographs taken through the window as we drove away.  But even blurry, I think people should see what life looks like now here. 

It just took an afternoon for me to remember where I am.

I live in El Salvador.

Life and Work in a Time of COVID-19: An Uninterrupted Horizon

As suddenly as the dry season began back in November, the wet season has stepped out from behind the curtain to take center stage. By early April, the humidity quietly began to rise and the plants, feeling the barometric changes, rubbed their eyes and got to work bringing the neighborhood back to full HD color.  Towards the end of the month, stray evening showers began refreshing the landscape, sinking deep to revive the neglected soil, roots and grasses. The rain released a cloud of earthiness that unlike the smell of a sudden shower on dry pavement, instead was like inhaling a bag of moist sphagnum moss: healthy, right, and necessary.

By the time I'd turned the calendar page to May, the showers and electrical storms had settled into a nightly routine. 8:00 pm, cue first drops. And man, can this place rain! While waiting in the wings for her turn on stage, it seems the rainy season had also been drinking a LOT of tea. Like six months worth, which she released on those first few nights. 

As with any Spring, as with any good, strong rain, I'd hoped this would give us a fresh start, and what ailed us yesterday would be washed away. The seasons were changing! Good things were coming!  

The abundance of growth has been ill-timed with the absence of gardeners.

But no.

Yes, the seasons are technically changing, but that's about it. 

When this all started (seems like three years ago) in mid-March, our work life became an adrenaline-fueled rush of actions, decisions, changing directions, adapting, and breaking new ground daily. If I had to color each day, they would've been a brilliant orangey-red. Propelled by success and the gratification of the people we were helping, each day was full to the brim and so different from the previous day.

But in our personal lives, although we were living and reacting as if we were in the eye of the storm along with everyone else in the world, we really weren't yet. The perspective from El Salvador was that of hearing the neighbors arguing, dishes breaking, the clamor getting louder and closer, but still going to sleep each night in our own calm, safe house. Then the argument came through the front door and now the parents are screaming at each other, and all the kids can do is look up at them and watch, unable to calm the racket. 

See, even though we've officially been living under the constraints of this pandemic for months, it only recently really came home. When I last wrote, the country had reported 24 confirmed cases of COVID-19, with two cases traced to local transmission. Today the number is 784 with 667 reported through local transmission and 15 deaths. That sounds like Monday and Tuesday in Manhattan, but remember that this is a country barely the size of New Jersey with a large percentage of folks living in serious poverty.  And it's not that we've been footloose all this time, either. As soon as the neighbors were heard arguing (China and Europe) the Salvadoran President locked us down. We have been living under tight restrictions for two months already, starting a few weeks before the first COVID-related death was reported here. 

But last week videos emerged of traffic on the roads, of people getting their cars washed, and folks standing on street corners for no apparent reason, face masks drooping around their necks. This angered the president greatly, as evidenced in his national broadcast a few days ago.  For all the sacrifices the country was making, THESE PEOPLE were not taking it seriously, and now things were going to get real. The government banned all public transportation, including taxis and Uber. The lack of public transportation means that many of our embassy local staff can't get to work, particularly the cleaning staff, groundskeepers, guards. We can no longer move from one municipality to the next. Except for essential employees in specific sectors, and carrying letters from their employers to pass through police and military check-points, we're only allowed out of the house two days per week for food/pharmacy shopping. This is regulated by the last digits of our IDs, or for foreigners, our passports:  

This is on the fridge now. 

Take away options from restaurants are now restricted to delivery only. Oh to be a motorcycle delivery man these days! King of the road, zipping across four lanes of the Panamerican Highway without so much as a glance over your shoulder, cruising around empty roundabouts twice if they want, just because they can. Drop the bags of food at the door, jot off a text to the requester, and you're back on the bike without so much as a "buenos dias."

Lunch delivery - not just for the lazy anymore.

Welcome to life on an uninterrupted horizon, also known as Day 56 of El Salvador's national quarantine with, for now, 12 days remaining. Our kitchen calendar chronicles the decrees, states of emergency and national quarantines that have been announced, extended and extended again, as I jot down "End of School Closure," "Last Day of Quarantine," and "Airport Open" on the calendar, only to scratch out these milestones after each extension.  

Why do I bother?

At work, the flurry of activity that occupied our first three weeks has settled into a steady hum. We're not inventing things from scratch anymore, but rather stamping out permission for flights to land and taking phone calls from folks wanting to leave with assembly line regularity. The days now no longer feel orangey-red, but dull gray. Some days light gray, sometimes dark gray, but for the past three weeks (or 33? Who can keep track?) we've simply woken up, worked, come home, ate dinner, gone to bed. Lather rinse repeat, just like our hands.

Geez, that sounds like any life, right? Where's the complaint? What's changed? 

The horizon has changed. We have no idea of what's next. Nothing to look forward to because nothing can be counted on.  Which of these is our horizon?

Are we about to get soaked?

Or are sunny skies in the forecast?

We're told the next few weeks, with restrictions turned up to eleven, will be critical in stopping this greedy virus... or not. In China, parts of Europe and even parts of the United States, this kind of thinking is so last week.  You guys are movin' on! As I type this, ill-advised tattoos are being applied to shoulders in Texas, bangs are being trimmed in Georgia, and pews filled in Indiana. 

Despite the plants blooming, birds nesting, and seasons progressing, here there is nothing to look forward to yet. Our private lives have become a considerably less perky version of the Truman Show. Living in a gated neighborhood has a speakeasy feel to it where once the gate closes behind us, we can slide down our masks and pace the streets up and down, back and forth, just across the street from our neighbors doing the same thing. It's life in a large cage with all of us making the best of it. Pulling through the gate, I can precisely predict what I'll see, and have begun to direct it aloud: 

Pass jogger in blue shorts and team shirt, headphones on;

Wave at friendly neighbor with thick, wavy gray hair, still don't know his name;

Turn corner and prepare to stop for teenager just learning to ride her bike. While she has improved these past few weeks, she still has poor traffic sense;

Keep an eye for the boy on his skateboard, always in the middle of the intersection;

Cue the elderly lady with the walker and her nurse, slowly strolling in front of my garage door. We gesture politely at each other - you first, no you. 

Regardless of when I return home, how is it that they're always there?

Every day it's the same. 
Every day we still don't know what's coming. 
Every day we crouch a little bit lower under the ceiling and just keep trudging along.

When will one of us sail to the edge, poke through the painted backdrop, and break free to the world like it was before?

In case I don't see ya' later, good afternoon, good evening and good night!

Life and Work in a Time of COVID-19: A Slow Motion Emergency

I'm writing about something that needs no introduction.  Something known from Bhutan to Belize (two cases each), from the Faroe Islands to Fiji (80 and five cases, respectively), and from the United States with over 100 thousand to El Salvador clocking in at 19 cases.  I offer one person's view of this slow-motion global disaster, both the personal and - to the extent possible - the professional perspective as a Foreign Service Officer. I see this in slow-motion because it's not an earthquake or a volcanic eruption that hits without warning, does its damage and the rest is all aftermath.  Instead, this emergency is coming, coming, now closer, now worse, closer still, worse still, encroaching, still continuing and we don't know if it's about to blow up or blow over. 

View From El Salvador

36 Days Ago

Although it feels like a different life ago, really it's been just over a month since I picked up our good friend from the San Salvador airport for a short visit. Prior to leaving the airport, nurses from the Ministry of Health checked our temperatures with a shot to the forehead and we chuckled at the novelty. Over the next five days, my husband and I showed off our favorite spots and ventured into new territory.  The day she arrived COVID-19 had just broken out in Italy and there were no reported cases local transmission in the United States.  Given that setting, it didn't seem irresponsible for her to take an international trip.  Yes, the storm was looming on the horizon, but the first drops hadn't yet hit the Central American windshield. 

Life in normal times - El Zonte Beach

Daily commuters leaving the coffee hill town Concepcion de Ataco.

When school was still open: boys goofing around in Nahuizalco. 

31 Days Ago
I take our friend to the airport and she heads back to the Bay Area. Life continues as normal here. My husband and I can still go to local stores and easily find supplies of sanitizing hand gel, which have now hit the black market in the U.S. We pick up a few bottles, just in case. 

Meanwhile, the first COVID-19 death and first case of local transmission are reported in the U.S. 

26 Days Ago
Less than a week after our friend left, I fly to Southern California for a work conference. It's a gathering of consular officers from around the globe meeting with US-based agencies to discuss the soup-to-nuts processing of H-2 temporary worker visas.  These are the visas for workers supporting all sectors of the U.S. agricultural industry and a good chunk of the tourist, landscaping, moving and (oddly) ice cream truck businesses. On the first day of the workshop, I raise my hand to ask a speaker from Washington, DC if the Department is predicting interruptions in processing or admitting these critical workers due to the viral outbreak.  We discuss preventative health measures our sections should be taking, but at that time Presidential Proclamations had only banned entry to the U.S. from travelers recently in China and Iran - not countries known for H-2 workers. There are pump bottles of hand sanitizer on each table in the conference room, yet undeterred, I fill a notebook with ideas I want to implement when I return to work. 

On my return flight to El Salvador, in addition to the usual customs declaration form we all fill out on our tray tables, we are also asked to report all countries we've visited in the previous two weeks.  By that time, Italy and Spain had been identified as hot spots and Salvadoran President Bukele institutes a mandatory 30-day quarantine for all travelers entering from these two European countries, plus China, Iran and South Korea. The country is still open for business to American arrivals.

El Salvador goes to Yellow Alert as COVID-19 reaches 86 countries and 2,241 new cases are reported in the last 24 hours. There are no reported cases in El Salvador. 

Sunrise over the volcanoes. All is quiet and calm.

19 Days Ago
Back at work on Monday, my coworker and I have a long talk about a regional workshop we've been planning since last Fall. An annual event, 2020 is San Salvador's turn to host and it has been penciled onto our calendars for late May. We begin talking to our invited presenters who are concerned about their ability to come as their agencies are starting to issue travel restrictions.  We look each other straight in the eye, relying on each other for some type of crystal ball insider information, and ask the things like, "Well really, how long do we think this COULD last?"  

17 Days Ago
While my colleague and I are reluctant to let all our workshop preparations go for naught, by Wednesday it's clear that the situation is only worsening. We pull the plug, postponing the event until July.  Although unspoken, I'm sure that even then we believed this date to be ambitious. Later, in a staff meeting, I mention that my throat is a bit sore. Perhaps I wouldn't be in tomorrow?  A subsequent sneeze is met with utter silence in the room as behind their widened eyes, my coworkers start doing the incubation math given my recent U.S. trip. 

The WHO declares the outbreak a pandemic.  

President Trump bans all travel to the U.S. from 26 European countries. 

End-of-days shopping frenzy puts toilet paper on the Most Wanted List in the U.S. 

El Salvador goes to Orange Alert as COVID-19 reaches 109 countries and 4,025 new cases are reported in the last 24 hours. All classes are cancelled and schools closed. There are still no reported cases in El Salvador. 

16 Days Ago
I stay at home with a sinus infection/minor cold.  I swear!

15 Days Ago
Friday the 13th and a U.S. national emergency is declared. 

The term "social distancing" enters common parlance and we hear it translated into Spanish, too (distanciamiento social). 

Our consular section creates plans to uphold sanitary precautions and maintain social distancing among the hundreds of visa applicants we receive daily. 

El Salvador goes to Red Alert even with still no confirmed cases in country. In a televised statement in front of his cabinet, President Bukele requests a "state of exception" to suspend portions of the Salvadoran Constitution relating to freedom of movement and gathering. He implements "extraordinary measures" to protect the population from what he sees as a "high probability" of the virus affecting the country. Borders are closed to foreign travelers, and Salvadoran citizens, residents and members of the diplomatic corps are allowed to enter only via mandatory government quarantine. This begins to affect the embassy community as more than a handful of employees and/or family members are caught off-guard by the declaration while outside the country.  Sporting events are cancelled as are all gatherings of more than 200 people.  All public transportation is privately owned and the government urges sanitation measures to keep passengers safe.  I'm doubtful of the utility of this measure as people travel jam-packed in second-hand school buses, vans and pick-up trucks like cattle and cord wood. 

Still home sick from work (it's just a sinus infection/minor cold!).

We pay our once-a-week housekeeper for two weeks in advance and tell her to stay home so she'll avoid the lengthy trip on public buses. 

14 Days Ago
President Bukele further restricts gatherings to no more than 75 people. 

The State Department offers Authorized Departure to U.S. personnel and family members from any diplomatic or consular post in the WORLD who have determined they are at higher risk of a poor outcome if exposed to COVID-19.  We start to lose embassy personnel.

Via text messages, our consular management team discusses visa appointments: do we keep them or cancel them? We decide to stay open Monday and see how things are going with our new procedures.  

12 Days Ago
President Bukele announces that all pregnant women, those over 60 years old, and anyone with underlying health conditions should immediately leave work and stay home until... this is over? We have two coworkers over 60 who pack up and leave work by the noon deadline. Such a hasty goodbye, it feels like we're setting them onto an ice floe.

11 Days Ago
St. Patrick's Day Parade in NYC is cancelled - now you know it's getting serious. 

President Bukele gives another televised statement in front of his summoned cabinet. These events have become Must-See TV for the nation as we all wait with baited breath for the next bomb to drop.  We expect him to announce that flights from the U.S. are now suspended as all 50 states are now affected when news of a confirmed case in the last hold-out state of West Virginia is reported. 

We are wrong. 

He closes the airport for 15 days to ALL flights in or out of the country as of midnight, March 18th.  There are two flights yet to depart for the U.S. that afternoon, but with a Salvadoran-based crew, they can't guarantee they'll return before the deadline and may turn into pumpkins and be stranded in the U.S. The flights are cancelled, thus stranding travelers with flights transiting through El Salvador - a Central American hub for one airline. The phones start to ring off the hook in the American Citizen Services (ACS) section of the embassy. 

10 Days Ago
Just as we got the social-distancing and sanitation measures working in our section, the Department suspends all routine visa processing worldwide. Boom. As we were warned at the start of our careers: in an emergency, we all become ACS officers.  

The volume of calls from American citizens overwhelms the switchboard and we set up a call center.  This, I find, is a rather fitting task for my Salvadoran colleagues as many of them started their careers in call centers here and with their excellent English skills, were later hired at the embassy. (Think of us when you hear: "Para Espanol, oprima dos" next time you're ordering flowers online.)

While China has its first day of no new reported cases, the daily death toll in Italy hits a new high. 

And in another televised speech, President Bukele announces what we've all been waiting for - the first confirmed case of COVID-19 has reached El Salvador.  We're told the infected person had recently traveled to Italy, but with no official record of his re-entry to El Salvador, authorities conclude that he landed elsewhere after the quarantine was instituted and crossed a land border through a "blind spot." 
Thanks, jerk.

On a related note, Salvadorans smile with pride to hear that for the first time in history, the coyotes are smuggling people INTO El Salvador. Word on the street is that the going rate is $100.

9 Days Ago
Nearly all US states declare states of emergency and NYC is declared the U.S. epicenter. 

7 Days Ago 
Another Bukele declaration comes down: mandatory 30-day quarantine for everyone. Exceptions are made for critical work sectors, but with an enormous swath of the population working in the informal economy, this news is very hard to take.  We're directed to only leave our houses to go to work, a pharmacy or the grocery store and police checkpoints will enforce this. Our local embassy staff receive letters to travel to work through the checkpoints and we're told to only drive in our diplomatic plated cars and carry our credentials. 

We put staff into two alternating teams of in-person and teleworking to limit the number of warm bodies in the embassy. Upon realizing they're on opposite teams and might not see each other for who-knows-how-long, some of my crew gets teary and breaks social distancing rules to hug each other goodbye. 

With the airport closed, nobody knows if our mail shipments will be able to arrive.  That might sound like a silly first-world complaint, I recognize that, but given we rely on imported cat food - it's concerning.  Sadly, El Salvador is not an overwhelmingly cat-friendly country.  It's not like they hate them, but you might be lead to that conclusion after seeing the one brand of cat food in the grocery store and only super-expensive prescription stuff in the vet clinics. I begin to mark the calendar with milestones: "two weeks of food left, one week of food left" and start to ration the kitties' food. 

This Past Week
...has been a blur. With the entire embassy engaged in Mission Priority #1 - helping U.S. citizens, we've been able to all pull in one direction and get some impressive things done. To start, today will be our fifth arranged repatriation flight, quite a diplomatic feat given the closed airport. We've made and taken untold thousands of calls from U.S. citizens and permanent residents wanting to get back home. We've set up web pages for information, created flight manifests, and sent out emergency MASCOT messages to the U.S. citizen community.  

Ten days after the first case broke, there are now 19 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in the country, all of whom caught it abroad and except for the guy who snuck across the border - they were stopped upon entry and put into quarantine. 

As for daily life, it's no longer a novelty but a normalcy to have our temperature taken before entering the grocery store, which we can only do in controlled numbers and one per family.  We buy groceries not in a hoarding fashion, but with an eye of "what will keep longest if this is the last time I'm let out of the house?" Canned tuna and pasta are looking really good about now. 


Oh, and local press reports that the gangs have announced a suspension of extortion payments due to the state of emergency.  They're just doin' their part to help the community.

Not your wallet sir, just your temperature.

Civilized shoppers wait to enter PriceSmart. One person per family.

Given the shortage of masks, and a social norm to wear one, my husband makes his own following - you guessed it - a YouTube video.  While I couldn't stop chuckling, they're quite ingenious. 

Necessity is the mother of invention.

The State Department's Consular Affairs bureau spends an incredible amount of brain power imagining and preparing for every different permutation of disaster that could hit any area on the globe. Earthquakes, hurricanes, civil unrest, terrorist attacks, volcanic eruptions, droughts, and floods - you name it, Consular Affairs has worked through a plan to handle it.  But did anyone, maybe that one person in the meeting who says oddball things, ever raise their hand and propose, "You know, we should make an emergency plan for a pandemic that strikes every one of our diplomatic missions simultaneously, including headquarters..."  Each day we're breaking new ground.

Watching my colleagues, whether local staff, employed family members, fellow officers, or managers, with each of their particular strengths suddenly shining through, has been the most encouraging and amazing part of this all. It reminds me that given the opportunity, we all rise to the challenge. While these are not to be compared to what we're seeing from medical professionals in urban hot spots, these acts are nonetheless bright spots here and worthy of recognition. Some of my favorite examples so far:

• The quiet, serious woman who takes fingerprints each morning at the visa window, now wearing her Wonder Woman hair bow, coming alive at the airport to take charge of boarding a full flight of repatriation passengers.
• A first-tour officer in daily negotiation with airlines to arrange possible flights.
• The team of teleworking local staff fielding calls on their home phones of occasionally irate and understandably frustrated U.S. citizens.
• The Korean-American second-tour officer who personally arranged the evacuation of the local Korean diplomatic corps using his "kitchen Korean."
• The CBP agent posted to the San Salvador airport filling out the pre-flight forms for an elderly man weakened by the heat.
• And certainly our tireless American Citizen Services staff who've been on the clock since this all began. 

CBP officer completing paperwork for an evacuation passenger.

Embassy flight team arrive at the closed airport.

Embassy evacuation flight team checking in passengers. 

Finally, watching the Salvadorans respond to this crisis is also heartening.  Instead of a dog-eat-dog atmosphere, there's a practical, cooperative and civilized feel in the air. My husband and I watch American news channels and believe we're actually safer here, for the time being. But as I said in the start - we still don't know if this will blow over or blow up.  This is a small country of limited resources and for as much as I applaud the strong preventative measures taken for the greater good - we could reach a tipping point where desperation causes civilized behavior to collapse. 

As with everything, only time will tell. 

PS in the time it took to write this, the number of cases here has risen from 19 to 24, with two local transmission cases and 22 imported from the U.S., Europe or Panama.