By the time I arrived in San Salvador it was 9:30 pm. My taxi was an unmarked half-ton and the other passenger was the hulk with the military haircut whom I’d been avoiding all the way on the bus from Guatemala City. Talkatively drunk, he was a Honduran lieutenant, ten years in the army, stationed in the Miskito area near the Nicaraguan border. He didn’t want to go back, but his three-week leave was over.

“I have to fly from San Salvador to Honduras. I’m safe enough in the capital, but with this.” – he brushed his palm over his crewcut – “the guerrillas would think I’m a Salvadoran soldier. So I have to fly. . . . Ah, Salvador,” he called, blowing kisses out of the window, then in English, “I like it here! Fuck you man!”

We fly through empty streets, through red lights, past a large military base sporting a billboard with a picture of a soldier saying, “I love my country. I’d even give my life for it. What are you doing for your country?” We stop for a police check. We all get out to show our ID then continue on our way.

The Hotel Imperial, which a friend had recommended, was full. The driver, his helper, and the lieutenant stayed with me and my bags until I had found a room at the third hotel I tried. Then warmly, fraternally, they all shook my hand and told me to take care of myself and not to go out at night.