A Visit to the La Montañona in El Salvador’s Forestlands

I’ve returned. La Montañita remains impassive, its forest full of pines, oaks, sweet gum, colonies of ferns. The clay soil and backwoods populated by our native birds: talapos, torogoces, plus opossums, white-tailed deer, armadillos, and agkistrodon bilineatus snakes that we call Spanish vipers. Isolation is the secret behind its pure air and silence: in order to reach the mountain range you have to drive out of the capital for 3 ½ hours, then ascend the mountain on a rugged road that requires a vehicle with high clearance and preferably four-wheel drive.

It was a good time to attempt the climb – it had stopped raining in the mountains three or four days ago, and even though the roads are still muddy and the clouds loom at nightfall, the rainy season appears to be coming to an end. The dry winds are coming in, temperatures are dropping; the air is drying out and smells of pine.

“La Montañona,” located 115 kilometers (72 miles) from San Salvador, in the north of Chalatenango department, is one of the most beautiful and safest areas in El Salvador. The gangs never got a foothold here. Since the peace accords were signed over three decades ago, putting an end to the war, there’s been no talk of homicides in this zone. During El Salvador’s civil war (1980-1992), it was a stronghold of the guerrillas, part of the “Apolinario Serrano” Northern Front. Once the peace was signed, a settlement of former guerillas and those displaced by the war was formed here, on lands that were distributed thanks to a land grant program supported by the United Nations. Upon reentering civilian life, the beneficiaries dedicated themselves to agricultural work.

In addition, they serve as guardians of the forest, which is located at  4,593 feet above sea level.

During the postwar years, the zone received hordes of weekend visitors, attracted by their still-fresh memories of the war, the trenches, the remains of camps and field hospitals, and the old shelters where the “Farabundo Marti” clandestine radio station was broadcast. Innumerable visitors spent a night by the warmth of the campfire, listening to the stories of combat and bombardment, and later viewing the remains of the airplanes brought down by the guerrillas and the bomb craters that were still open.

There’s no trace left of the traffic of those days. We enter the tiny village and the only greeting comes from the forest rangers (who then proceed to note our vehicle’s license plate number). Immediately afterwards, a ghost town comes into view; we’ve already reached the last street and not a single soul is moving. The streets and doors are closed, mute.

The war museum is no longer open, and the shell of the 500-pound bomb that hangs from the entrance as a reminder of the conflict has now been covered in light blue paint, the color of the government party. The shops have disappeared. The cabins where we used to spend a weekend look uninhabited. The most noteworthy sight is a pair of two-story houses at the entrance to the hamlet that stand out for their strangeness – they look like they’d been air-dropped there from some little town in Colorado or Idaho. Those lines, those colors imported from very far away, are the mark of the family remittances that Salvadoran ex-patriots send religiously, the so called “distant brothers,” whose total contributions to the country’s economy are equal to around 25% of the internal gross national product. Without this injection of capital, the country would crumble.

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From La Montañona to the United States

We settle on a bench to talk, tormented by clouds of voracious gnats. In just a few minutes our forearms are covered with tiny red welts, bites that take days to heal. Finally, a villager came up the street to where we’re seated. Inevitably, our conversation turns to recreating old times – the historic days of the war and its cherries. Right after that, the conversation turns to the topic of migration: the continuous caravan of those marching North.

That phenomenon in part explains the desolation that surrounds us. It turns out that one of the outlandish houses we saw at the entrance is his, built by his children who emigrated. He himself has visited the United States; he has a US visa and someday, perhaps, he too will leave La Montoñona. We ask about the guides who years back used to lead us into the heart of the forest. That service isn’t seeing its best days, but he offers to guide us.

We spend the night at the rustic farm of don Chus, a distant brother who returned to the country a few months ago with the intention of definitively reintegrating himself, and who very kindly offers to put us up. As night is falling, we begin the descent to the property. The road is so muddy and in such bad condition due to the rains that we have to resort to the 4-wheel drive.

Our host’s house is an adobe construction that he’s begun to modify, with the illusion of making it comfortable and outfitting it with all the services. Meanwhile, when the need hits, you have to leave the house and light your way to the latrine with a flashlight. Don Chus, a plain and direct man, resided and earned his living in the United States for many years as an independent trucker. Sometimes he made two trips a day between Los Angeles and Oakland, cities that are 373 miles apart.

At his sixty-odd years, don Chus finally wants to settle down. By nature, he’s a tireless being. Upon returning to the country, he tried his luck at different businesses, among them a drivers’ training school. He also sold high-end meats, and lately went into the business of selling the coffee and tilapia produced on the farm. His most ambitious project, which one of his daughters has taken on with him, is a hostel for those visiting the heart of La Montañona, complete with cabins, trails, a lookout, and other attractions.

His two hands aren’t enough for such a large undertaking – he has to recruit other workers. The challenge is where to get them. Chalatenango is the department with the lowest population density in El Salvador. It’s not easy to attract young people to the hard work of the countryside, carpentry or bricklaying, since they, like don Chus in his youth, also aspire to march North, following those who went before.

This article was published in Spanish in Confidencial and translated by Havana Times. To get the most relevant news from our English coverage delivered straight to your inbox, subscribe to The Dispatch.