To get to school, I Uber to one of the most beautiful buildings in San Salvador—La Basílica de Guadalupe, which fronts the famous Pan-American Highway. I scale a rusted, tottering pasarela (pedestrian overpass) that spans the highway. As its floor undulates, I send up a prayer: If it gives, please let me land on the back of truck headed for Costa Rica.
The overpass drops me into a bustling, open-air bus station/market. Stout women stand guard over grills and cauldrons of grease, their skin glistening with sweat. The heat and smell of fried tortillas hit me as I pass in my school uniform, backpack bulging and credentials bouncing off my chest. Buses destined for Zaragoza, Jayaque, and Sonsonate jostle for position along the curb. Weighed down by their wares—potato chips, unsalted cashews, knockoff T-shirts and baseball caps—street vendors disappear into the buses and reappear when the vehicles are in motion.
As the sidewalk clears and smooths out, I instinctively check for my wallet and glance over my shoulder. The wallet’s always there and no one’s ever trailing me. I hurry through a dark and loud underpass, then play Frogger as I attempt to cross a semi-blind, debris-strewn onramp that borders the presidential palace and leads to campus. The vigilante (security guard) waves me through the gates with a smile—and that, of course, is when the chaos begins.
