The Gringo as a Funnel

Salvadorians rarely wear raincoats. They’re smarter than that.

I spent three hours a couple Sundays ago catching up on my virtual life in a windowless internet cafe inside San Salvador’s too-good imitation of an American mall, Metro Centro. Virtues of that use of time aside, when I exited I found not only the sky had grown dark as expected, but the streets were wet. Halfway through my wait for the cross-town bus, the drops started. I put on my raincoat. Then came the rain. I zipped up my raincoat. Then came the downpour. I had an epiphany (a small one, ok?).

People seldom wear raincoats in El Salvador because they make no difference. Rain here, after tickling you with wispy drops then feinting at blowing over, comes down like paint. It coats you, it envelopes you and, in my case, it comes right through the front and down the sleeves of my expensive all-weather windbreaker. The little that is held at bay rolls down my sleeves into my pockets, down my back onto my pants, and down my front onto the tops of my shoes. In an El Salvador rainstorm, I’m not just a sponge, I’m a funnel.

Even Guatemala’s solution, the poncho, is hardly seen here. Umbrellas are popular, but many people rely on a method that they can’t forget at home: waiting. As I run from bus to home or from store to bus stop, I provoke a lot of quizzical looks from more relaxed and, let’s face it, more sensible Salvadorans standing at ease under the eaves. Besides, the rain usually lasts only twenty minutes (it’s like emptying a watering can through its top instead of its nozzle—quick and heavy) and those pupusas look so tempting. Why rush?