(El Salvador)...This Central American country does not have the range of natural wonders as does Costa Rica, but as the southernmost extremity of the Mayan world, there are several archaeological sites of interest. The most important, Joya de Ceren, was a pre-Hispanic village that like its more famous sisters, Herculaneum and Pompeii in Italy, was buried under volcanic ash. The disaster has been dated to around 600 A.D.; soon after its re-discovery in 1985, Joya de Ceren became a UNESCO site. Many artifacts still are on display, a sauna was uncovered and more than one perfectly preserved skeleton was unearthed. The site was interesting but overall left me cold, and what interest I did have was eroded by the very nice tour guide feeling she had to explain every single artifact and faded poster, and in depth. I sneaked away from her several times to ostensibly look at the Blue-crowned motmots that were flying around and perching on the wires surrounding the artifacts. 
I was more excited to go to Santa Ana, which since I first read of it in a travel book by Paul Theroux, seemed to me one of the places I should one day visit. Its cathedral dominates the town, but the town in turn is dominated by the 2,365-metre Volcán de Santa Ana (the country's highest), my best view of which was from the banks of the country’s largest lake, the Lago de Coatepeque. Back in Santa Ana, I gravitated towards the city's wonderful theatre, which was being repaired. Its creaky floors, heavy door and wooden paneling evoke the ghosts of turn-of-the-century playwrights and actors. It was opened on February 27, 1910.
The city also is home to a spectacular coffee called Aida's Grand Reserve Peaberry, although I highly suspect that this is the name written only on bags intended for export. How much is exported at $25 per 340 grammes, I do not know. It is available in the United States (I just did a search) now, and, equally wonderful, it is produced at a Santa Ana farm called Finca Mauretania, which gave me an excuse to dream about travelling to that West African nation, even though the spelling is slightly different. We drove by the farm — at the time I did not know of its coffee — and I remember being happy at seeing the word Muaretania in El Salvador. Perhaps "Mauretania" does mean "Land of the Moors, a throwback to Arabic influence in Spain, El Salvador's former motherland. Aida has nothing to do with the chain of coffee shops of the same name in Austria, by the way; also, by the way, Aida is finca owner Aida Batlle, a surname also shared by a recent but ex-president of Uruguay, Jorge Batlle Ibáñez, which is the only reason I know how to pronounce it. Actually, four Uruguayn president have been Batlles. That's a lot of Batlles in such a small country. The photo above was taken as I drove back from Santa Ana towards the capital, San Salvador. 
The nearby town of San Juan Opico is noisy and covered with political graffiti, and from its small square several other volcanoes can be seen. One thing El Salvador does not lack for is volcanoes, the last serious eruption being on January 13, 2001; also in October that year, the coasts were battered by Hurricane Iris (three years after Hurricane Mitch), so the people slowly are being haunted from all directions, not least from the scars of the country’s civil war 10 years or so ago. I so hope that the country develops its tourism, but of all the countries in the region it seems to me that this one will have the hardest time achieving it. El Salvador, like Nicaragua, has a rule on its books deeming it illegal to cover over political graffiti that was produced during its years of struggle and civil war. This seems to be especially enlightened, the authorities quite rightly believing that these "documents" are a part of their cultural history and just as relevant and important, and therefore worth saving, as any piece of art or the insides of a church. 
When I arrived back in the capital San Salvador, I went for a walk. I was in the tourism district, where the hotels are, but after 30 minutes or so I found, 800 metres along a tall, white wall, what was literally a hole in the wall. I entered and found myself in an unpaved barrio of narrow alleys, patched-together cars and the inevitable parade of skinny dogs, colourful roosters and smiling children. A huge USA flag was painted on one car, which was parked outside a Seventh Day Adventist church. The priest invited me into the service, which basically was comprised solely of him singing hymns into a microphone. Everyone seemed very happy.
I looked for another way out of the community, but if there was a second door, or perhaps even a road, I did not find it. I did find myself later on walking up a dead-end path that led to a bottom of a cliff, a few ramshackle houses and a half-destroyed gazebo where a little boy kicked a football and shouted out what sounded like "Beckham, Beckham," after the English player David Beckham. In order to get back to my hotel, I had to walk all the way down a hill until the cliff disappeared, but in that way I did find a really cute café with Santa Ana coffee, although I am pretty sure it was not from Finca Mauretania.