On Arcatao’s cobblestoned main street, I bump into an old peasant who is drunk out of his skull on Tic Tac, the local sugar cane rotgut. “I’m a Pipil [Indian],” he shouts. “A Pipil!”
“Aha,” I think. “Maybe this old codger is soused enough to tell me the truth.”
“Say, old man. “Just between us, whose side are you on — the army’s or the guerrillas?”
“Whoever takes the biggest shit, chelito [little white man],” he replies.