Conyac で依頼された翻訳結果を公開

Public buses are former American school buses, painted blazing colors and adorned with religious stickers ("God bless this trip"). Reggaeton blares over the roar of the engine. At every stop, shouting vendors climb aboard to sell water, fruits and sweets, pushing their way between whole families squeezed onto the seats. On that trip, the passenger next to me was so honored to meet a Frenchwoman - for the first time! - that he shook my hand and warmly welcomed me to his country.

After a couple of hours of nondescript highway, the bus turned up a wooded slope, climbed a ridge, then rolled down a winding road and I was treated to a spectacular vista. The lake's perfect lapis-lazuli circle was hemmed in by the scrub-covered walls of the extinct volcano Cerro Verde. Piers jutted out onto the water from a scattering of tiny lakeside houses, presumably the second homes of well-heeled Salvadoreans.

At the end of the road, the bus dropped me off in a cloud of dust, and I strolled down to the shore between weeping willows. There, a woman knee-deep in the water was scrubbing clothes, while three men pulled in a fishing net. It was a peaceful, quiet morning. Suddenly, a dozen women wearing white kerchiefs on their heads waded into the water, fully clothed, behind two men in white shirts, and stood in a row.