Summer in the city

The smell of asado wafting through the windows is distracting my concentration. I'm hungry, wrestling with a deadline and the extreme heat is making it hard to focus. If it's true that the biting cold of a European winter puts people in a bad mood, then it's also certain that oppressive heat does nothing to bring out the best in people.

Today the city woke up nasty. Impatient taxi drivers and rushing-to-work commuters pound their horns with heightened intensity and the pre Christmas streets are teeming with pedestrians, less patient than usual; a rowdy rabble of jabbing elbows and sidewalk-hogging window shoppers.

Santa doesn't wear Bermuda shorts in this part of the world. With 35 degrees of heat you would think the red cloak, thick flannel trousers and beard would be reserved for colder climes. There is something slightly absurd about billboards of snow scenes and sledges, when the asphalt is melting beneath your feet.

The city is hot, dirty and draining today and no one has any desire to be part of it. I don't want to go out; I don't want to stay in. I just want someone to feed me grapes and fan me gently as I lie motionless upon a sofa. My father informs me that it's snowing again in their corner of the world; a record-breakingly cold winter before the worst has even begun... I guess you can never win.

The city I love

The broad, tree-lined streets are so familiar to me. I walk along the sunny side and an amused smile dances across my lips as catcalls of "hermosa" and "diosa" remind me that I'm back in Buenos Aires; this decadent and thriving city that draws such an eclectic mix of characters and a people who don't keep their feelings to themselves.

I walk past a "parilla" - a steak house - with plastic green tables arranged, somewhat awkwardly, about the sidewalk. The delicious aroma of meat slowly burning on the grill invades the air. It's only Monday and yet the place is over-spilling with people sitting, laughing, chinking glasses and enjoying some of the finest meat in the world. A jewellery-clad lady with a Gucci bag and over-sized, dark glasses leans back in her chair, observing her dining partner with distain, dropping a coil of ash from her cigarette onto the floor and passing pieces of bread to the kickable canine by her side.

A young, painfully thin woman taps her heel nervously on the floor, eyes darting from side to side, willing the slow-moving waiter to bring the bill so she can rush home and regurgitate her lunch. A group of yellow-haired, sandal-clad gringos laugh loudly as they order another bottle of wine, unknowingly observed by the young boy with the fast hands that's pretending not to look as he circles twice around the block.

A silver haired man sits alone with his coffee. A sleepy smile exposing the crow's feet aound his eyes spreads across his face. As he nods his head he lights up with a soulful expression that seems to say "I know about fine wine and women".

My ankle jars as I step upon an uneven tile that sprays a splash of dirty, stagnated water up the back of my legs. I had forgotten about the broken sidewalks; I must be off my game. I used to have an inbuilt radar that would guide me safely down the street avoiding any crumbling surface, tree root, impromptu construction site or dog faeces.

Ahh Buenos Aires. In any given moment this city can be engaging; captivating; exciting; then suddenly the wind blows and the panorama changes. The streets that were so inviting become dirty, cluttered and hostile. Some days are good; some days are great; other days are just plain awful, depending upon how many buses you have missed or unions are on strike, cordoning off parts of the city and clogging up kilometres of traffic. I have always had a love-hate relationship with this city. It's an organized chaos that somehow works; a rat race that simply draws you in - a place that has become my second home.

Thoughts on Entering El Salvador

The entire region of Central America shares many of the same characteristics - the good and the bad - typified by lush, vibrant, fertile lands, coffee plantations, banana fields, and high sweeping sugar canes that sway in the breeze, casting shadows upon the soil in the afternoon sun.

Natural disasters ravage the land from time to time, their devastating effects leaving the earth fragile and exposed; punishing downpours destroying crops, drowning animals and people and driving the weakest from their homes.
The secret handshakes between spine-tinglingly corrupt politicians, “empresarios” (businessmen) and officials are frequently and firmly exchanged here; the omnipresent threat of drug barons, organized crime, and military coups creating a daily need for backhanders behind closed doors.

Not too far from the cities, men and women with wizened faces and hunched bodies, deep grooves carved into their bones from a life of carrying heavy loads, work the land with ox and plough, machetes, and their bare hands; tough skin thickly formed over their knuckles from picking the cherries off of the ripe coffee plants at harvest time.

In these rural areas the menacing threat of crime that hangs in the air in the streets of the cities like the snaking smoke of a cigarette, is replaced by the ever present devotion and unshaken belief in God, with each greeting beginning and ending with "may god bless you". The small, rundown churches are at full capacity on Sundays and a search on the FM for a radio station will only bring up the "hora de oracion" (hour of prayer).

There are so many common denominators in Central America that the reality is that few people think of coming here to a single country. The lack of direct flights to Honduras and Nicaragua make it logistically expensive and difficult and, if you're going to go so far and invest so much time and money, you may as well spread your interests across the region.

Whether it's an intrepid backpacker following the gringo trail, or a foreign company looking to invest, it makes sense to diversify your risk, maximize your reward and benefit from economies of scale. One regionally integrated law firm that we went to interview conveyed to us that very few investors focus solely on Honduras. In fact Central America was the first geographic area to reach a regional agreement; a model upon which the European Union based its foundations.

All this said, however, each country in Central America has something subtly different to offer, maintaining its own flavour, history, colloquialisms and unique way of preparing tortillas. Crossing the border into El Salvador, somehow you can feel the changes in the air.

The bus set off from Tegucigalpa at the ungodly hour of 6.15. I am so used to being awake at 5am now, when the light streams through the cracks in the door, the windows and the barely-there curtains.

The sky was blood red at the top, merging away into a blush pink and orange, like the grenadine in a tequila sunrise, and the heavily made-up and smiling stewardess served a McDonalds breakfast for each passenger, which turned by stomach in the half light, invading the bus with odours of sausage, egg, and a side of “frijoles” (refried beans; a local variant).

We rumbled along towards the border and, in a state of half awake, half asleep, I barely prized open my tired eyes as we approached the entry point to El Salvador at the crossing of el Amatillo. There was a stream of trucks lined up over the bridge as we pulled into a parking lot and waited for the customs officials to appear.

Not a minute had passed before a beaming attendant with sweet brown eyes, jumped on to the bus, smiling from ear to ear. Clearly amused at the lack of space left in my passport and my incoherent state, he handed me my document and said "bienvenido a El Salvador!" (welcome to El Salvador) winking.

There were people bathing in the river and some women washing clothes, scrubbing on a board, in the dirty water; gas fumes and oil from the trucks seeping into the earth nearby. Dotted about were cheerful-looking, brightly coloured stands and "pupuserias", selling corn cakes with “chicharon” (grated pork), cheese and vegetables.

Just a few kilometres west and the whole look and feel is different. It's more colorful than Honduras. The people, the little stores and even the clothing, shines brighter here with loud pinks and dramatic reds and greens. The North American school buses that are used for local transportation, (chicken buses as they are fondly referred to) are intricately and beautifully painted, decorated with flags, football stickers, music groups, and rosaries, Jesus on the cross and signs saying “God bless this bus”, as they hurtle along the road overtaking round blind bends at breakneck speed.

Postage sized El Salvador seems to be more sure of its identity than its neighbour to the east, with a backdrop of volcanoes, from almost every part, over 20 of which are still active. We progress along the highway towards the capital. The roads are definitely better here. The Minister for Transport and Highways (a swaggeringly tall and physically repulsive man with a roving eye for the ladies) just announced that 80% of Honduras's highways have been damaged this year by the winter rains; some routes so bad that long detours have to be taken round little villages and through gravel roads to get passed collapsed bridges and open voids.

There may be less holes and inherent hazards in El Salvador, but the highways are governed with the same lawlessness as Honduras. We pass a pickup truck bursting with passengers, standing, clinging on to the bars, and hanging off of the back, jiggling up and down. An El Salvadorian taxi, your 20c definitely gets you a bit of an adventure on your way to work.

The same attitude applies as to over taking, really they figure that there is room for 3 or 4 cars along the 2 lane highway; they really don’t seem to understand why it was designed this way; the dodgem car approach is far faster and more entertaining, if you can keep your lunch down. Any random or reckless manoeuvre is permissible as long as you stick your arm out of the window and raise your thumb, accompanied by a wide grin.

The thick green trees are overgrown and spill out into the roads creating arches and a thick, green tunnel of trees. Curious topical fruits - jocote - are on offer at small stands, selling corn and liquados, juices and pupusas, dotted along the side of the road. As we stop at a traffic light, the bus is descended upon by old and young, loud and silent, smiling and sad, all selling goods from platanos to bibles, thrust high towards the bus windows on long poles.

We pass through small villages and more muti-coloured restaurants and cafes, shops and hotels. Three men are sitting under the shade of a corrugated roof, sharing a beer, laughing loudly as one exposes a golden tooth and a cackling laughter that nearly sees him fall off the back of his chair. With their contagious cheerfulness and infectious smiles, it's hard to imagine that this country was ravaged by a bloody civil war for 13 years, followed by a brutal dictatorship.

Listening to the “honk honk” of the brightly coloured bus, as the driver extends his tanned arm out of the window, asking permission to pass, it's also hard to imagine the current and constant threat this country suffers from the "maras" (gangs that divide the city up into zones charging territory fees to protect the businesses and lives of the people that live there; fees which if not paid result in the sounds of gunshots in the night and a naked cadaver uncovered at a street market the following day). Poor and ordinary people that suffer the law of the street on a daily basis.

Just a few weeks ago, one of these buses with its laughing and gentle, kind and welcoming people was stopped and set a blaze by a drug gang. 31 people perished. Burned alive in the melting tar and tearing flames that engulfed the bus, unable to escape. A demonstration of the reckless power of the maras and a sign that human life here has little value.

The population becomes denser and ratio of cows to people, less, as we pull into the outskirts of San Salvador. The sun is high in the sky, an eagle flies over head. A old man with a sombrero tilts it towards me as he catches me gazing. It's only been a few hours, but I already like it here.

Al dejar Tegus

En el aeropuerto pase tanto tiempo en la libreria que me reglaron un libro de poesia. Lo estoy leyendo con lagramias en mis mejillas . No me quiero ir. Me siento que rasque el superficie de este pais. Ya me despego y te dejo atras. Las cicatrices de la tierra de se ven menos prfoundas desde el aire.

Roberto Sosa, Tegucigalpa:


Vivo en un paisaje
donde el tiempo no existe y el oro es manso.

Aqui siempre se es triste sin saberlo.
Nadie conoce el mar
ni l amistad del angel.

Si, yo vivo aqui, o mas bien muero.
Aqui donde la sombra purisima del nino
cae en polvo dela angosta calle
El vuelvo detenido y arriba un cielo que huye.

One door closes; another opens

On the bus back from San Salvador to Tegucigalpa they are showing a movie about a plane crash, the night before I fly out of here. I am a ball of emotions. On one hand, I love this part of the world and it breaks my heart to leave this beautiful but troubled country behind. My life is a constant stream of goodbyes. Centroamerica, eres parte de mi corazon y me cuesta dejarte. Esperame que te prometo que vuelva pronto...

Global Apathy, TGI Inspiration, or Just Random Utterances

The usually exaggerated and bordering on ridiculous uniforms at TGI Friday's today seem to have become even more absurd, as the dumpy, charmless waitress with a moustache and fluffy pink tea cosy on her head waddles towards me and asks me what I would like to drink. I inform her that I have recently placed my order with her colleague and a confused look washes over her round face as the stares at me for a while, stammering... "But... they told me to ask you what you wanted."

I am not sure how she wants me to reply, as I smile a little awkwardly and tell her again that I have already been taken care of. The matter remains unresolved as she walks away, scratching her head. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that absurd hat with the knee high socks and braces must be in this tropical heat.

I think there must be some kind of a TGI system in place that neither the staff nor the customers are entirely clear on. To begin with, the fact that 90% of the time there are more staff than customers for me, raises the first flag, although I have to confess that this evening, this tacky, bright, loud and arduous place is actually reasonably full.

As far as I can deduce from my few visits here (I am somewhat hostage to TGI Friday's, being the only place within walking distance- although not recommendedly so - and half a ratchet above Pizza Hut) all the staff have varying and separate roles. Some greet, others serve, some stand dreamily starting out the windows and the rest I think are there for show. But it throws this little hierarchy in to confusion if you ask someone who isn't your designated server for something unexpected. I think that was the problem today; the receptionist who led me to my table asked what I would like to drink, thus bypassing a couple of steps in the ladder and getting above her station.

It is curious that this place of excessive loudness, waitresses with florescent uniforms, bright lights, screaming babies, inflated prices and a menu as wide as a phone book with absolutely nothing appealing on it (even the salads are dripping in BBQ sauce or three kinds of cheeses) should be my chosen place of refuge.

A large crowd of staff with dozens of buttons on their braces and tambourines in hand, gather at the table behind me and begin stamping, singing, clapping and rattling their instruments in a deafening, head-splitting racket. I am a little perplexed as I try to deduce their words, assuming that it is a birthday party or something. Yet it is a strange song I don't recognize and I wonder if it is a TGI policy perhaps for when someone orders a certain dish; fajita fever or triple jack burger, or something along these lines.

Groups of happily chattering diners surround me and to my left, a couple with a baby bouncing up and down on the table. I think I am the only person in the world that would go to TGI Friday’s looking for solitude, dining alone; writing.

Yet somewhere within this multi-coloured hyperbole and mayhem of blaring TV screens and 80's music, combined with kids screaming and spontaneous singing outbursts, I find a kind of find peace. It's almost as if in this peculiar place, all the conflicting noises, thoughts and ideas that race through my brain constantly, never allowing me to unwind, spill out here, like a Dali painting.

I observe the painfully slow waitress, as she returns to my table without my order. I have been developing a theory recently, or perhaps just assuming to an existing one; the brain functions something alike the body; if you don't exercise it then it will quickly become out of shape. Running from one meeting to another; one office after the next, all filled with vacuous assistants staring at the wall, at each other, at their nails, or (the ones with half a spark) at facebook, incapable of forming real sentences, or answering a simple question.

This tidal wave of brain deadness is not limited to here by any means; it is a pandemic that seems to run throughout societies and any government run institution in any country in the world. This little joke might upset some of you, but still makes me chuckle - “Question: What do you get if you have 100 lesbians and 100 civil servants in the same room? Answer- 200 people ain’t doin' dick”.

If the most challenging things you read in a day are the instructions to opening a carton of milk and the highest culture you have access to is the telenovela (or in England, the soap opera) I suppose it's only logical that your brain correspondingly, literally slows down to the intellectual pace you are working at. It isn’t just about natural born intelligence, but a cultivated, degenerative decrease in brain wave activity.
"Eso no es normal, eso no es normal" (this isn't normal) stresses Anko, the little muscle in the side of his jaw pulsing in and out as he begins to get agitated at repeating his last name 6 times, or as we wait 45 minutes in reception before it occurs to anyone to inform us that the boss is actually out of the country.

This widespread lack of common sense, intelligence, ignorance, or however you wish to call it is, as I said, certainly not limited to Honduras. In England I have been asked how I liked Africa when I said that I had just come back from Nicaragua, or when talking about Thailand, asked if I had "walked the Inca trail".

I have been served by petulant, po-faced, disinterested shop assistants, busy texting their boyfriends, staring daggers at me for deigning to disturb them to seek assistance. In the Western World it is a whole movement of people blatantly disinterested in what is going on in the world of others around them.

In Honduras, I think, a huge factor is the sweeping divide between the rich and the poor and the low standards of education available. In a country where most have to fight on a daily basis to feed their family, they simply don't have the opportunity to go to, or let their children go, to school. Lilian, the single mother I met on a bus travelling south had to drop out at 13 when she ran away from home from an abusive brother and alcoholic father, to work in a melon plantation. With an average per person of 5 years spent in education and an unemployment rate of almost 30% it’s a constant struggle.

This is a fertile and breathtakingly beautiful land, with coffee, bananas, tobacco, minerals, and tourism destinations - everything the country needs to be progressive and abundant -all in the hands of a few rich and powerful families.

Some of the quotes of the week for me definitely came from our meeting yesterday, as the subject of security problems in Honduras arouse. Waving a Bvlgari adorned wrist, our interviewee disclosed that her family was not "showy" unlike some (and she dropped names) that went everywhere with 5 bodyguards, grotesquely displaying their wealth. She personally had only two (both trained in martial arts and body combat and, of course, fully armed - but just two).

She continued enthusiastically, widening her eyes adding that, as a self proclaimed lefty, "look at all the poverty here; frankly it's just tacky to spend your money in front of these people. At least have the decency to go abroad, to the States or somewhere and spend your money there". I find myself nodding in agreement, as I tend to do during these shallow encounters, and leave scratching my head. Would it not be better off for the country is she were less considerate and at least circulated her wealth on Honduran soil?

On more than one occasional we have heard CEOs of companies proudly declaring that they don't hire any doctors/lawyers/managers who haven't studied abroad and preferably in the United States. It struck me as ironic that the rectors of all 5 of the Universities that we went to, both private and public, waxed lyric for an hour about the quality of higher education in the country, only to purse their lips and frown at the question of whether their children studied there. "Of course not!" was always the answer; their children are educated overseas.

Well I certainly am not in a position to speak about standards of higher education here, or in any country for that matter, and I certainly wouldn't recommend either of the Universities I went to. I can only go by what I see and hear. Carla, a tourism student who works part time as a waitress in one of the places I sometimes go to eat, sent me some of her work to help me with my research. Although the subject matter is solid and the overall article interesting, it is written with the most shockingly bad grammar possible; and graded without correction by University professors. I am not even a native Spanish speaker and yet the errors gaped out at me from the page like the chasms in the highway.

I see the waitress hovering nearby with the bill and realize that I have written a lot. In some deep, dark place inside of me, I secretly like TGI Friday’s. I can snuggle myself away in a corner booth and conduct my own little social experiment.

Rainy Season Begins

Day suddenly becomes night as the thick black clouds envelope the city and the rumbling thunder breaks into an ear-shattering crash. The wind begins to gather force and, almost without warning, the rain starts to pound down hard on the frail roof of the restaurant, blowing in from all sides, soaking us within seconds, as we scramble for our things, shrieking loudly, running down the stairs and under cover.

A ray of lightning collides against the earth a few meters away, shaking the building in its wrath and the restaurant falls into darkness as the electricity short circuits across the neighbourhood. The unrelenting force of the storm is deafening and it is hard to maintain our conversation as we sit in the semi darkness that has descended upon us at midday.

The claps and flashes begin to pass over the city and away and we order the bill and walk towards the car, the gushing water flooding towards the over spilling drains and the fallen debris scattered about the street. Our driver has the radio on and we find out that one of the walls of the national stadium nearby has collapsed with full force on top of a taxi stand, killing one driver instantly and wounding several others.

Winds of up to 60k an hour teamed with violent thunder and an electric force in all its glory hit the stadium without pity and the wall disintegrated into a fountain of dust and brick. Trees, rocks and branches have fallen all over the city and many areas have been left without power.

My heart fills with trepidation as I think of all the desperately poor people in their fragile houses, one atop of another, so vulnerable to mudslides with their weak foundations and precarious structures. The rainy season has begun in full force and this city is extremely exposed.

Tegucigalpa, "city of the mines" is (if you listen to the most pessimistic accounts) on the point of collapse. The current capital developed due the precious stones that were abundant in this area, and the huge potential of the mineral industry. People flocked here from across the country to work the mines and the city expanded at an unimaginable pace, sprawling out across the hills. Construction upon construction of dilapidated and badly put together dwellings place ever more weight upon a fragile surface above underground rivers, caves, and mines, providing a horrifyingly weak base.

It was only recently recognized that this city also lies on top of a hotbed of seismic activity, that’s small but regular shocks are evidenced in the zigzagging cracks in the streets that run in the same direction.

According to some, it is literally a question of time before Tegucigalpa crumbles into the ground, as the fragile earth cannot take the weight of the buildings, the rain, the traffic and the people. Weak at its very foundation; a honeycomb of hollow earth beneath, the roads regularly bubble up into holes and even collapse completely, and houses slide down the hills towards the river.

I pray that today's battering won't leave too many scars, but there is little hope of things getting better before they get worse as hurricane season begins. Why is it always those who have the least that have to lose the most?

Christina Comben

Sopa de Mondongo

We stand in line, container in hand, waiting to buy the family lunch. Large clay surfaces with wooden fires below sustain heavy cauldrons of burning soup. I look around and exchange a grin with a little girl in a faded pink dress, shuffling from one foot to the other. She smiles at me coyly as she retreats behind her father's legs and then peeps one eye out to look at me again. Sonia greets the people that she knows - a warm exchange between extended family - and friends that have been absent for a while. Queuing up at this little business with red brick walls and a corrugated iron roof is a Sunday tradition in Choluteca.

An extremely overweight lady with thick folds in her arms and neck, has a ladle in her hand, an orange tunic covering her large form and a vibrant violet T-shit underneath. She dishes up large servings of sopa de mondongo (tripe soup). Beads of sweat form on her forehead, as she wipes her brow and rubs her hand across her apron. It's brain drainingly hot-35 degrees of heat with a humidity that literally sucks you towards the earth - and this awesome lady is standing above a cauldron of piping hot soup.

Enormous vats of this elaborate dish simmer and spit from the fire underneath. Her face lights up as she greets every new customer in line, reserving a special hug and kiss for Sonia. It amuses her and her helpers that I take photos of what is for them, the most normal event in the world. They stand back so I can snap a shot of the bubbling pot in its entirety, giggling between themselves at this curious foreigner with pale skin and a camera in her hand.

There are flocks of people patiently waiting to collect their lunch and the seamless coordination and agility of service is impressive. This is a well-run business with each and every ration carefully complemented with an extra cob of corn here; a handful of spicy vegetables there, or a pinch of salt and pepper atop the slippery texture of the intestines. Sopa de Mondongo, bubbling hot. Just another Sunday in this sleepy corner of the globe.

Don't cross the Line

Sitting on the step with pen in hand I find it hard to express how I feel. It's been such a hectic week. I feel like I'm on a high speed train accelerating through a tunnel. A frenetic pace that had me nearly vomiting from fear and exhaustion at times. Most days the alarm went off at 6, although my eyes were already wide open and heart pounding long before its shrill tones pierced the air.

One night we started our last meeting late and had to drive around in the dark looking for a coffee factory in one of Latin America's infamously most dangerous cities. Banging upon the gates of an apparently derelict facility, that were opened finally by security guards with eye-openingly large guns. I walked into that meeting legs quivering with nerves; I wasn't sure that they would support me as I shook hands and introduced myself.

The first day we arrived in San Pedro Sula there was a massacre in a shoe factory. Assassins armed with AK47s just went in and brutally murdered 18 people, apparently without motive. Although that is not entirely clear. It's generally accepted that crime here isn't so random; more often than not it takes place between gangs, over territories, because of drugs disputes or settling accounts. This is a part of the world where life is cheap, particularly if you mix with the wrong people. A place where you can pay a hit man to finish someone who has crossed you for a 100 dollars or less, or where sheer desperation may lead to a killing over a cell phone.

Although this city has clearly marked zones that are simply no go at all times. You don't "cross the line" - about two blocks from the central plaza - unless you want to get yourself in trouble.

You see a bit of everything here. Going out for dinner, the parking lots are full and yet there are hardly any diners inside the restaurant. Many people circulate with their own personal security system at all times and have their bodyguards waiting for them outside. Crime might be mostly organized, but you also hear about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We met so many people this week; some of the richest and most powerful in the country. One entrepreneur with his own island, houses all over the world and more money than he knows what to do with. One of our interviewees died before we could see him, although through natural causes; he was 80 years old and still worked a full day every day. Helicopters flocked into the city from all parts of the country to attend his funeral. He was one of Honduras' most respected and influential figures; a man who created an entire sector and who continued to dominate the textile industry until his death.

Of course it's all relative. If you maintain a low profile, keep your car doors locked and don't cross the line you should be fine. As this ridiculously wealthy businessman told us; he goes everywhere in the city without any problem, even below the line, to visit one of his stores; security really isn't such an issue here. We felt better until we left his office and he accompanied us, on the way to the funeral, jumping into an armoured car with two bodyguards in front and a second van full of guards with guns trailing him out of the car park.

I won't mention any names. Honduras just became the second most dangerous country in the world for journalists, after Mexico and before Pakistan, with 9 deaths in the industry this year, and the shutting down of an important independent news channel last week. Although it’s certainly true that you can create a kind of hysteria that is rather exaggerated if you get caught up in the sensationalist headlines.

This has been a crazy experience. We've seen and heard stories of corruption that make your hair stand on end. I regularly finish my day in tears; or laughing incessantly until my sides hurt over a beer and with new friends, looking at the lighter side of this madness. I don't think I have ever been through so many extreme lows and highs in my life since I started this job.

A coconut thudding from a tree in the distance shakes me from my thoughts, and I remember where I am. Try as I might, I can't shake the overwhelming intensity of this week. The rainforest hums, the Caribbean glistens under the moonlight and I breathe deeply, at last some sort of peace falls over me. I just try to block out the fact that somewhere in the distance people are being killed, giant laboratories buried deep in the jungle are fabricating illegal drugs and weapons are being smuggled across the borders.

The ministry of tourism's official slogan is "Honduras; todo esta aqui" (everything is here). Nothing could be closer to the truth. This chaos with crumbling cities, streets with deep cracks like wide open veins and constant poverty at every turn, is balanced out with a people so warm that they melt your heart, a tropical climate, beaches to die for and fried fish that you eat with your hands, topped with juicy jalapenos. My oh my, beyond doubt, everything is here.

Christina Comben

El Paraiso, Honduras

My skin quivers as I plunge into the crystal clear water of the deep pool. The waterfall thunders behind me and the spray enters my eyes; the delicious coldness providing a welcomed relief from the steaming heat and omnipresent threat of insects dwelling and vibrating in the dense, throbbing, green jungle around.

I close my eyes and can hear the humming of insect life and the curious shrill of a tropical bird, calling perhaps for its mate; hidden by the palm leaves, and out of sight. We had to drive up a dirt road and around several obstacles to get here, including a donkey and a small river; a colony of red ants and a swarm of hungry mosquitoes.

There is a group of tourists at the falls when we arrive. I'm not sure from where, but they are Hondurans, from another part of the country. Despite the 35 degrees of heat and humidity levels that must reach 100% at times, they are all dressed in jeans. I feel a little out of place as I shrug off my dress and dive under the water, semi naked, in my bikini, compared to the rest of the women tentatively entering the pool in full clothing; shirt and jeans.

A young boy with a beaming smile back flips off of the rock and dives deep down to look for a caracole which he hands to me triumphantly and with a contagious smile, displaying the gaps in his white teeth. The gesture is undeniably sweet and I am truly thankful; but I have a snail in my hand, which doesn't want to stay in its shell. Thanking him for the gift, I place it on the mossy rock beside me, and a few moments later, almost rocket through the air as I feel the slimy trail of the creature making its way up my thigh.

The people laugh and frolic, the sun shines, the children play and the jungle throbs. This is such a forgotten corner of the world. I hope no one tells Club Med.

Christina Comben

How do you hold on to time? Tela, Honduras

Stretched out like a lazy lizard, drinking in the sun, I had one hand buried deep in the sand. Rolling the grains between my fingertips and filling up my nails, eyes gently closed, playing with the grains; lost in my thoughts. I didn't even notice the little Garifuna girl staring down at me, until I felt a shadow blocking my sun. Sleepily I opened my eyes to see a curious face with dark eyes, fringed with thick lashes, grinning down at me. A shrill giggle escaped from her lips as she realized the game was up and she had been caught looking at me. She grabbed an empty beer can from the side of my sun lounger and ran towards the sea, letting out a yelp as she bounded across the sand towards the water's edge.

Using the empty container as a toy, she scoops up the sand, tipping it out in swirling trails in the air; shrieking as the wind changes direction and the grains enter her eyes. She splashes excitedly in the waves, letting the water lap in and out of her toes. The sun gently setting behind the ocean transforms her dark shape into a silhouette against the sky; her curling braids beaded at the ends, exaggerated in size in the shadow of her nimble body on the shore behind.

Temporarily her basket of "tabletas de coco" is left on the sand and for a few fleeting moments she enjoys being a child again. Just for a short while she is not trudging barefoot in the hot sand up and down the beach selling home baked goods in the heat. The disappointed frown I had seen as the people rejected her offer of coconut delights has dissolved into a grin, and the beer can, sand and waves provide all the pleasure that she needs.

I think of all the things that I need to make me happy. And the list is considerably longer. I can't take my eyes off her and her laughter is contagious. For a few moments, I too forget the constant pressure of work; the need to perform; the nagging unrelenting internal push to do more. For a few moments the child and I are staring at the same sea, laughing at the same scene and bathing under same sun. Tomorrow everything will be different. We will both be working again. I wish I could capture this moment, but snapping a photo won't make it stand still. Time slips through your fingers like the grains of sand on the beach.

Christina Comben

Viaje al Sur

"GOMITAS DE PELOOO! ROMPECABEZAS! AGUIIITAA! yell the colorful streetsellers, with a tone not unlike that of alley cats in heat, penetrating the ear drums,and leaving no one in any doubt of their presence. They hop on to the bus, one after another, with large, wicker baskets, pushing and shoving through the constant stream of passengers, touting their wares, selling a whole manner of curious goods, from colorful, shiny children's games to plastic bags filled with water, sliced mango in bite-sized pieces, rosquias (dry, circular, sweet biscuits), chopped meat wrapped in palm and full knobs of bright yellow corn in its leaf. "Tamales no quiere? Quiere tamales?," coos the flat nosed lady with the wide set eyes, a thick braid of dark hair trailing down her back.

One of several popular products that sells like ice cream on a steamy summer day, is a set of neon embossed posters of Jesus Christ on the Cross; and the Virgin Mary with the wording "Dios Bendiga esa casa" ("God bless this house"). The passengers push and claw between them to obtain these gaudy wall hangings. When the skinny young man with the scarred face jumped on the bus with this box of "salmos" I thought to myself, what a tough product he's got to peddle, what people really want on a hot, uncomfortable bus ride is a cold drink and a packet of biscuits. The woman at my side turns to me and beams widely, clearly pleased with her purchase. Cultural differences.

I don't know what it is about being on a bus on the road in Latin America that makes me feel so alive. Something about the coming together of so many characters, literally breathing life into the air, each more interesting than the other. As a large man with a blanket covering a basket begins to yell "taquillas, taquillas" my interest is peaked and I finally stop him and ask for a bag. They are crunchy, hard, yellow fried curiosities with potato inside and a strong sprinkling of white cheese on top, with chilly sauce.

What a contrast from my working week. It was a quick and seamless transformation. We stepped out of our last meeintg of the week at Banco Central, perhaps one of the most tedious places to get to in Tegucigalpa, located near the central plaza. A lively and colorful chaos of a place, where drug addicts with wide, vacant eyes converge with school girls with shockingly short skirts, pulled up high, provoking salivacious licks of the lips from hot dog sellers on the side and a raise of eyebrows from passing monjas (nuns).

Vendors, police, business men, vagabonds, and stray dogs mingle together in a rich tapestry of unlikely paradigms. Some hanging out under the shade of a leafy tree dotted here and there about the plaza; others begging for food or money, or sleeping in the midday heat on one of the broken benches, empty bottle of aguardiente at their side. Some simply take shelter from the penetrating sun by the doors of the cathedral.

Here the traffic is at a permanent stand still, and you will watch with frustration from the back of the car as old and fragile ladies with wizened faces and zimmer frames and old men with only one limb progress faster up the street than you do. The fragile arteries of the city are clogged with enormous station wagons, buses dripping out black tar from the back and taxis honking incessantly on their horns.

This past week the traffic has been particularly bad, as parts of the city have been taken over by the Resisdencia (those from Partido Liberal, that of Manuel Zelaya). Every now and again they pour out into the streets to gather against the "golpistas"; the current government who, depending on your point of view, contributed to his removal from power, backed by the military and (as they loudly speculate, the United States).

Whether they are truly loyal to the ex president or are just paid to manifest every now and again through a dark chain of dirty cash from dubious sources, I really can't say. But between these sporadic swarms of people, the striking teachers, manifesting students, and parts of streets that have been swept away by the recent rainfall, the city is getting harder and harder to traverse.

Yet it's only really here and in Comayaguela that I feel truly nervous circulating in a skirt and suit, heels and jewelry, laptop at my side and Anko's camera equipment. The protocol when we go to these locations is to have Dimas, our driver, drop us off as close as possible to the door and we dash from the vehicle to the entrance as fast as humanly possible (in three inch platforms).

We dart out of the heavily guarded bank and Dimas takes me straight to the bus station, with Anko chuckling at my travel plans, "estas loca" he says as the terminal comes into sight. I am being rather generous with the term "terminal", as there is little more than a broken down building with two windows resembling ticket booths, although not actually in service; here you buy your ticket on the bus.

I take a deep breath and slip off my heals, earrings and jacket. Wiping my lips clean of pink gloss, and throwing an old sweatshirt over my dress, I trade my briefcase for my backpack. Anko looks at me as if I have lost my mind as I step out of the car and say, "see you Sunday". He lets out a wry smile "call when you get there".

As Dimas accompanies towards the decaying building, a man with the uneven smile cackles at my confusion at thinking the ticket office is a ticket office. He begins to wave his arms with vigor, as he points to the rapidly filling buses outside. "Pero, hay un bano aca? (is there a bathroom here?) I plead, fully prepared for a long, rickety journey with no toilet breaks. He laughs harder, seemingly highly amused by my lack of knowledge at how these things work, and hands me a key to a rotten door with a sign requesting users to through a bucket of water down the pan after use.

There is not a soul inside the terminal. All the action here takes place outside, as you are waved and beeped at, and ushered onto the bus. Luxury it isn't, but for Central America this is really a decent service. I have my own seat for a start, which never happened to me in Guatemala, where the average sized person is smaller and they figure that four people can fit in bench designed for 2 small children.

There is even a television set with a flashing and fuzzy picture and an inappropriately violent film for the amount of children present, which doesn't start from the beginning and from which you cant escape; the volume ranked intolerably loud. Some passengers are standing and there is a family of four on the two seats opposite; well, more a mother and grandmother, each with a toddling child balanced on their knees. I look out of the window at the ominous storm clouds pierced by a giant rainbow and listen to the increasing rumbles in the distance as we wrench and shudder our way out of the city.

Moving around Central America just isn't the same in a private vehicle. In this sweaty and bumpy trajectory, is where you meet real people, listen to their problems and opinions, share in their delight at purchasing florescent Jesus posters, and marvel as they take everything with such good humor; as 20 minutes passed the stated departure hour tick by, the passengers begin to giggle and start to tease the ticket collector about not making it in time for dinner. In England people would be huffing and puffing and tapping their feet impatiently on the floor.

It is raining heavily as we pull out of the capital. Most of the rivers in Honduras are on high alert and evacuations have begun, especially in the South, of the people that live in the lowlands, as houses have been washed away, cattle drowned and crops destroyed by violent, unrelenting downpours. We pass houses built precariously one on top of the other, a clutter of broken bricks that seem to be sliding into the river. This heavy rain will surely bring more problems.

As we reach the highway, the mist rises off the mountains and the road is punctuated by rich, copper colored fallen rocks, eroded into the path due to large volumes of water. One of the little boys perched on his mother's lap beside me sleepily closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the seat in front. I try to sleep too, but the cramped space and unpleasant mix of odors; sodas, sweet biscuits, tacos, sweat, and stale breath; prevents me.

A Coke bottle roles in the aisle from one side to the other; each time we turn a bend it taps me on the ankle. I push it away but it relentlessly bounds back on every second corner in the twisty route.

We pull up at a "comedor" on the road side. I am not really clear on the need to stop for supplies just half an hour outside of the city, but three quarters of the well over-capacity bus trapces out, each banging me on the elbow as they pass. More persistent and persuasive vendors jump on to the bus, not missing the opportunity to sell agua de coco, quesadillas and tamales. As the people begin to board again, they have to fight for space between each other, the large bags of food and drinks they have picked up at the comedor and the men and women with the giant baskets and strong determination.

The family next to me has stocked up with supplies for what seems like a week, as the mother manages to stuff into her mouth rice and beans, chicken and platanos with a small plastic fork and a child on her lap bouncing up and down and trying to pull her in all directions. I am beginning to doubt that this journey could really take as little as 2 and a half hours, with the 20 minute delay, half an hour roadside stop and painfully slow progress we are making.

We come to a shuddering halt as the whole bus groans against an obstacle in the road. We hold our breath collectively as we realize that we have dropped a tyre into a hole. This section of the highway has split in two and we are precariously teetering on the edge of an alarmingly wide gap. We stay like that balanced for a while until the driver builds up the courage to start to the bus again. We lurch sharply to the left and then tilt upright, breaking free and spluttering onwards.

As an explosive crash, that echoes through the land, vibrating off the thin bus windows and rays of fork lightning fall about the sides of the cliff edges, the lady by my side and I exchange nervous glances. She smiles "que susto verdad?" (what a fright?" I laugh in agreement and we begin to talk. She shows me photos of the three children she has in Choluteca that she can only see one weekend a month, as she has to work in the capital. To scratch out any kind of a life for her family she works every day and has to suffer the biting pain of separation.

I am starting to build up quite an extensive profile of the Honduran population. Lilian will definitely appear in my book. I hope she had a good weekend with her kids. Monday comes so damn hard for us all.

Meeting with the President. The Big Day.

We were awake so early the sun was barely squinting through the mist over the softly twinkling lights of the houses on the hills. I took a deep breath as I looked out over the gentle slopes of the city. The air was fresh and as I clacked down the steps towards the car I tried to press lightly so as not to make too much echo with the sound of my shoes.

I spent the weekend in track pants and barefeet. It's funny how many sides of our personalities we all have. Today my poor protesting feet are encased in their daily prison of high heels and my lips carefully painted. Immaculate; professional; seductive - but not too much - no bright reds or anything - this is the President after all and it's too early for such heavy tones.

I didn't sleep at all last night, which is of no surprise to me. My unhealthy sleep pattern averages out at about 3 hours a night, and if I am particularly excited or nervous I can pretty much forget it.

At 7am the streets of Tegucigalpa are already a hub of activity; the daily grind in full swing. Truck drivers; taxis; buses; think nothing of honking hard on their horns, incessantly, with no regard for noise pollution or the delicate state of the sluggish population at this hour. At 7 am, I am not capable of much more than a basic pleasantry and perhaps a coffee. It turns my stomach a little to see street stands full of Hondurenos eating frijoles and tortillas.

Don't get me wrong; I live for refried beans and jalapenos, and consume both with equal enthusiasm and frequency. I do have, however, ultimate respect for the ironcast-stomached few that can do this first thing in the morning, at the side of a heart-stoppingly congested street.

Thick black exhaust fumes pour out of large, spluttering trucks and obese men with dark, facial hair and tight jeans that fail to conceal their gaping rolls of flesh, are seated at wooden benches, wiping their mouths with the back of their sleeves. I suppose if I wasn't such a bad ambassador for my country and hadn't spent more of my life outside of England than in, I might be made of sterner stuff; blood pudding and bacon dripping with lard would give these people a run for their money.

Boulevard Morazan is (depending on your viewpoint) perhaps the cultural low point of this town. If you don't make the effort to scratch beneath the surface at the underlying cultural hidden gems, then you will only find a never-ending horizon of neon sign after neon sign of North American fast food franchises, all oriented to families with vehicles.

The drive-through culture here is an exaggeration. Absolutely everything is geared towards having a car; without a vehicle you may as well not have legs. Drive through McDonalds, coffee houses, pharmacies and even financial services. I had never seen this before coming here, but I am sure it must exist in other countries. Drive through banks fascinate me. It's the same as going in to the a physical location, except in your car. The same queues, the same inefficiency, the same intolerable wait time, but all from the comfort of your air conditioned vehicle. The people love it.

We make our way out of the city on route to Valle de Angeles, on our way to the President's house. As we arrive, a modest barrier with one security guard lies between us and the entrance. We wind down the window, "somos los periodistas del ABC", we say; "ahh pasan"... and we are let through the first blockade just like that. No ID, no car check, no nothing. They didn't even notice the AK47 I had hidden in my purse.

At the second check point we have to introduce ourselves again and a guard with a walkie talkie confirms our arrival. The gate opens. There are more than 20 vehicles outside; in kidnapping avoidance strategy, the president must have to use a different one each day. We are welcomed inside. Over anxious as we were not to arrive late, we found ourselves standing in the hallway half an hour early and had the chance to drink a coffee and look around us as we waited his arrival.

Still quite incredulous at how easy it was to get inside, especially when it is public knowledge that Lobo has received threatening calls telling him to prepare his pajamas (the last President was removed from his house in the middle of the night). Anko says that they must have our cell phones tapped and our movements followed. I laugh at the concept. Could that really be the case? More than once I've been gently advised to tone down the content of my blog by concerned friends and family members, but I never really paid too much attention.

We look around. It is a decadent spread appropriate for a President, a little too ostentatious for my taste, but then, I am not leader of a Central American Nation. I like the fact that in this reception room there are two cocktail bars, and sweeping wide glass windows that open out to a patio with a breathtaking backdrop of jungle and mountain. For all the stress and agitation he suffers in the week, with a collapsing public health, education and road system, an unthinkable state deficit, half the world that hasn't officially recognized his government yet, and the continuing debate as to his legitimacy as President ( is it officially a "golpe de estado" (military coup) that ended his successor's turn or not?)... I think he must find a few fleeting moments of peace here.

There is a glass cabinet on the wall by the door with a Chinese crown encased inside. An intricately sculpted piece of jewelry in saffire green and gold; delicate threads connecting precious gem stones. It looks too heavy to be used; an utterly overwhelming piece of accessory. I think it must be purely decorative. Looking around, Sr. Lobo is clearly a good Catholic; elevated up a few steps is a long dining table with 12 chairs and an over-ridingly dominating picture of the last supper hung on the wall.

There are several photos of him with the pope; the current and the last, and replicas of the Virgin Mary here and there, next to plush, cushion-filled sofas and mahogany tables, with carefully placed ornaments. I feel like I am messing up the feng sui by placing my coffee cup on the table. Animal figurines of wild deer and antelopes in jumping pose, alongside bonsai style trees made of precious stones, mix with native art and fresh flowers. So many styles are competing with each other it's hard for the eye to rest.

The President's Head of Communications enters and shakes our hands. "He wont be long", we are informed, as we start to make a slightly pained chit chat, about the week; the house; the weather; awaiting the Presidents arrival. We hear a cough from the connecting room and suddenly without warning, he enters. All smiles, and relaxed in jeans and an open necked shirt.

He is approachable, intelligent, tolerant and knows what this country needs. At least that's how he comes across. He certainly has his work cut out for him. As we run through the list of questions covering the global economic crisis, internal political chaos, enormous deficit, dengue epidemic, alarming levels of criminality, omnipresent and overwhelming poverty and the constant menacing influence of drug barrons (narcotrafico), he takes it all in his stride.

My meeting with the President. That's not something I thought I would ever get to say.

Meeting with the President

I sat awkwardly, shifting a little from side to side, on the shock-hard bench in the spartan church listening to the philharmonic concert, absorbed in the music, shutting my eyes tightly and letting the crescendo of the orchestra elevate me from my thoughts. It was a temporary relief and my mind only allowed itself a fleeting escape from the day's agitation before being brought back to reality at interludes by the occasional buzz of a cell phone and the brutal hardness of the surface beneath me.

Also the bizarre notion playing over and over in my brain that tomorrow we have an early morning meeting with the President in his house. As I shook his hand at the Law sanctioning the other day, he planted a kiss on my cheek, saying "8am, don't be late!" smiling charmingly before he was whisked away by another news channel and I was left standing somewhat open mouthed.

I try to keep calm and pay attention to the music but the thought lurches back into my conscience... If you were meeting the President of Honduras in the morning, what would you say to him? (Baring in mind that "military coup" is definitely taboo).

Christina Comben

A Job Like No Other

We sit in the waiting room at the Ministry of Finance, watching the clock tick way beyond the agreed upon hour; time seems to be almost moving backwards. Four secretaries seems to be sharing the same job, and there is very little movement between them; in the forty five minutes we have been sat here no one has informed us of the reason for the delay. I open my agenda and start to make calls; the ultimate mobile office. Folder balanced on one knee, cell phone to my ear.

All of a sudden, the Minister bursts through the sealed doors, "I'm on my way to the President's Residence for a meeting. Talk to me!" The only chance we have of rescuing our encounter with Sr. Chong is by speaking fast and on the move. Anko speeds after him as he thunders down the hall, and I flounder around trying to gather together all my papers and disconnect my phone, before they disappear from sight.

We climb into the back of his armored 4x4, with two body guards/slash PAs in front, that hand him one of his three blackberries at a time, in thirty second intervals, as he dials some the most influential people in the country, passes the phone to us, receives calls, talks about four pressing issues at once and, with remarkable dignity, tolerates a severe gastric problem. The road to the President's house is cut off by a rabble of military guards with large guns, that they let swing loosely at their hips. They shake their heads as they chew on gum. Not even the Minister of Finance is going to get through this blockade.

The driver lets out a curse, thumps his heel down on the accelerator and we screech backwards, cutting through a line of cars, that honk their horns with venom as we snake through and loop backwards and up a side street of unpaved road. As we crunch boneshakingly into a gauge in the road, I think I can feel my breakfast repeat on me and the Minister snaps " ok what else?" I begin a small saga of the names of people that simply don't want to speak to us (it's one thing saying no to the minister; quite another to a foreign journalist with a shaky accent and no credentials). He nods his head, as phone number 3 buzzes and the Vice President starts to inquire of his whereabouts.

We spin round the corner past crumbling dry wall houses with clothing hanging out to dry on pegs in the street and children running barefoot. It's like being in a parallel world, not a parallel street. In this one, dusty terrain littered with broken glass, plastic bags, houses with no windows; shops with no doors... a few feet away the Casa Presidencial, hotel Marriott and the grotesquely shiny plastic Multiplaza mall.

We penetrate the barrier though the other entrance. Unwinding the window an inch, the guard registers Sr. Chong, nods his head and we are allowed inside. We step out of the vehicle and the cameras start to flash and journalists with large microphones are thrust in the face of the minister. We follow him through the courtyard, trying to avoid the trains of cabling and gigantic lenses that seem to be sprouting from everywhere. I don't know in how many news channels I appeared on Wednesday, but there was definitely a few. http://www.latribuna.hn/web2.0/?p=170743

We are led inside a large room with hundreds of chairs laid out. The event to sanction a new law to promote private investment in Honduras is packed with the select set who hold the Honduran economy in their hands. I look around and catch eyes with a few who we have interviewed in the last few weeks.

Anko makes a swift move across the room for the fat man with the fatter check book who we have been seducing for two weeks now without success, like a long, slow tango, his evasive tactics always one step ahead. Today he has nowhere to run and the seat free next to him seals his fate. Now he will have to explain why we have yet to receive his signature on the dotted line.

I am left alone hovering on the edge of the scene, debating whether to join a group of people, descend upon them. or wait to be approached. Having had roughly 30 seconds to prepare for this, I realize I only have 3 business cards in my purse. At last out of the crowd I see a friendly face, Ignacio Ruperez, the Spanish Ambassador, walks towards me and welcomes me introducing me to some of his buddies from various embassies. I begin to relax a little and we are asked to take our seats and then stand for the National hymn of Honduras played by an orchestra in an elevated box.

I bite the inside of my lip, not quite believing where I am, as the President of the Supreme Court of Justice stands up to introduce the new laws to be put in place, giving a rather mumbled and uninspiring dialog. The Italian UN worker beside me, Luca - Something - (I speedily scanned his business card as he thrust it in my hand before I sat down) whispers in my ear "he's gay" he says. "Ah really?" I whisper back, "I think he's on our interview list", "an insipid man; you won't get much from him". He begins to impart snippets of gossip at intervals and opinions here and there as he confides in a low voice, "this country is a disaster. I've been here 3 years" he says shooting me a wry smile.

After much ceremony, pomp and speeches, standing, applauding, sitting; standing again... all of a sudden it is over. Ignacio grabs my hand, leading me towards the president. This is how you do things in an event such as this. You don't stand in the shadows, but walk positively and confidently towards your target, unfazed by their lack of recognition. The interview we've been trying to get for 6 weeks, is suddenly sealed in 20 seconds, as the President shakes my hand and smiles. "8am Friday don't be late".

How did I get here? I wonder as I swallow back the lump in my throat, which feels a little like my heart is trying to lurch through my mouth. What a day.

Christina Comben

Amapala, Honduras

The narrow mountain highway has to make way for three cars at times, as we are sporadically over-taken by pick-ups and jeeps managed by drivers with poor judgement of distance and a tearing hurry. It’s easier to understand now why we had been given so many varying answers as to how long it takes to get from the city to the coast; if you drive at break-neck speed and are unfazed by pulling out and passing the space-hogging lorries, holding your breath as you pass the hairpin bends, like thread through a needle, you will certainly arrive quicker.

We take a more gentle pace for most of the route until we get more confident and match some of the Honduran drivers with a few equally reckless manoeuvres. The highway here is always a feast for the eyes, and just looking about you provides constant visual stimulation. The slow moving truck in front, sagging beneath its heavy load and belching out black smoke, carries more than cargo. There are foot passengers standing close to each other, tightly squeezed and jiggling up and down, with the bumps in the road, wind in their hair. It looks a bit precarious and I fear for their safety as they lurch around a bend, some of them losing their balance.

Vibrant palms and thick forest with varying layers of foliage spill out into the road and tap the glass windscreen as we pass. Well paved asphalt gives way to crumbling terrain with treacherously deep chasms that are more than mere potholes; deep wells that would snap the bottom of your car if you weren’t quick enough to swerve the wheel out of harm’s way. In some parts of the road it’s like traversing the surface of the moon.

Beyond the reckless driving, the slow spluttering trucks and the neglected road surface, you have to pay attention to any other hazard that might unexpectedly cross your path; a chicken, a stray dog; a blindly roaming herd of sleepy cows, donkeys chomping at the grass verges, sheep, pigs, and farmers crossing the road with their ox and cart.

It evokes a deep contrast of feelings in the soul. In the blare and the buzz and frenetic pace of the city, you forget that deep in the lush jungles of Central America, peasants are working the land with beasts and ploughs, as they did centuries before. The simplicity, yet harshness, of the daily grind in the unforgivingly steep terrain.

A young boy holds high above his head a metal prong speared with something it takes my mind a while to identify. Fried “lagartos” (lizards) are for sale with spicy jalapeno sauce. A giant yellow butterfly floats past and the sun streaks through the mist in two straight rays that cut through the undergrowth.

As we deviate from the main road towards Amapala, the mountains fold into flat lands of rice fields and corn plantains. The land is more remote here and I can’t help but notice it’s been quite a while since we’ve seen another car. We gasp as we turn the bend and the ocean glimpses in sight, dotted with green luscious islands and breath-taking dormant volcanoes, covered in dense forest, rising out of the Pacific.

Not exactly sure of where we are going or what we will find when we arrive, we roll into the little village, gateway to isla del tigre and Amapala, where all of a sudden there were clusters of people selling quesadillas, pupusas, soda and cell phone credit; some things have developed in recent years.

A stout lady with a wide nose and thick jaw, and a red tunic covering her clothing runs towards us with surprising speed for her bulk, and signals to us where we can park the car. Not having any better indication, we followed her instructions and left the rental car outside this lady’s mother’s house behind some gating, where “it would be safe” for the night, while we took the boat to the island and found lodging there. As we stepped out of the car the heat hit us like a slap in the face as she began to explain to us the different options and prices of transport to Amapala and how things worked around here, confiding in us that, if she were in our position, she would go straight to hotel Miramar. She pauses and widens her eyes emphatically, explaining that that way we could save a few lempiras.

Anko asks if she has a cell number we can reach her on, clearly a little apprehensive at leaving the car here. She stops and stares deeply at him until her face breaks into a beaming grin and she lets out a loud cackle, explaining that she has never been allowed to purchase a mobile phone. Apparently her husband is the jealous type and doesn’t appreciate her receiving calls from random strangers. But, she does give us her name – Delia - and inclines her head towards the old lady with the face full of wrinkles, rocking on the chair outside the house; that is her mother and she never goes anywhere. The car will be safe with them.

Placing all our trust in this jovial lady, w e follow her to the dock, where two young boys scamper towards us and offer to take us in their boat. We strike up a deal, far more beneficial to them than us and the little engine chokes into life. We clamber aboard and set forth towards the island, the gentle breeze in our faces providing relief from the constant unrelenting sun. This part of the Pacific is nestled between green and fertile mountain islands and the water in places has the deep green colour of the jungles reeds.

There are some women washing clothing by the waterside, scrubbing up and down on a steel board with bars of soap, one of them looks up and grins as we pass. Wooden shacks and barren blackened beaches provide a stark contrast to the pristine houses, rising out of sweeping palm forest, fronted by expansive windows, sun glinting on the glass, and private swimming pools at the back. But then this is a land of cosmic gaps between the rich and the poor, the staggering disparity at times almost absurd.

We ease into the little bay docking at the orange hotel all but hidden by the imposing jungle behind. A dark skinned man with sleepy eyes and a loose ponytail stood in the doorway and with a relaxed smile shoutyed out “bienvenidos” as he welcomes us inside. He explained to us the layout of the island, the prices and the (some-what) limited services of the hotel, in a painfully slowly manner that made me want to finish his sentences for him. I ask a question and think he hasn’t heard me, or hasn’t understood, as too many seconds pass before he answers. The delayed reactions and impossibly slow speech is quite a trait of Amapala, as we discovered. The pace of life is slower; the hot sun obliging you to walk with less haste; the lack of urgency an inbuilt quality.

As we follow him up the steps to the rooms, Anko points out a dead scorpion about 8 inches long on the ground. The dense forest around the hotel seems to hum with insect life and little geckos dance across the ceilings, clicking to each other in their curious song. I close my eyes for a moment. I am standing on a small piece of earth somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, off the main land of Central America with barely any civilization around.

The young boy with the lazy eye and even slower speech hangs off the steering wheel, one elbow out the window as he takes us to “playa grande” where we can take a dip, get a beer and nestle our toes between the volcanic sand. Anko asks him what he does for fun and if there are many girls his age on an island such as this. After a painfully slow pause, he lets out an embarrassed laughter, “no” he laments, there are however, lots of “homosexuals”.

I swear I think this was probably the last thing I expected him to say, as we grind over the stony roads, past cheerful, bright yellow three-wheel taxis, a little stone church, a smattering of small stores and sleepy old ladies rocking in their chairs on the streets. I am trying to imagine a love parade procession here and somehow, just can’t.

He lets us out at the beach at one of the rather dilapidated “chiringitos”,( the closest thing to a restaurant here) that line the thin stretch of sand. Tin or straw roofs propped up by wooden poles, with gentle waves lapping at their base. We drop down our packs at a plastic table and I jump up to dip my toes into the warm water. I look back at the collection of shaky buildings. As rustic as it may be, “playa grande” is not without its charm. If you can get past the dirty appearance of the water from the black sand and the various unidentified floating objects brushing frequently against your skin. From the water, looking back at the think jungle jutting into the ocean, I am mesmerized. I do a half-turn towards the horizon; the looming volcano shrouded with cloud at its peak is El Salvador.

We order large plates of fried fish and camerones (shrimp), washed down with cold cerveza and lime, hot sauce and platanos, served with a plastic fork and no knife, making it impossible to eat without having to grab it with your fingers and gnaw the delicious flesh off the bones. The sand felt good underfoot and the ever-present sun burned through the straw roof. The stress of the week and constant pressure to perform is forgotten for a while as the sounds of the jungle mix with Latin pop beats and the shrieks of giggling children bathing and frolicking in the sea.
A mangy dog lies beneath my feet, scratching its ear with the back of its paw, flicking fleas in my direction. We decide it’s time to get up and move, and walk further along the beach before launching ourselves into the water, just floating for a while, drinking in the scene.

As we get out and walk along the beach, four sting rays are lined up on the sand. Looking back at the water we realize what we have been floating next to without realizing. It’s time for another beer and we pull up at a chirongito packed with families. There were people eating, chatting and children playing football, the goal posts delineated with wooden sticks.

I am aware of a presence behind me at I turn around to be met with a wide smile and a pair of deep brown eyes. A small boy, Carlitos, lathered in thick sun cream. We become engaged in conversation and he tells me his age (4) and that he prefers swimming to football. I tell him that I come from England, a place far away, and ask him if he knows where it is. He contemplates for a while before nodding his head rapidly and explaining that you have to take a boat to get there.

We are suddenly joined by his brothers and sisters and cousins, who form an inquisitive group around us. They start to count in English and know some of the months of the year. The little girl, appropriately named Linda, is so beautiful with her soulful eyes and earnest answers , and I wished I could take her with me, as we left and she threw her arms around me, not wanting to let me go.

As we stroll through the town on the way back to the hotel, the cobbled streets were filled with little houses, most of whose inhabitants were outside perched on their chairs, enjoying the evening breeze. Some women were preparing steaming hot tortillas with a variety of fillings in different coloured pots on a large wooden table. I stopped in a pulperia to get some water, which is sold to me in a bag, a cheaper packaging than a bottle . I am not quite sure how to hold it as it slides through my fingers, like a water balloon.

We hear thunder rumbling ominously in the distance and the storm clouds, jet black against the back drop of the jungle, threaten broodingly, flickering now and then with rays of lightening. We barely make it back before the storm breaks, emptying the sky with a ferocious downpour. We sit and watch as the rain soaks the earth and the violence of the storm in all its glory plays out on front of our eyes. A praying mantis crawls up the wall and the lights flicker with insects. Nature in all its glory and we are in its territory.

We survive the night and the morning dawns bright and calm and we start off the day with a “plato tipico” which definitely gives a full English breakfast a run for its money. Refried beans with platanos, egg, rice and tortillas certainly sets you up for the day.

The car has been safely protected as promised and as we pull away from the frantically waving and grinning Delia, I feel somehow in some way that I will be back here again.

Reflexiones

Abro la ventana y huelo la noche. Tiene otro sabor; otra energía. Escucho tiros. La cuidad se pone brava. Las puertas no abren; las ventanas cerradas. Desde la vista de la basilica unas horas atras ya pudimos ver el sol falleciendo detrás de las montanas. Que día mas largo.

Ni me acuerdo con quienes estábamos, en cuales lugares y que les pedimos. Que por supesto siempre haya que pedir algo... llevar aun que sea un dato útil; un consejo bueno; una relación amistosa. (Mejor que sea un contrato firmado y sellado. Hay poco espacio por "tal vez la próxima vez" o "que pena se cerro mi presupesto").

Extraño a mi novio; mis amigos; mi gente. Las noches en mi balcon tomando cerveza y charlando la vida. Tomando vino hasta tarde en una plazita y caminando cuando y donde queria.

En cambio tengo el desafion que requiere mi mente activa. Observo. Escucho. Aprendo. y luego opino. Por lo menos trato de conservar esta orden, depende mucho de mi humor.

Welcome to Central America

It’s certainly different. I'm guessing there are few jobs in which you get to sit down with the Minister of Education in one moment, and the manager of a casino in the next. We discuss remedies for a country with an average time spent in school of 5 years per person and a union of teachers that aren't sufficiently incentivized to comply with their 200 days a year in the classroom. Payment is a problem of course. The "change in government" or "military coup" (depending on your viewpoint), left the country bankrupt and you can certainly see where the priorities truly lie.

Our interview with Education takes place in a temporary office by a shopping mall, as the last tropical storm that passed through the region, Hurricane Agatha, a few weeks back, tore down the top two floors of the offices of the Ministry of Education, located in the poorest district of town. Some ministers have it easier than others.

With our suitcases in the left luggage room of our hotel, we just had time for perhaps the worst meal I've ever eaten (and that is saying quite a lot) in TGI Fridays in a nearby shopping mall. The over-zealous North American franchise just doesn't quite work here, as the numerous servers with ridiculous uniforms, of stockings, over-sized hats, badges and stripy shirts wonder around, attentive to just about everything except the 3 tables between them. I flashback to when "Eurodisney" hit Paris with it's peppy, snappy, all day smile culture and fast food outlets; the concept of which was totally lost upon the sullen French.

From there we make our way to the Magestic Casino. Having just spent ten minutes in the back of the stiflingly hot car, I feel like my face is literally melting, as we negotiate our way inside. Entering this establishment is quite a feat, and we have to pass through the security guards with AK47s and knock surreptitiously on the bolted doors to pass. The interview is conducted in a haze of smoke.

It’s a mixture of sensations frankly and I haven’t had enough time to adapt. Sometimes I just feel overwhelmingly guilty. As I look around the grotesquely over-furnished offices and listen submissively to the same vapid rhetoric from insipid politicians about eradicating poverty and sharing the wealth.

I spent such a frustrating morning today trying to “agendar” interviews with largely corrupt or targeted businessmen that frankly prefer to keep a low profile. Out of more than 100 phone calls I successfully confirmed 2 appointments. “Fijase que sigue almorzando” (he’s still at lunch); coo the receptionists with a rthymical latin lilt that makes it impossible to stay angry at them.

Still, lunches that last 3 hours, phone calls that are directly cut off, being passed to the wrong person, or worse, given the wrong address, gets a little tiring after a while. It's also a curious thing in Honduras that no one has a proper address. Not once have I been given a name, number and street. It's always "3 blocks west of the white river, between the blue house and the petrol station" or "next to the shopping mall above the Central bank". I don't think anyone uses the actual mail here. You would have to obtain a very big envelope, with the description "left at the brick building and before the police station, after the banana seller, Tegucigalpa, Honduras".

The truth is it's a hard slog if you try to go it alone here. In countries like these you are nothing without who you know and if there is no one to open the door for you then it will be slammed in your face. In their tightly knit communities everything moves by contacts and there is nothing like a nod of the head from the appropriate minister to let you in.

The escalating drug problem north of the border in Mexico is only exacerbating the outlook for the future here. Moving the filth from one region to another, re-routing the drug runs through central america. How else can you explain the announcement of the closure of the international airport of Tegucigalpa for one week? (In fact it was only 24 hours in the end). Apparent holes in the runway sounded about as plausible as British Rail's "leaves on the line" and I think that few people were fooled. The enormous jets that landed in the middle of the night loaded with cash told a different story.

You certainly get to mix with the some of the most disgusting people on earth. The Minister of Foreign affairs was a particular treat as he slumped back in his leather sofa, stacked high with plush silk cushions, bleating on about all the triumphs realized under his leadership. So many wonderful projects he had done in fact, that he had to furrow his brow, and ask his secretary to remind him just how many poor people had benefited from his plan he can’t remember the name of, somewhere in the south of the country. His office was by far and away the most grandiose we had seen, even more so than the governor of the central bank. Feather filled pillows, an old-style library, various elaborate artefcats, a Honduran flag and a panoramic view of Tegucigalpa.

Another one of our interviewees that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and a lump rise in the back of my throat, was the general manager of the first hotel we stayed in. He was particularly repulsive; an embittered and frustrated man with an inflated ego that lives his life in a self-inflicted prison between his home, office and car, choosing not to integrate in this out of control society. “Ni se te ocurra meter un pie en la calle” he warns, wide eyed, advising us not to leave the hotel on foot. We are a 10 minute walk from the Casa Predencial. I am safer here than I have been anywhere else in the world.

“I manage this hotel with an open door policy” he beams through clenched teeth, a hollow sincerity and a cringe inspiring smile that makes my heart freeze a little as he glances in the direction of the exit and orders for it to be closed.

He lowers his voice and confesses to us just how much he hates Honduras. The people here are useless, the hotel environment hostile and he feels a personal demotion in his career at being sent here. Then, eyes shifting from side to side, he stops, takes an exaggerated breath and pauses for effect - this loathsome man dripping with a slime that provokes in me the need to take a good shower afterwards - when Columbus discovered Honduras he said to the people "no hagan nada hasta que vuelva” (don't do anything until I get back).

He laughs at his own joke, clearly pleased with himself, and we dutifully reciprocate with a false laugh I’ve gotten so well rehearsed now. With over 65% below the poverty line, natural disasters, out-of-control epidemics of diseases and a wealthy class of European descent that isn't willing to share the power, I don't know exactly what it is he believes the country should have done. I hate myself as I smile like a sycophant at this joke I’ve heard so many times before about other countries in the region. What a bastard.

I admit I wrestle with my own prejudices. I am automatically opposed to the people we see, without hearing what they have to say; and I have never even voted. It’s not for apathy, laziness or lack of opinion, I have just never been in my country when the elections took place. And being a citizen of the world (if that doesn't sound too pretentious) I don’t really feel the right to decide about what goes on in a country I don’t live in, with a political system I’m not up to date with. I also don’t appear on the electoral role and haven’t paid taxes in any fixed place for several years.

Yet I do know that value wise, I am a leftie. I believe in socialism; giving, if not an equal, then at least a fighting chance to the lesser privileged. It makes it hard to find a thread of common ground between this largely nepatalistic, right-wing, undeservedly advantaged society.

Still, it's a constant learning curve, as stressful as it can be. We sat down with one of the most influential businessman in Honduras, who inclined towards us and explained the truth (or atleast his version of it) behind Zelaya's abrupt removal from power in the middle of the night at gun point almost exactly a year ago.

It's depressing, but you find out quickly that there is very little difference between the right and the left. Whichever party allows the business men to exploit the people, pay the least taxes possible and attract foreign investment without internal political PR disasters; the better. If you know whose pocket to grease, then it really is fairly indifferent which undeserving puppet is put in power.

It's a highly disputed point, but I personally feel that Venezuela's Chavez is perhaps one of the most evil would-be dictators out there today. From the comfort of his office and lavish banquet for the entire family, he telivises on air to the people that they can live without work, without food, but not without diginity. That inflated bastard and all his minions in their strategically situated mansions will certainly never go hungry, as the poor of the pueblo starve. The millions of dirty money reaching his account each day will never be translated to them.

Ortega of Nicaragua is a particularly large beneficiary of Chavez's band of socialism. Suitcases full of cash destined for one deplorable mission after another(Argentina is quite familiar with this, having financed a sizeable chunk of their electoral campaign with Venezuelan support) or slashed prices of petrol that are then re-sold to a poverty sticken country at inflated prices. Ortega is one of the richest men on earth; and Nicaragua one of the poorest nations. Surrounded by so much corruption it's hard to see which way is north and who you can really trust.

The best part of my day is kicking off my heals, letting down my hair, talking to the people in the street and walking to the supermarket. A man with no shirt and a carton a strawberries balanced above his head asks me if I want to buy. I smile and say not this time but ask him if he knows of a pharmacy nearby. Not only does he exmplain, but he leaves his cargo and walks me to the end of the street,making sure I don't get lost. His life has been so different fron mine, but in this brief exchange I feel a common bond. Becasue at the end of the day, as ugly as it can get, people are people whertever you go.

Life in the heart of a Central American village.

As we wind along the twisty road leaving the capital behind, I can almost feel my shoulders begin to drop. The road is winding and the mountains lush and vibrant, product of the tropical rains that pound and saturate, evaporating in seconds as the sun breaks through and steam rises from the earth.

The road to Valle de Angeles is dotted here and there with food stands, little more than make-shift tents, sheltering steaming grills, wooden fires beltching out smoke beneath smouldering cauldrens boiling and grilling bright yellow corn, yuka, pupusas and, of course, tortillas. Sleepy cows and horses wonder the unfenced boundaries and a woman is scrubbing clothes by hand, atop a brightly coloured brick table.

As we overtake a slow moving truck around a blind bend, the view to the right is breath-taking; florecsent green and fertile land, shrouded in mist against the backdrop of a brooding sky.

An elderly man stuggles up the hill, with a large brimmed sombrero shielding deep brown eyes in a dark skinned face, etched with wrinkles, carrying a bundle of firewood upon his back. Chickens cluck past on our left and, as we are overtaken by a giant black 4x4, with fat tyres and tinted windows, it seems almost an absurd paradox of the old and modern world.

Clapped-out yellow, old-style US school buses line up at the side of the road waiting for passengers, spluttering out black smoke from their exhausts. As we pull into the village, the main street is a hodge-podge of colourful souvenir shops, restaurants and houses, almost one on top of another, with red tiled rooves and wooden doors.

Stepping out of the car my clever boss negotiated for us in a barter deal with Avis, I almost feel my legs tremble with the excitement of being used and actually walking around the streets for a bit. Living in the capital doesn't present abundant opportunities of strolling the steets with a digital camera.

The shrewd villagers are clearly wise to the tourist appeal of their little town; oldworldy shops, decked out with brightly woven hammocks, ceramics and cloths, have a sign accepting VISA by the counter. I question the authenticity of some of these souvenirs as I pick up a magnet embossed with the ruins of Tikal (in Guatemala) above the lettering HONDURAS.

The town square is alive with colours and smells. Prickly green cactai, exotic plants and flowers sprout from cracks in the stone and cheekily grinning children, selling quesadillas and dulce de leche run about playing tag. Men wearing traditional sombreros and checkered shirts converse amongst themselves and a bus load of gringos with Jesus sandles, "I love Honduras" T-shirts and shock-blond hair spill out of the restaurants.

Openair tables are filled with people chattering, sipping back ice-cold cervezas, eating and laughing. A robust lady with a firm hand shovels pork sausages (chorizo) and onions. As I snap a picture she catches my eye, stopping to pose and flashing me a contageous ear to ear smile.

Narrow cobbled streets span from the plaza like a spiderweb, lined with multi-colored houses, tarnished only by the occasional SUV. Hand painted signs indicate pupusas, comidas, pulperias (small shops) and souvenirs. As we walk into one, Anko races to pick up a foot-long knife, enthusiastically drawing it from its elaborately etched case, and letting out a conspiratory chuckle. "What are the possibilities of this making it through the US custom officials in Texas?"

A little 3-wheel taxi with no doors buzzes past, tooting its horn, missing by a whisper colliding with a wide-eyed tourist. Giant-leaved palm trees and orange budded shrubs ooze from the parts of the street not covered by stone, and a hotdog seller absorbed in his celular phone lets out a loud beltch, scratching his ample belly.

The immaculelty painted church invites us inside. There is a shrine of florescently clothen saints and, frankly vulgar paintings of Jesus on the cross and a manequin of Christ that makes my spine tingle. It's glass eyes seem to follow me around the church, evoking better-forgotten memories of Chucky from the horror movie that invaded my sleep as a child.

The old and new come together here as internet cafes and cash machines stand aside horses and carts, banana sellers and crumbling archways. As we walk slightly away from the center and up a less crowded street, past some young Honduran brick layers, they giggle amongst themselves as they stare in our direction; the three of us taking a photo of the same truck. We must be so funny to them.

I buy some cookies with cinnamon and syrup from a young girl under a parasol selling locally produced goods. We walk back to the car and wave goodbye to Valle de Angeles, on route to Santa Lucia, a spell-binding stone village burried in the heart of the mountains. A place where time literally stands still as the devout villagers make their way to church and sleepy dogs potter the streets.

We stop for a coffee at "cafe del pueblo". Stepping outside to the terrace, the dramatic backdrop of cloudly mountains peppered with red-brick rooves and gently smoking chimnies is completely absorbing. I don't know for how long I stared out at the mountains, drinking in the overwhelming peace breathing from the plantlife and trees.

If I ever question my motives for my constant need to keep moving, be everywhere at once, and so far from the people I love, then Santa Lucia was enough to remind me. I think I left a little piece of me behind there, somewhere in the slowly gathering fog that swept up the village as we left.

Outings in the Capital

The rain here comes down fast, without warning and with an alarming ferocity, as it pounds down with tremendous force, saturating the inadequate drains; converting the narrow streets into canals. As we stepped out of the busy mall, the queue for taxis was heinously long. After a hectic day, rushing from one meeting to another in rattling vehicles with no air conditioning, both of us just wanted to go home.

We decided to brave the elements and darted quickly across the street in a break between the heavy traffic. Although it was dark, the streets were rammed with cars and I didn't feel threatened as we trudged our way towards the hotel. The unceasing rain pummelled relentlessly in our faces. There was no pavement and we were forced to squeltch and slide our way along the muddy verge, a hair's distance from the oncoming cars, who showed little regard for pedestrians, as they forged through the flooded streets, spraying us with dirty water.

As I duck just in time to avoid decapitation by a low hanging cable, my suspicion is reinforced that the most dangerous aspect to walking the streets in this neighbourhood is the threat of being swept into a gaping manhole or knocked into the curb by a pickup truck. Dengue infected mosquitos are also an issue and the local press obsessivly covers the escalating epidemic. It's not advised to hang out near pools of water and ankle high in puddles, I wonder if I should have thought to lather myself up with repellent before leaving the hotel.

My inadequate footwear provides little traction and I slip and and skid along the path. It's a tricky balancing act as I do my best not to topple into the stream of traffic or end up in a mud puddle on the grassy verge.

The onset of night seems to draw out the same characters each day. The rain always starts as the light fails and the fire throwers appear at the traffic lights, juggling their flames high into the air, cutting through the night sky, turning the rain golden. The limbless beggars manouver themselves in and out of cars as they plead for a few lempiras to stave away their hunger.

The area here has been taken over by the North American giants of Burger King, Wendy's, Pizza Hut and Chillis. A 24-hour offering of bright lights, plastic food and paper plates. There is little to draw the food lover's attention to Tegucigalpa, although I have to admit, the meat here is some of the best I've ever tasted (and I lived in Argentina for four years).

If it has to be fast food, then at least it should be the Honduran kind. We try out "Coco Baleadas", an outlet selling large tortillas stacked high with just about anything you can think of. The attentive man behind the counter looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as I am so obviously unaware of the protocol here. You basically chose anything you want and my baleada is piled high with avocado, cheese, beans, a curious combination of three meats, jalapenos, carrots and tomatos. Steaming hot and wrapped up in foil, as it's placed on my tray my hands spasm and I almost drop my food, surprised by the sheer weight of this thing.

No one in our group is able to finish and I have to confess, just the sight of this beast is intimidating enough to stifle my appetite. It's a feable attempt and I feel decidely foreign as I look around and realize there are far more grandious things on offer here.

A Honduran couple orders a dish a meter log of tacos stacked to the ceiling with a stomach churning array of vegetables, meats, condiments and salsas. I don't think I haved ever taken such pleasure in watching people eat as I try not to blatently stare at the pair chomping through this banquet for ten. On a diet of corn based breads, fat upon saturated fat, zero hours in the gym and a job that is far more mentally tiring than physcially, I think it's inevitable that I will put on weight here. As long as I don't start squeezing my bulk into ill-fitting shock-pink jeans and my feet into plastic stiletos, perhpas I can retain some of my class. It's early days. When my head starts turning at the collections of earrings of florecent yellow hoops then I'll know I'm in trouble.

A strange place to put a restaurant. Tegucigalpa

The bottom of the beaten-out taxi scraped cringingly against the uneven surface, as we shuddered our way up the mountain, the constant din of the engine thundering in our eardrums, like a jet plane taking off. None of us had any real confidence in arriving at our destination, being as neither we, nor the taxi driver actually knew where it was we were going and the rapidly descending fog blocked the path.

We were silent for a while as our eyes absorbed the magnitude of what we were seeing. Narrow, crumbling pavement dropping away into the street, corner stores with broken windows, open guttering and small clusters of people talking, lingering, listlessly staring into the street.

As we grind around another corner and shudder to a hault at the traffic lights, an uneasiness settles over the car. Being hi-jacked in a taxi is not unheard of here and the street is unsettlingly empty at this junction. Delinquency is rife and gangs divide up the city in an ongoing terratory war. You don't walk the streets with anything of value. You don't get caught on the wrong side of town. And you don't break down in a taxi half way up a mountain side in the dead of night.

If we listened to the prevailing wind, we wouldn't step foot outside our hotel, but then, in this line of work, the prevailing wind blows from the vantage point of a select few whose primary interests are in keeping the power and the wealth within the same hands. Despite the glorious rhetoric of building up Honduras and eradicating poverty, spouted out with impressive conviction from the comfort of an airconditioned office with leather sofas, it's much easier to combat if you can press an electric button and wind up your tinted window as you drive by.

The withered rust heap of a taxi chokes into life and we pull away from the junction. I feel as if I am being watched and stare out of the window. My eyes lock with those of a young adolosent girl on the street. They are dark and penetrating, wide and soulful and I can feel her gaze long after the car has turned the corner.

There is a steel bed serving as a roof on one of the tumbledown houses to our left, and some people are lining up at a fastfood stand, waiting as their tortillas are flipped into the air and filled with various kinds of meat and spices. The smoke rises and the fat spits from the little grill, as the vendor with the backwards cap and faded vest, wipes his brow.

We rumble onwards, climing higher and the lights of the city grow distant behind us. The night time that envelopes Tegucigalpa covers the scars and the damage exposed by daylight. The slums and exhaust fumes are wrapped up in the darkness. The lights are twinkling and the city is calm. It's amazing how so many things look less threatening from a distance.

An almighty thud jolts me back into consciousness, as the front wheel of the car drops into a deep crack in the road. There is a collective gasp from inside, followed by a long silence; no one wanting to awknowledge that we have probably just cracked the drive shaft.

The road becomes more remote as houses are replaced by trees and the terrain roughens, as we swerve around the steep corners trying as hard as possible to avoid the crevices, all the time the right side of the taxi clunking disturbingly against the ground. Visibility is poor as the clouds drop and the taxista chuckles "el hombre lobo sale por aqui" (The wolfman comes out here").

As we stop at a fork in the way while he telephones a friend to check our location, I half expect an armed gang to descend upon us from the trees. It's hard to believe that a restuarant could exist up here, as the road has now all but disappeared beneath us and we are grinding up dirt tracks and grass. I flash back to being in Guatemala when locals advised us against walking up the mountains alone, because of the "bandidos".

A combination of an over-active imagination, advice from unhelpful sources and a daily paper with a dedicated section to assassinations and robbery - "sucesos" - is enough to fuel a deep paranioa. But such hysteria is not healthy and, although I am not denying the need to excercise caution, it is also not helpful to regard each and every person as a possible assailant.

Eventually we see a sign for "La Cumbre" and we pull in to the high gated place. There is a collection of 4x4s and expensive cars, like some bizarre oasis in the midst of the desert, or a party that only a few are invited to. I remember being told once "life is all about being part of the club". I can't think of anywhere where that applies more. Central America will never pulls itself out of the mess its in while the same old people remain in charge.

More to come soon.