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.

Houston-El Salvador-Tegucigalpa, Leg 2

What I saw of Houston didn't exactly leave me burning with desire to come back. But then, what I saw of Houston was a bad motel, a formidable, never ending highway system built to support bumper to bumper morning traffic from a plague of SUVs and people carriers, and a depressing collection of plastic, neon light, fast food outlets.

I would't ever live in suberbian North America where every house looks the same and there's a church and a mall and a McDonalds every ten blocks. After all the flying hours we've put in, my poor travelling partner has more than earned himself a cold beer, on his 31 hour birthday, but the best we can do is a bad burger and unlimited refills of fanta, or something equally unsatisfying.

No one walks anywhere here and we received one of those "are you out of your minds?" looks when we asked about returing to the motel on foot. We soon realized why, as the pedestrian pavement gave way to course, tall, wreathes of prickly grass and swampy weeds underfoot. The mile and a half walk turned into quite a nature trail as the dense undergrouth beagn to plant a sense of trepidation in us as to what exactly might be lurking beneath. The mosquitos began to bite and a spider web danced across my face and shoulders causing me to shriek and spasm like a woman possessed.

Hot. Steamy. Swampy. Remote. And certainly not pedestrian friendly; that was my overwhelming impression of Houston. Although I have to acknowledge that this is perhaps an unfair one. One of my best friends in the world lives here (or somewhere round here) and I trust her judgement. It may be true that we want different things from life, but it's also true that she has exceptional taste. I am willing to come back and see a differnt side to this curious place, which has to offer a more exhilerating culineray experience than Denny's.

I don't know if this is technically correct to say these days, but if I say that we didn't see a single "white" person here, would that cause offence? It's not meant to. It just goes to reinforce what a 'meltingpot' this great land is. I think that everyone from the moment we arrived was of Latin origin, Black, Asian or some palce else. I always thought that Europe was multi-cultual.

From Houston we made a small detour to El Salvador. Despite the absurdly indirect flight path to Honduras, I have to say, both our airport waits coincided perfectly with the world cup fixtures and we were able to watch Spain beat Germany, to the delight of all in the airport bar in San Salvador.

We tried pupusas (corn tortillas filled with cheese, chicharron and frijoles) and local cerveza, both served with a contagious, genuine, ear to ear smile, accompanied with the phrase "a la orden"; something like, "here to serve you".

Our flight was announced and we we sped towards the departure lounge, aware that we had lingered a little too long to see the close of the game. "Ahh" I said to Anko, relieved, "the plane's not even here yet", not realizing that the tin can with wings on the side outside the window was to be our transportation to Tegucigalpa. I exaggerate. I have that tendency. But Anko and I exchanged nervous glances as the engines spluttered into life (one disturbingly later that the other). We sat on the tarmac for a considerable amount of time, fuelling our worst imaginations, before were given the all clear and we taxied towards the runway.

I think the whole plane held its breath as we raced along the surface, gathering speed. "It was nice knowing you" joked Anko, as the little plane lurched into the air and we began to climb, piercing through the air and leaving the lushous green fields and inviting stretches of sandy beaches behind. It was stickily hot as the sun penetrated the window and into my eyes, yet, I couldn't bring myself to pull down the blind, tired and uncomfortable as I was. I was lost in tought. Such a beautiful and rich terrain lay beneath us. How can a country with such fiendly and hard working people, tropical climate, abundance or natural resources and tourist destinations be in such a mess of street gangs, drug cartels and desperate vagabunds whose regard for hunman life has fallen so low that they will kill over a cell phone.

What is El Salvador famous for? Poverty? Crime? A heart-stopping divide between the rich and the poor? I don't know at what time we crossed airspace, but we must have been in Honduran skies as we began to make our descent and my ears started to pop. I have so much to discover here, but I expect that the same troubles that hamper El Salvador's progress also plague Honduras. With an approximate 65% extreme poverty rate, this is not exactly on Conde Naste's top see destinations.

As we circle the capital, it is a sprwaling mass of ramshakle, barely held-together dwellings saturating the various mountain peaks. Tegucigalpa sits in a bowl with shanty towns stretching out over the hills as far as the eye can see. What a stark contrast from touching down in Houston where every house had its own garden or swimming pool, or, at the very least, its own defined space; here it seemed as if the houses were built on top of each other, some with thick plastic tarps serving as rooves.

We were almost at ground level and I still couldn't make out an airport. Feeling as if we were about to collide into a row of houses, I closed my seyes for a second and we thumped down onto the tarmac. I had heard just before I left, that every one out of ten planes that lands here has to sharply pull its nose up and circle round to land again, so short and narrow is the runway.

Well. Here I am. Honduras. This is going to be my home for the next few months, unless I am inept at my job and they send me home sooner. Time will tell. How curious it is to be in a constant internal battle with two sides of yourself. I always say I would be equally happy with a beer and a choripan, a football game and seedy bar, as I am with fine champagne and sushi. But I do like to have access to both. And that's a luxury I can afford.

I feel a little uneasy about staying in a 5 star hotel, while the majority of the people live with constant power cuts, the ongoing menace of street crime and a rising epidemic of Dengue. The people I will meet here move about in armoured cars with stained black windows. If anyone can transcend the worlds of this chaotic place it's me. It will be intersting seeing how.

Madrid-New York-Houston Leg one of the journeny

I have that exhilarating feeling again. The one I get when I am about to get on a plane and go somewhere far away. It’s always tinged with a bittersweet mixture of anticipation for the adventure to come and the remorse for the people left behind. It was heart breaking watching my love get on to a bus and leave me on the platform. I think that my heart literally stopped for a moment and the air drained out of me, leaving me breathless until suddenly escaping out in horrifying gasps. I started to almost run out of the station and against every impulse to turn back and get on the bus with him.

Mine is a life that will always be marked by separation. It’s unsettling, it’s stressful, it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable and… standing here in the line up, it’s a feeling of being truly alive.

Our journey was starting in Madrid and when we got to the airport, the queue was tediously long and we were asked to stand to one side and let people pass, as there seemed to be some problem with our tickets. Both Anko and I became slightly nervous. Justifying a three month vacation to Honduras to an American airline is not an easy task. Exacerbating matters further is the fact that my passport has almost run out of spaces on the pages and several entries and exits from Venezuela don’t work in my favour. And Anko, my travelling partner and manager in Honduras has a collection of stamps from an eye-brow raising variety of why-go destinations, including, Congo, Bosnia, Serbia and El Salvador.

It seems that we have had the misfortune to be attended by a fastidiously meticulous rule abider, and we are forced to wait for some time before being informed that we will be allowed to travel today but that we have a note next to our names exonerating Continental from any responsibility should we be denied access in Honduras. That of course would never happen. If we meet one customs official that fails to be swayed over by my winning smile or a $10 incentive, then this isn’t the Central America I remember. After complying with a banal series of ridiculous questions about where we have left, packed, and organized our luggage, finally we are allowed out of the clutches of this intolerable woman.

It happens to be Anko’s birthday and the poor thing has to put up with a gruelling 15 hours of flying, queuing, inquisition and airline food. Worse still, the American airlines did away with free alcoholic beverages back in the day when suitcases used to hold 32 kilos and the extra time you spent at the airport was used browsing through the duty free rather than placing all your liquids into a plastic bag and taking off your shoes and belts.

Luggage restrictions today are so tight I was told that even with one extra kilo I would have to pay 50 dollars, and we had to do some slightly strategic repacking. Perhaps I look back with rose tinted spectacles, but frankly, flying today just isn’t what it used to be. It’s unpleasant and unfriendly. The seating space in the aircraft is tight enough to give you claustrophobia and the line ups at security enough to make you weep. Especially if you are unfortunate enough to have to transit through the US.

After an uneventful flight, we land rather shakily into the sweltering smog of New York. It’s 40 degrees in the city today and despite being contained in the artificial air of the terminal, the punishing humidity still manages to drag us down and lugging our cases across meters of mechanical runways is no picnic.
We line up and wait to be granted entry into the States, a little nervous that we may be flagged up for our curious travel habits, but other than scanning a few fingerprints and exchanging basic information, finally they were far more “rompebolas” in Spain than here. I am fortunate to have my birthday on American Independence day and seeing the 4th July on my passport is enough to crack a smile out of even the most poker-faced official.

After clearing both security and customs and locating our next departure gate, we realise that we are fortunate enough that our 3 hour stop coincides with the Uruguay-Holland game. We install ourselves into a diner-style bar in front of the TV screen and watch as the game unfolds. The support is definitely with Uruguay and the latino bus boys and wait staff cheer and shout when Uruguay equalise. It wasn’t the result that we were hoping for but a good game never the less and a welcome chance to knock back a couple of beer after our long journey and before the next one.

Looking around at the faces in the airport, it’s the same old U S of A as always. I don’t know if it’s because we are so culturally similar or if it’s just because I’ve been here so many times, but I always feel at home in the States. There is a sort of feeling of continuity as the clothing, customs and slightly comical way of speaking remain the same. Elderly people dressed in smart outfits; finished off with chunky, white sneakers, and a cumbersome belt bag around their waists, sipping on bucket sized cokes.

You can pay for a Starbucks coffee of a dollar with your mastercard.
The average size person is a lot larger than in Europe and the seating space in the aircraft significantly less. A 15% tip is obligatory even if the service is horrible and doing something considered non-conformist, such as cracking a joke, making an ironic comment, or going to, say, Honduras for 3 months, is met with a farcical raising of the eyebrows and a look that could melt the flesh off your bones. They’re not all like that of course. The man beside me with the Southern drawl going to visit his kids in California is a pleasure to converse with and we touch upon several topics of conversation, from the crisis to marriage and travelling.

He is definitely with me on the fact that planes have gotten smaller, the food less tolerable and, depending on the airline, the staff less welcoming.

I get up to go to the bathroom and the overtly gay flight attendant barks at me and another man waiting to get into the kitchen and (eyerolling) out of the way of his snack cart. As we make way he shoots me a filthy look “he was before you, you know, don’t you cut him!” His female companion who is about two shades up on the charisma scale, rolls her eyes and he asks her if there’s anything he can do for her “sweety”. She responds with “I wanna be back in Houston and not at work”, so that was nice to hear.

Tonight we will be stopping in an airport hotel in Houston and tomorrow destination Honduras. I’m not really nervous anymore. More curious.The last time I was in Honduras I had a budget of about $3 a day and stayed in a converted prison, lived off food from street sellers and filtered water with an iodine dispensing device to avoid buying bottles. This time around I will be staying in a 5 star hotel and shaking hands with presidents and ministers. It’s definitely going to be different.
I only found out about a week ago. I was told to prepare myself for Africa or Asia and at the last minute, was given Latin America and Eastern Europe. I couldn’t be happier. It seems I’m destined to be here in this continent.

So what do I know about Honduras at this stage? The leftist Chevez buddy, Zelaya, was removed from power at pistol point in the middle of the night almost exactly a year ago and is now residing as a guest in the Dominican Republic. The new government elect (it is important to say “elect” despite being initiate bedfellows with the military and rightist sector). There are about 40 assaults on buses a week and 60% of the rural population is at risk of dengue. The country is plagued by drug rings and narcotraffic, and 9 journalists were recently murdered.

Most of this information is from my father, who sent me several mails about the state of the country, entitled “report on Honduras, It sounds absolutely horrendous.”
But the truth is, all this negative publicity is one of the main reasons we go to these countries. To redress some of that bad coverage and give these countries the chance to show what they have to offer for foreign investors. And of course to see them some space in our reports. Keep you posted! Well, tomorrow will be touching down in Tegucigalpa... keep you posted.