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.