"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.
30 Aug 2010
22 Aug 2010
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.
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.
20 Aug 2010
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
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
19 Aug 2010
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
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
2 Aug 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
