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