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.