Don't cross the Line

Sitting on the step with pen in hand I find it hard to express how I feel. It's been such a hectic week. I feel like I'm on a high speed train accelerating through a tunnel. A frenetic pace that had me nearly vomiting from fear and exhaustion at times. Most days the alarm went off at 6, although my eyes were already wide open and heart pounding long before its shrill tones pierced the air.

One night we started our last meeting late and had to drive around in the dark looking for a coffee factory in one of Latin America's infamously most dangerous cities. Banging upon the gates of an apparently derelict facility, that were opened finally by security guards with eye-openingly large guns. I walked into that meeting legs quivering with nerves; I wasn't sure that they would support me as I shook hands and introduced myself.

The first day we arrived in San Pedro Sula there was a massacre in a shoe factory. Assassins armed with AK47s just went in and brutally murdered 18 people, apparently without motive. Although that is not entirely clear. It's generally accepted that crime here isn't so random; more often than not it takes place between gangs, over territories, because of drugs disputes or settling accounts. This is a part of the world where life is cheap, particularly if you mix with the wrong people. A place where you can pay a hit man to finish someone who has crossed you for a 100 dollars or less, or where sheer desperation may lead to a killing over a cell phone.

Although this city has clearly marked zones that are simply no go at all times. You don't "cross the line" - about two blocks from the central plaza - unless you want to get yourself in trouble.

You see a bit of everything here. Going out for dinner, the parking lots are full and yet there are hardly any diners inside the restaurant. Many people circulate with their own personal security system at all times and have their bodyguards waiting for them outside. Crime might be mostly organized, but you also hear about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We met so many people this week; some of the richest and most powerful in the country. One entrepreneur with his own island, houses all over the world and more money than he knows what to do with. One of our interviewees died before we could see him, although through natural causes; he was 80 years old and still worked a full day every day. Helicopters flocked into the city from all parts of the country to attend his funeral. He was one of Honduras' most respected and influential figures; a man who created an entire sector and who continued to dominate the textile industry until his death.

Of course it's all relative. If you maintain a low profile, keep your car doors locked and don't cross the line you should be fine. As this ridiculously wealthy businessman told us; he goes everywhere in the city without any problem, even below the line, to visit one of his stores; security really isn't such an issue here. We felt better until we left his office and he accompanied us, on the way to the funeral, jumping into an armoured car with two bodyguards in front and a second van full of guards with guns trailing him out of the car park.

I won't mention any names. Honduras just became the second most dangerous country in the world for journalists, after Mexico and before Pakistan, with 9 deaths in the industry this year, and the shutting down of an important independent news channel last week. Although it’s certainly true that you can create a kind of hysteria that is rather exaggerated if you get caught up in the sensationalist headlines.

This has been a crazy experience. We've seen and heard stories of corruption that make your hair stand on end. I regularly finish my day in tears; or laughing incessantly until my sides hurt over a beer and with new friends, looking at the lighter side of this madness. I don't think I have ever been through so many extreme lows and highs in my life since I started this job.

A coconut thudding from a tree in the distance shakes me from my thoughts, and I remember where I am. Try as I might, I can't shake the overwhelming intensity of this week. The rainforest hums, the Caribbean glistens under the moonlight and I breathe deeply, at last some sort of peace falls over me. I just try to block out the fact that somewhere in the distance people are being killed, giant laboratories buried deep in the jungle are fabricating illegal drugs and weapons are being smuggled across the borders.

The ministry of tourism's official slogan is "Honduras; todo esta aqui" (everything is here). Nothing could be closer to the truth. This chaos with crumbling cities, streets with deep cracks like wide open veins and constant poverty at every turn, is balanced out with a people so warm that they melt your heart, a tropical climate, beaches to die for and fried fish that you eat with your hands, topped with juicy jalapenos. My oh my, beyond doubt, everything is here.

Christina Comben