The entire region of Central America shares many of the same characteristics - the good and the bad - typified by lush, vibrant, fertile lands, coffee plantations, banana fields, and high sweeping sugar canes that sway in the breeze, casting shadows upon the soil in the afternoon sun.
Natural disasters ravage the land from time to time, their devastating effects leaving the earth fragile and exposed; punishing downpours destroying crops, drowning animals and people and driving the weakest from their homes.
The secret handshakes between spine-tinglingly corrupt politicians, “empresarios” (businessmen) and officials are frequently and firmly exchanged here; the omnipresent threat of drug barons, organized crime, and military coups creating a daily need for backhanders behind closed doors.
Not too far from the cities, men and women with wizened faces and hunched bodies, deep grooves carved into their bones from a life of carrying heavy loads, work the land with ox and plough, machetes, and their bare hands; tough skin thickly formed over their knuckles from picking the cherries off of the ripe coffee plants at harvest time.
In these rural areas the menacing threat of crime that hangs in the air in the streets of the cities like the snaking smoke of a cigarette, is replaced by the ever present devotion and unshaken belief in God, with each greeting beginning and ending with "may god bless you". The small, rundown churches are at full capacity on Sundays and a search on the FM for a radio station will only bring up the "hora de oracion" (hour of prayer).
There are so many common denominators in Central America that the reality is that few people think of coming here to a single country. The lack of direct flights to Honduras and Nicaragua make it logistically expensive and difficult and, if you're going to go so far and invest so much time and money, you may as well spread your interests across the region.
Whether it's an intrepid backpacker following the gringo trail, or a foreign company looking to invest, it makes sense to diversify your risk, maximize your reward and benefit from economies of scale. One regionally integrated law firm that we went to interview conveyed to us that very few investors focus solely on Honduras. In fact Central America was the first geographic area to reach a regional agreement; a model upon which the European Union based its foundations.
All this said, however, each country in Central America has something subtly different to offer, maintaining its own flavour, history, colloquialisms and unique way of preparing tortillas. Crossing the border into El Salvador, somehow you can feel the changes in the air.
The bus set off from Tegucigalpa at the ungodly hour of 6.15. I am so used to being awake at 5am now, when the light streams through the cracks in the door, the windows and the barely-there curtains.
The sky was blood red at the top, merging away into a blush pink and orange, like the grenadine in a tequila sunrise, and the heavily made-up and smiling stewardess served a McDonalds breakfast for each passenger, which turned by stomach in the half light, invading the bus with odours of sausage, egg, and a side of “frijoles” (refried beans; a local variant).
We rumbled along towards the border and, in a state of half awake, half asleep, I barely prized open my tired eyes as we approached the entry point to El Salvador at the crossing of el Amatillo. There was a stream of trucks lined up over the bridge as we pulled into a parking lot and waited for the customs officials to appear.
Not a minute had passed before a beaming attendant with sweet brown eyes, jumped on to the bus, smiling from ear to ear. Clearly amused at the lack of space left in my passport and my incoherent state, he handed me my document and said "bienvenido a El Salvador!" (welcome to El Salvador) winking.
There were people bathing in the river and some women washing clothes, scrubbing on a board, in the dirty water; gas fumes and oil from the trucks seeping into the earth nearby. Dotted about were cheerful-looking, brightly coloured stands and "pupuserias", selling corn cakes with “chicharon” (grated pork), cheese and vegetables.
Just a few kilometres west and the whole look and feel is different. It's more colorful than Honduras. The people, the little stores and even the clothing, shines brighter here with loud pinks and dramatic reds and greens. The North American school buses that are used for local transportation, (chicken buses as they are fondly referred to) are intricately and beautifully painted, decorated with flags, football stickers, music groups, and rosaries, Jesus on the cross and signs saying “God bless this bus”, as they hurtle along the road overtaking round blind bends at breakneck speed.
Postage sized El Salvador seems to be more sure of its identity than its neighbour to the east, with a backdrop of volcanoes, from almost every part, over 20 of which are still active. We progress along the highway towards the capital. The roads are definitely better here. The Minister for Transport and Highways (a swaggeringly tall and physically repulsive man with a roving eye for the ladies) just announced that 80% of Honduras's highways have been damaged this year by the winter rains; some routes so bad that long detours have to be taken round little villages and through gravel roads to get passed collapsed bridges and open voids.
There may be less holes and inherent hazards in El Salvador, but the highways are governed with the same lawlessness as Honduras. We pass a pickup truck bursting with passengers, standing, clinging on to the bars, and hanging off of the back, jiggling up and down. An El Salvadorian taxi, your 20c definitely gets you a bit of an adventure on your way to work.
The same attitude applies as to over taking, really they figure that there is room for 3 or 4 cars along the 2 lane highway; they really don’t seem to understand why it was designed this way; the dodgem car approach is far faster and more entertaining, if you can keep your lunch down. Any random or reckless manoeuvre is permissible as long as you stick your arm out of the window and raise your thumb, accompanied by a wide grin.
The thick green trees are overgrown and spill out into the roads creating arches and a thick, green tunnel of trees. Curious topical fruits - jocote - are on offer at small stands, selling corn and liquados, juices and pupusas, dotted along the side of the road. As we stop at a traffic light, the bus is descended upon by old and young, loud and silent, smiling and sad, all selling goods from platanos to bibles, thrust high towards the bus windows on long poles.
We pass through small villages and more muti-coloured restaurants and cafes, shops and hotels. Three men are sitting under the shade of a corrugated roof, sharing a beer, laughing loudly as one exposes a golden tooth and a cackling laughter that nearly sees him fall off the back of his chair. With their contagious cheerfulness and infectious smiles, it's hard to imagine that this country was ravaged by a bloody civil war for 13 years, followed by a brutal dictatorship.
Listening to the “honk honk” of the brightly coloured bus, as the driver extends his tanned arm out of the window, asking permission to pass, it's also hard to imagine the current and constant threat this country suffers from the "maras" (gangs that divide the city up into zones charging territory fees to protect the businesses and lives of the people that live there; fees which if not paid result in the sounds of gunshots in the night and a naked cadaver uncovered at a street market the following day). Poor and ordinary people that suffer the law of the street on a daily basis.
Just a few weeks ago, one of these buses with its laughing and gentle, kind and welcoming people was stopped and set a blaze by a drug gang. 31 people perished. Burned alive in the melting tar and tearing flames that engulfed the bus, unable to escape. A demonstration of the reckless power of the maras and a sign that human life here has little value.
The population becomes denser and ratio of cows to people, less, as we pull into the outskirts of San Salvador. The sun is high in the sky, an eagle flies over head. A old man with a sombrero tilts it towards me as he catches me gazing. It's only been a few hours, but I already like it here.
15 Oct 2010
12 Oct 2010
Al dejar Tegus
En el aeropuerto pase tanto tiempo en la libreria que me reglaron un libro de poesia. Lo estoy leyendo con lagramias en mis mejillas . No me quiero ir. Me siento que rasque el superficie de este pais. Ya me despego y te dejo atras. Las cicatrices de la tierra de se ven menos prfoundas desde el aire.
Roberto Sosa, Tegucigalpa:
Vivo en un paisaje
donde el tiempo no existe y el oro es manso.
Aqui siempre se es triste sin saberlo.
Nadie conoce el mar
ni l amistad del angel.
Si, yo vivo aqui, o mas bien muero.
Aqui donde la sombra purisima del nino
cae en polvo dela angosta calle
El vuelvo detenido y arriba un cielo que huye.
Roberto Sosa, Tegucigalpa:
Vivo en un paisaje
donde el tiempo no existe y el oro es manso.
Aqui siempre se es triste sin saberlo.
Nadie conoce el mar
ni l amistad del angel.
Si, yo vivo aqui, o mas bien muero.
Aqui donde la sombra purisima del nino
cae en polvo dela angosta calle
El vuelvo detenido y arriba un cielo que huye.
11 Oct 2010
One door closes; another opens
On the bus back from San Salvador to Tegucigalpa they are showing a movie about a plane crash, the night before I fly out of here. I am a ball of emotions. On one hand, I love this part of the world and it breaks my heart to leave this beautiful but troubled country behind. My life is a constant stream of goodbyes. Centroamerica, eres parte de mi corazon y me cuesta dejarte. Esperame que te prometo que vuelva pronto...
23 Sept 2010
Global Apathy, TGI Inspiration, or Just Random Utterances
The usually exaggerated and bordering on ridiculous uniforms at TGI Friday's today seem to have become even more absurd, as the dumpy, charmless waitress with a moustache and fluffy pink tea cosy on her head waddles towards me and asks me what I would like to drink. I inform her that I have recently placed my order with her colleague and a confused look washes over her round face as the stares at me for a while, stammering... "But... they told me to ask you what you wanted."
I am not sure how she wants me to reply, as I smile a little awkwardly and tell her again that I have already been taken care of. The matter remains unresolved as she walks away, scratching her head. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that absurd hat with the knee high socks and braces must be in this tropical heat.
I think there must be some kind of a TGI system in place that neither the staff nor the customers are entirely clear on. To begin with, the fact that 90% of the time there are more staff than customers for me, raises the first flag, although I have to confess that this evening, this tacky, bright, loud and arduous place is actually reasonably full.
As far as I can deduce from my few visits here (I am somewhat hostage to TGI Friday's, being the only place within walking distance- although not recommendedly so - and half a ratchet above Pizza Hut) all the staff have varying and separate roles. Some greet, others serve, some stand dreamily starting out the windows and the rest I think are there for show. But it throws this little hierarchy in to confusion if you ask someone who isn't your designated server for something unexpected. I think that was the problem today; the receptionist who led me to my table asked what I would like to drink, thus bypassing a couple of steps in the ladder and getting above her station.
It is curious that this place of excessive loudness, waitresses with florescent uniforms, bright lights, screaming babies, inflated prices and a menu as wide as a phone book with absolutely nothing appealing on it (even the salads are dripping in BBQ sauce or three kinds of cheeses) should be my chosen place of refuge.
A large crowd of staff with dozens of buttons on their braces and tambourines in hand, gather at the table behind me and begin stamping, singing, clapping and rattling their instruments in a deafening, head-splitting racket. I am a little perplexed as I try to deduce their words, assuming that it is a birthday party or something. Yet it is a strange song I don't recognize and I wonder if it is a TGI policy perhaps for when someone orders a certain dish; fajita fever or triple jack burger, or something along these lines.
Groups of happily chattering diners surround me and to my left, a couple with a baby bouncing up and down on the table. I think I am the only person in the world that would go to TGI Friday’s looking for solitude, dining alone; writing.
Yet somewhere within this multi-coloured hyperbole and mayhem of blaring TV screens and 80's music, combined with kids screaming and spontaneous singing outbursts, I find a kind of find peace. It's almost as if in this peculiar place, all the conflicting noises, thoughts and ideas that race through my brain constantly, never allowing me to unwind, spill out here, like a Dali painting.
I observe the painfully slow waitress, as she returns to my table without my order. I have been developing a theory recently, or perhaps just assuming to an existing one; the brain functions something alike the body; if you don't exercise it then it will quickly become out of shape. Running from one meeting to another; one office after the next, all filled with vacuous assistants staring at the wall, at each other, at their nails, or (the ones with half a spark) at facebook, incapable of forming real sentences, or answering a simple question.
This tidal wave of brain deadness is not limited to here by any means; it is a pandemic that seems to run throughout societies and any government run institution in any country in the world. This little joke might upset some of you, but still makes me chuckle - “Question: What do you get if you have 100 lesbians and 100 civil servants in the same room? Answer- 200 people ain’t doin' dick”.
If the most challenging things you read in a day are the instructions to opening a carton of milk and the highest culture you have access to is the telenovela (or in England, the soap opera) I suppose it's only logical that your brain correspondingly, literally slows down to the intellectual pace you are working at. It isn’t just about natural born intelligence, but a cultivated, degenerative decrease in brain wave activity.
"Eso no es normal, eso no es normal" (this isn't normal) stresses Anko, the little muscle in the side of his jaw pulsing in and out as he begins to get agitated at repeating his last name 6 times, or as we wait 45 minutes in reception before it occurs to anyone to inform us that the boss is actually out of the country.
This widespread lack of common sense, intelligence, ignorance, or however you wish to call it is, as I said, certainly not limited to Honduras. In England I have been asked how I liked Africa when I said that I had just come back from Nicaragua, or when talking about Thailand, asked if I had "walked the Inca trail".
I have been served by petulant, po-faced, disinterested shop assistants, busy texting their boyfriends, staring daggers at me for deigning to disturb them to seek assistance. In the Western World it is a whole movement of people blatantly disinterested in what is going on in the world of others around them.
In Honduras, I think, a huge factor is the sweeping divide between the rich and the poor and the low standards of education available. In a country where most have to fight on a daily basis to feed their family, they simply don't have the opportunity to go to, or let their children go, to school. Lilian, the single mother I met on a bus travelling south had to drop out at 13 when she ran away from home from an abusive brother and alcoholic father, to work in a melon plantation. With an average per person of 5 years spent in education and an unemployment rate of almost 30% it’s a constant struggle.
This is a fertile and breathtakingly beautiful land, with coffee, bananas, tobacco, minerals, and tourism destinations - everything the country needs to be progressive and abundant -all in the hands of a few rich and powerful families.
Some of the quotes of the week for me definitely came from our meeting yesterday, as the subject of security problems in Honduras arouse. Waving a Bvlgari adorned wrist, our interviewee disclosed that her family was not "showy" unlike some (and she dropped names) that went everywhere with 5 bodyguards, grotesquely displaying their wealth. She personally had only two (both trained in martial arts and body combat and, of course, fully armed - but just two).
She continued enthusiastically, widening her eyes adding that, as a self proclaimed lefty, "look at all the poverty here; frankly it's just tacky to spend your money in front of these people. At least have the decency to go abroad, to the States or somewhere and spend your money there". I find myself nodding in agreement, as I tend to do during these shallow encounters, and leave scratching my head. Would it not be better off for the country is she were less considerate and at least circulated her wealth on Honduran soil?
On more than one occasional we have heard CEOs of companies proudly declaring that they don't hire any doctors/lawyers/managers who haven't studied abroad and preferably in the United States. It struck me as ironic that the rectors of all 5 of the Universities that we went to, both private and public, waxed lyric for an hour about the quality of higher education in the country, only to purse their lips and frown at the question of whether their children studied there. "Of course not!" was always the answer; their children are educated overseas.
Well I certainly am not in a position to speak about standards of higher education here, or in any country for that matter, and I certainly wouldn't recommend either of the Universities I went to. I can only go by what I see and hear. Carla, a tourism student who works part time as a waitress in one of the places I sometimes go to eat, sent me some of her work to help me with my research. Although the subject matter is solid and the overall article interesting, it is written with the most shockingly bad grammar possible; and graded without correction by University professors. I am not even a native Spanish speaker and yet the errors gaped out at me from the page like the chasms in the highway.
I see the waitress hovering nearby with the bill and realize that I have written a lot. In some deep, dark place inside of me, I secretly like TGI Friday’s. I can snuggle myself away in a corner booth and conduct my own little social experiment.
I am not sure how she wants me to reply, as I smile a little awkwardly and tell her again that I have already been taken care of. The matter remains unresolved as she walks away, scratching her head. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that absurd hat with the knee high socks and braces must be in this tropical heat.
I think there must be some kind of a TGI system in place that neither the staff nor the customers are entirely clear on. To begin with, the fact that 90% of the time there are more staff than customers for me, raises the first flag, although I have to confess that this evening, this tacky, bright, loud and arduous place is actually reasonably full.
As far as I can deduce from my few visits here (I am somewhat hostage to TGI Friday's, being the only place within walking distance- although not recommendedly so - and half a ratchet above Pizza Hut) all the staff have varying and separate roles. Some greet, others serve, some stand dreamily starting out the windows and the rest I think are there for show. But it throws this little hierarchy in to confusion if you ask someone who isn't your designated server for something unexpected. I think that was the problem today; the receptionist who led me to my table asked what I would like to drink, thus bypassing a couple of steps in the ladder and getting above her station.
It is curious that this place of excessive loudness, waitresses with florescent uniforms, bright lights, screaming babies, inflated prices and a menu as wide as a phone book with absolutely nothing appealing on it (even the salads are dripping in BBQ sauce or three kinds of cheeses) should be my chosen place of refuge.
A large crowd of staff with dozens of buttons on their braces and tambourines in hand, gather at the table behind me and begin stamping, singing, clapping and rattling their instruments in a deafening, head-splitting racket. I am a little perplexed as I try to deduce their words, assuming that it is a birthday party or something. Yet it is a strange song I don't recognize and I wonder if it is a TGI policy perhaps for when someone orders a certain dish; fajita fever or triple jack burger, or something along these lines.
Groups of happily chattering diners surround me and to my left, a couple with a baby bouncing up and down on the table. I think I am the only person in the world that would go to TGI Friday’s looking for solitude, dining alone; writing.
Yet somewhere within this multi-coloured hyperbole and mayhem of blaring TV screens and 80's music, combined with kids screaming and spontaneous singing outbursts, I find a kind of find peace. It's almost as if in this peculiar place, all the conflicting noises, thoughts and ideas that race through my brain constantly, never allowing me to unwind, spill out here, like a Dali painting.
I observe the painfully slow waitress, as she returns to my table without my order. I have been developing a theory recently, or perhaps just assuming to an existing one; the brain functions something alike the body; if you don't exercise it then it will quickly become out of shape. Running from one meeting to another; one office after the next, all filled with vacuous assistants staring at the wall, at each other, at their nails, or (the ones with half a spark) at facebook, incapable of forming real sentences, or answering a simple question.
This tidal wave of brain deadness is not limited to here by any means; it is a pandemic that seems to run throughout societies and any government run institution in any country in the world. This little joke might upset some of you, but still makes me chuckle - “Question: What do you get if you have 100 lesbians and 100 civil servants in the same room? Answer- 200 people ain’t doin' dick”.
If the most challenging things you read in a day are the instructions to opening a carton of milk and the highest culture you have access to is the telenovela (or in England, the soap opera) I suppose it's only logical that your brain correspondingly, literally slows down to the intellectual pace you are working at. It isn’t just about natural born intelligence, but a cultivated, degenerative decrease in brain wave activity.
"Eso no es normal, eso no es normal" (this isn't normal) stresses Anko, the little muscle in the side of his jaw pulsing in and out as he begins to get agitated at repeating his last name 6 times, or as we wait 45 minutes in reception before it occurs to anyone to inform us that the boss is actually out of the country.
This widespread lack of common sense, intelligence, ignorance, or however you wish to call it is, as I said, certainly not limited to Honduras. In England I have been asked how I liked Africa when I said that I had just come back from Nicaragua, or when talking about Thailand, asked if I had "walked the Inca trail".
I have been served by petulant, po-faced, disinterested shop assistants, busy texting their boyfriends, staring daggers at me for deigning to disturb them to seek assistance. In the Western World it is a whole movement of people blatantly disinterested in what is going on in the world of others around them.
In Honduras, I think, a huge factor is the sweeping divide between the rich and the poor and the low standards of education available. In a country where most have to fight on a daily basis to feed their family, they simply don't have the opportunity to go to, or let their children go, to school. Lilian, the single mother I met on a bus travelling south had to drop out at 13 when she ran away from home from an abusive brother and alcoholic father, to work in a melon plantation. With an average per person of 5 years spent in education and an unemployment rate of almost 30% it’s a constant struggle.
This is a fertile and breathtakingly beautiful land, with coffee, bananas, tobacco, minerals, and tourism destinations - everything the country needs to be progressive and abundant -all in the hands of a few rich and powerful families.
Some of the quotes of the week for me definitely came from our meeting yesterday, as the subject of security problems in Honduras arouse. Waving a Bvlgari adorned wrist, our interviewee disclosed that her family was not "showy" unlike some (and she dropped names) that went everywhere with 5 bodyguards, grotesquely displaying their wealth. She personally had only two (both trained in martial arts and body combat and, of course, fully armed - but just two).
She continued enthusiastically, widening her eyes adding that, as a self proclaimed lefty, "look at all the poverty here; frankly it's just tacky to spend your money in front of these people. At least have the decency to go abroad, to the States or somewhere and spend your money there". I find myself nodding in agreement, as I tend to do during these shallow encounters, and leave scratching my head. Would it not be better off for the country is she were less considerate and at least circulated her wealth on Honduran soil?
On more than one occasional we have heard CEOs of companies proudly declaring that they don't hire any doctors/lawyers/managers who haven't studied abroad and preferably in the United States. It struck me as ironic that the rectors of all 5 of the Universities that we went to, both private and public, waxed lyric for an hour about the quality of higher education in the country, only to purse their lips and frown at the question of whether their children studied there. "Of course not!" was always the answer; their children are educated overseas.
Well I certainly am not in a position to speak about standards of higher education here, or in any country for that matter, and I certainly wouldn't recommend either of the Universities I went to. I can only go by what I see and hear. Carla, a tourism student who works part time as a waitress in one of the places I sometimes go to eat, sent me some of her work to help me with my research. Although the subject matter is solid and the overall article interesting, it is written with the most shockingly bad grammar possible; and graded without correction by University professors. I am not even a native Spanish speaker and yet the errors gaped out at me from the page like the chasms in the highway.
I see the waitress hovering nearby with the bill and realize that I have written a lot. In some deep, dark place inside of me, I secretly like TGI Friday’s. I can snuggle myself away in a corner booth and conduct my own little social experiment.
21 Sept 2010
Rainy Season Begins
Day suddenly becomes night as the thick black clouds envelope the city and the rumbling thunder breaks into an ear-shattering crash. The wind begins to gather force and, almost without warning, the rain starts to pound down hard on the frail roof of the restaurant, blowing in from all sides, soaking us within seconds, as we scramble for our things, shrieking loudly, running down the stairs and under cover.
A ray of lightning collides against the earth a few meters away, shaking the building in its wrath and the restaurant falls into darkness as the electricity short circuits across the neighbourhood. The unrelenting force of the storm is deafening and it is hard to maintain our conversation as we sit in the semi darkness that has descended upon us at midday.
The claps and flashes begin to pass over the city and away and we order the bill and walk towards the car, the gushing water flooding towards the over spilling drains and the fallen debris scattered about the street. Our driver has the radio on and we find out that one of the walls of the national stadium nearby has collapsed with full force on top of a taxi stand, killing one driver instantly and wounding several others.
Winds of up to 60k an hour teamed with violent thunder and an electric force in all its glory hit the stadium without pity and the wall disintegrated into a fountain of dust and brick. Trees, rocks and branches have fallen all over the city and many areas have been left without power.
My heart fills with trepidation as I think of all the desperately poor people in their fragile houses, one atop of another, so vulnerable to mudslides with their weak foundations and precarious structures. The rainy season has begun in full force and this city is extremely exposed.
Tegucigalpa, "city of the mines" is (if you listen to the most pessimistic accounts) on the point of collapse. The current capital developed due the precious stones that were abundant in this area, and the huge potential of the mineral industry. People flocked here from across the country to work the mines and the city expanded at an unimaginable pace, sprawling out across the hills. Construction upon construction of dilapidated and badly put together dwellings place ever more weight upon a fragile surface above underground rivers, caves, and mines, providing a horrifyingly weak base.
It was only recently recognized that this city also lies on top of a hotbed of seismic activity, that’s small but regular shocks are evidenced in the zigzagging cracks in the streets that run in the same direction.
According to some, it is literally a question of time before Tegucigalpa crumbles into the ground, as the fragile earth cannot take the weight of the buildings, the rain, the traffic and the people. Weak at its very foundation; a honeycomb of hollow earth beneath, the roads regularly bubble up into holes and even collapse completely, and houses slide down the hills towards the river.
I pray that today's battering won't leave too many scars, but there is little hope of things getting better before they get worse as hurricane season begins. Why is it always those who have the least that have to lose the most?
Christina Comben
A ray of lightning collides against the earth a few meters away, shaking the building in its wrath and the restaurant falls into darkness as the electricity short circuits across the neighbourhood. The unrelenting force of the storm is deafening and it is hard to maintain our conversation as we sit in the semi darkness that has descended upon us at midday.
The claps and flashes begin to pass over the city and away and we order the bill and walk towards the car, the gushing water flooding towards the over spilling drains and the fallen debris scattered about the street. Our driver has the radio on and we find out that one of the walls of the national stadium nearby has collapsed with full force on top of a taxi stand, killing one driver instantly and wounding several others.
Winds of up to 60k an hour teamed with violent thunder and an electric force in all its glory hit the stadium without pity and the wall disintegrated into a fountain of dust and brick. Trees, rocks and branches have fallen all over the city and many areas have been left without power.
My heart fills with trepidation as I think of all the desperately poor people in their fragile houses, one atop of another, so vulnerable to mudslides with their weak foundations and precarious structures. The rainy season has begun in full force and this city is extremely exposed.
Tegucigalpa, "city of the mines" is (if you listen to the most pessimistic accounts) on the point of collapse. The current capital developed due the precious stones that were abundant in this area, and the huge potential of the mineral industry. People flocked here from across the country to work the mines and the city expanded at an unimaginable pace, sprawling out across the hills. Construction upon construction of dilapidated and badly put together dwellings place ever more weight upon a fragile surface above underground rivers, caves, and mines, providing a horrifyingly weak base.
It was only recently recognized that this city also lies on top of a hotbed of seismic activity, that’s small but regular shocks are evidenced in the zigzagging cracks in the streets that run in the same direction.
According to some, it is literally a question of time before Tegucigalpa crumbles into the ground, as the fragile earth cannot take the weight of the buildings, the rain, the traffic and the people. Weak at its very foundation; a honeycomb of hollow earth beneath, the roads regularly bubble up into holes and even collapse completely, and houses slide down the hills towards the river.
I pray that today's battering won't leave too many scars, but there is little hope of things getting better before they get worse as hurricane season begins. Why is it always those who have the least that have to lose the most?
Christina Comben
20 Sept 2010
Sopa de Mondongo
We stand in line, container in hand, waiting to buy the family lunch. Large clay surfaces with wooden fires below sustain heavy cauldrons of burning soup. I look around and exchange a grin with a little girl in a faded pink dress, shuffling from one foot to the other. She smiles at me coyly as she retreats behind her father's legs and then peeps one eye out to look at me again. Sonia greets the people that she knows - a warm exchange between extended family - and friends that have been absent for a while. Queuing up at this little business with red brick walls and a corrugated iron roof is a Sunday tradition in Choluteca.
An extremely overweight lady with thick folds in her arms and neck, has a ladle in her hand, an orange tunic covering her large form and a vibrant violet T-shit underneath. She dishes up large servings of sopa de mondongo (tripe soup). Beads of sweat form on her forehead, as she wipes her brow and rubs her hand across her apron. It's brain drainingly hot-35 degrees of heat with a humidity that literally sucks you towards the earth - and this awesome lady is standing above a cauldron of piping hot soup.
Enormous vats of this elaborate dish simmer and spit from the fire underneath. Her face lights up as she greets every new customer in line, reserving a special hug and kiss for Sonia. It amuses her and her helpers that I take photos of what is for them, the most normal event in the world. They stand back so I can snap a shot of the bubbling pot in its entirety, giggling between themselves at this curious foreigner with pale skin and a camera in her hand.
There are flocks of people patiently waiting to collect their lunch and the seamless coordination and agility of service is impressive. This is a well-run business with each and every ration carefully complemented with an extra cob of corn here; a handful of spicy vegetables there, or a pinch of salt and pepper atop the slippery texture of the intestines. Sopa de Mondongo, bubbling hot. Just another Sunday in this sleepy corner of the globe.
An extremely overweight lady with thick folds in her arms and neck, has a ladle in her hand, an orange tunic covering her large form and a vibrant violet T-shit underneath. She dishes up large servings of sopa de mondongo (tripe soup). Beads of sweat form on her forehead, as she wipes her brow and rubs her hand across her apron. It's brain drainingly hot-35 degrees of heat with a humidity that literally sucks you towards the earth - and this awesome lady is standing above a cauldron of piping hot soup.
Enormous vats of this elaborate dish simmer and spit from the fire underneath. Her face lights up as she greets every new customer in line, reserving a special hug and kiss for Sonia. It amuses her and her helpers that I take photos of what is for them, the most normal event in the world. They stand back so I can snap a shot of the bubbling pot in its entirety, giggling between themselves at this curious foreigner with pale skin and a camera in her hand.
There are flocks of people patiently waiting to collect their lunch and the seamless coordination and agility of service is impressive. This is a well-run business with each and every ration carefully complemented with an extra cob of corn here; a handful of spicy vegetables there, or a pinch of salt and pepper atop the slippery texture of the intestines. Sopa de Mondongo, bubbling hot. Just another Sunday in this sleepy corner of the globe.
15 Sept 2010
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
