Cars parked on all sides of the road:
Here are what the lines looked like, from different angles:
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Phase II Tug of War
Phase II: Tug of War; 21 Sept 2009
The return of Mel Zelaya came as his departure did: “like a thief in the night” just as he and his ‘Savior’ said it would be. Though at this point, he and so many had cried wolf that the general population barely moved when the news trickled down to their own social ripple, some still faithfully deeming true whatever their new interim government sells them. If Micheletti blatantly lies to save face, as is common in Honduras, stating Mel Zelaya is not in Honduras until live news casts force him to admit it, those wanting “Peace and Democracy” have no other option but to believe it. Once his presence was confirmed as fact, the shock, sheer unbelief and surprise of ‘how in the hell did he do that?´ found a hard time settling in.
I found out, once again, by people who expected I already knew, through a text message a friend showed me that said, “Get out ¨Golpistas¨(Coup-ers) Long Live the Resistance!” common slogans used by Mel´s resistance crew that had been graffitied all over key city buildings and once aesthetically pleasing structures all over the city.
Mel had attempted to return the 5th of July on an airplane which could not land due to army tanks taking over the runway. On the 25th of July he proved he could in fact enter Honduras by quickly crossing over the Nicaragua border to the spot where it said “Welcome to Honduras” rallied around his support and went back to his asylum stationed country. This 21st of September entry. however, was an infamous feat that the grown sleepy by inaction armed forces didn´t expect. He says he walked fifteen hours ´through rivers and mountains´ through El Salvador with his crew to the smoggy capital of Honduras to reinstate his reign.
“Come on, you actually believe that,” a client of the community center where I work remarks,
“ He was driven in a private car.”
“He explained the way he crossed the border to news sources,” an animated coworker, Alan, explains.
“He said he shot out a prayer as he crossed, and a mighty wind moved through the pines, causing them to bend and make a big noise. So the soldiers turned, and focused their attention on the pines, and Mel Zelaya and crew could cross, unnoticed. He said it was a miracle…” Alan´s audience, over-devout Christians who thought it comical and ironic for any Honduran political figure to summon upon God and claim divine intervention, exploded.
“He was quoting a verse in Isaiah,” Marvin added, “Something about how God is always with you.”
Tickled, the office folk transitioned into a description of Mel´s current state where he decided to announce his return and is now sequestered, at the Brazilian embassy.
“Nobody can bring food in, they cut off the water, electricity, phone lines, he might as well be in prison.” Johnny reflected.
“They say a Venezuelan plane came in later,” Alan continued, “They came with Hugo Chavez, checked up on him and the plane left.”
A more left leaning newspaper, El Tiempo, which temporarily and often, was an ‘unreachable domain’ online, stated on behalf of Hugo Chavez, “We are behind you Mel, the Venezuelan army is ready to fight.”
Chavez´s close relationship with Manuel Zelaya has now become common knowledge, out in the open, so much, that Mel called Hugo Chavez´s cell phone when he arrived at the Brazilian embassy while Chavez was at an inauguration of a computer program for kids. Chavez was proud to announce to the audience Mel´s arrival in Honduras, to which most applauded. Chavez said he would be in Honduras to meet and discuss with other leaders the next day. It was as if they had planned it, and now only receiving pre-determined signals to know which move to make next.
Ecstatic about his return, Mel supporters rallied around the Brazilian embassy and extended their celebration into the streets, where a second grade student claimed they were charging a 100 Lempira ($5) fine to all who passed by at around 1:00p.m, when all the action was unfolding. This particular driver of this van of school children refused to pay the fine, and was eventually, strangely and gratefully passed through.
In predictable grip tightening fashion, Roberto Micheletti swiftly set a curfew (be at home or at least in your neighborhood) for 4:00pm at 3:30pm. The stated aim, “keep peace and prevent possible violence”. The hidden aim, “keep all Mel supporters from organizing and create a legitimate reason to punish them for doing so.” No action or dialogue even pursued much less resolved, Mel Zelaya still in the Brazilian embassy, Micheletti extended the curfew to 6am the next (Tuesday September 22) morning, and when that still wasn´t long enough extended it to 6pm Tuesday evening apparently that wasn´t long enough, so they extended it until 6am and then 6pm Wednesday.
On Tuesday morning, the from five am to seven pm bustling bus terminal was wanting of aggressive sing-songy sales pitches by cobradors and competing taxi drivers and the vehicles that made their shouts possible. The only vehicles seen were BMX bikes undersized for their owner doing figure eights and attempts at jumps, taking full advantage of their new found traffic free space. These were accompanied by the occasional motorcycle and the stagnant morning vegetable and afternoon cheese trucks. These determined to make a buck vendors join these pre-gang misfits in lounging with the news radio on full blast, simultaneously chiding them and all those within earshot to be astute and aware of the latest move of the dueling
presidents.
Upon nightfall, across the still vacant terminal at Nueva Suyapa´s own mini-market central, the owner is faced with the dual task of trying to sell his products while avoiding going scarce on the routinely delivered ones. His two co-workers/family members efficiently, professionally and hurriedly receive orders and collect products to be given to customers, shuffling through dirty bills and running to the cash stash to return change. They do this all with candles, as the routine crisis time power outage has lasted longer this night.
“The truck of products was due to come today; but with the situation like this, they wouldn’t let anybody go out of their prospective colonias to get anything or anybody come in to deliver anything.” He apologized to merchandise-hungry customers with a spelunking flashlight strapped to his forehead in the electricity starved dark.
“I heard they were even forcing some businesses to close downtown.” He explained to me after the ravenous crowd had left.
“Soon people are going to start raiding the stores. With all of this rising uncertainty, they’re going to get scared that they won’t be able to get food when they need it so they’re going to stock up.”
“Those who suffer are the people, while these guys sit around and decide whether or not to have dialogue,” He rightfully complains.
As I walked from one of the always stocked product depleting pulperias to the next, the dust packed road was almost empty, allowing it to haze into the city-plagued darkness above.
Pulperia #2, unlike #1, had candles for sale.
There, an old man with more gaps than browning teeth sprayed through them,
“32 injured at the Brazilian embassy off to Hospital Escuela. But, then again, those protestors, hooligans on both sides really, being paid off, and then when the police crackdown, eh, well, that is just another level of thug.”
Right before my eyes were the visible signs of “the people” growing disgruntled and losing faith in a “Honduras for Peace and Democracy”.
Many of them were behind and in front of me in the 65 person line at the pharmacy on Wednesday, when, due to all over outrage with the 30 hour curfew (toca de queda), that a local pro-interim government newspaper called a “toca de hambre” (Hunger Curfew), the interim government saw it necessary to give Hondurans at least a window to shop: between 10am and 4pm. Unsure of when this chance would come again, afraid the current government was going to continue to grip so tight their nails would start digging into the country, everyone that had the resources went out, waited in 500 people grocery store lines and bought. The parking lots to malls and grocery stores couldn’t fit the demand of parking space, nor the grocery stores themselves fit the customers, hence the lines. Gas stations and banks echoed in similar chaos. When we asked for a handful of money, the amount of $US1,500, the bank teller told us we had to wait for the money truck to come, which at 10:30a.m was just filling up.
“I never thought anything like this would ever happen my country. Never in my country!! Look at this craziness!!” Said an outraged middle aged woman waiting to buy her medicine whose teenage daughter, having apparently heard the spiel many a time before had contracted a sickness of her own that involved repetitive sighing.
“All because of these two power hungry men, who act like they need all of our freedom and money, we have to do crazy things like rush to the store all at the same time, wait in line, hoard what we can find,” she raised decibels, which inspired eye rolling in the already annoyed.
“Puppets, that’s all we are to them, being tossed and manipulated to their very whim. Is this entertaining to them? Their own sick form of fun!” she continues, defiant and pokerfaced to her daughter’s poor attempt at indirect communication.
Her daughters disease was not the only one newly infected, as booked psychologists and psychiatrists can testify and a rise in assaults and murders has displayed.
“The next step is a military state,” a friend informs me, “first comes the coup, then comes the curfew then the military state,” says one who has lived through the horrific transition from democracy to a dictatorship.
“I remember exactly how it was in the late 70’s, nobody is allowed to leave their house even within their own colonia or allowed to buy anything, like being under a country wide house arrest.”
And that is how it had already begun to feel, as, days later, Roberto Micheletti suspends a slew of civil liberties, including freedoms of the press and of assembly, an accustomed to various levels of abuse population braces themselves for the next blow, not even blinking as they crawl on the ground searching for their candles and matches on the eve of the 50th ‘unplanned’ power outage.
The return of Mel Zelaya came as his departure did: “like a thief in the night” just as he and his ‘Savior’ said it would be. Though at this point, he and so many had cried wolf that the general population barely moved when the news trickled down to their own social ripple, some still faithfully deeming true whatever their new interim government sells them. If Micheletti blatantly lies to save face, as is common in Honduras, stating Mel Zelaya is not in Honduras until live news casts force him to admit it, those wanting “Peace and Democracy” have no other option but to believe it. Once his presence was confirmed as fact, the shock, sheer unbelief and surprise of ‘how in the hell did he do that?´ found a hard time settling in.
I found out, once again, by people who expected I already knew, through a text message a friend showed me that said, “Get out ¨Golpistas¨(Coup-ers) Long Live the Resistance!” common slogans used by Mel´s resistance crew that had been graffitied all over key city buildings and once aesthetically pleasing structures all over the city.
Mel had attempted to return the 5th of July on an airplane which could not land due to army tanks taking over the runway. On the 25th of July he proved he could in fact enter Honduras by quickly crossing over the Nicaragua border to the spot where it said “Welcome to Honduras” rallied around his support and went back to his asylum stationed country. This 21st of September entry. however, was an infamous feat that the grown sleepy by inaction armed forces didn´t expect. He says he walked fifteen hours ´through rivers and mountains´ through El Salvador with his crew to the smoggy capital of Honduras to reinstate his reign.
“Come on, you actually believe that,” a client of the community center where I work remarks,
“ He was driven in a private car.”
“He explained the way he crossed the border to news sources,” an animated coworker, Alan, explains.
“He said he shot out a prayer as he crossed, and a mighty wind moved through the pines, causing them to bend and make a big noise. So the soldiers turned, and focused their attention on the pines, and Mel Zelaya and crew could cross, unnoticed. He said it was a miracle…” Alan´s audience, over-devout Christians who thought it comical and ironic for any Honduran political figure to summon upon God and claim divine intervention, exploded.
“He was quoting a verse in Isaiah,” Marvin added, “Something about how God is always with you.”
Tickled, the office folk transitioned into a description of Mel´s current state where he decided to announce his return and is now sequestered, at the Brazilian embassy.
“Nobody can bring food in, they cut off the water, electricity, phone lines, he might as well be in prison.” Johnny reflected.
“They say a Venezuelan plane came in later,” Alan continued, “They came with Hugo Chavez, checked up on him and the plane left.”
A more left leaning newspaper, El Tiempo, which temporarily and often, was an ‘unreachable domain’ online, stated on behalf of Hugo Chavez, “We are behind you Mel, the Venezuelan army is ready to fight.”
Chavez´s close relationship with Manuel Zelaya has now become common knowledge, out in the open, so much, that Mel called Hugo Chavez´s cell phone when he arrived at the Brazilian embassy while Chavez was at an inauguration of a computer program for kids. Chavez was proud to announce to the audience Mel´s arrival in Honduras, to which most applauded. Chavez said he would be in Honduras to meet and discuss with other leaders the next day. It was as if they had planned it, and now only receiving pre-determined signals to know which move to make next.
Ecstatic about his return, Mel supporters rallied around the Brazilian embassy and extended their celebration into the streets, where a second grade student claimed they were charging a 100 Lempira ($5) fine to all who passed by at around 1:00p.m, when all the action was unfolding. This particular driver of this van of school children refused to pay the fine, and was eventually, strangely and gratefully passed through.
In predictable grip tightening fashion, Roberto Micheletti swiftly set a curfew (be at home or at least in your neighborhood) for 4:00pm at 3:30pm. The stated aim, “keep peace and prevent possible violence”. The hidden aim, “keep all Mel supporters from organizing and create a legitimate reason to punish them for doing so.” No action or dialogue even pursued much less resolved, Mel Zelaya still in the Brazilian embassy, Micheletti extended the curfew to 6am the next (Tuesday September 22) morning, and when that still wasn´t long enough extended it to 6pm Tuesday evening apparently that wasn´t long enough, so they extended it until 6am and then 6pm Wednesday.
On Tuesday morning, the from five am to seven pm bustling bus terminal was wanting of aggressive sing-songy sales pitches by cobradors and competing taxi drivers and the vehicles that made their shouts possible. The only vehicles seen were BMX bikes undersized for their owner doing figure eights and attempts at jumps, taking full advantage of their new found traffic free space. These were accompanied by the occasional motorcycle and the stagnant morning vegetable and afternoon cheese trucks. These determined to make a buck vendors join these pre-gang misfits in lounging with the news radio on full blast, simultaneously chiding them and all those within earshot to be astute and aware of the latest move of the dueling
presidents.
Upon nightfall, across the still vacant terminal at Nueva Suyapa´s own mini-market central, the owner is faced with the dual task of trying to sell his products while avoiding going scarce on the routinely delivered ones. His two co-workers/family members efficiently, professionally and hurriedly receive orders and collect products to be given to customers, shuffling through dirty bills and running to the cash stash to return change. They do this all with candles, as the routine crisis time power outage has lasted longer this night.
“The truck of products was due to come today; but with the situation like this, they wouldn’t let anybody go out of their prospective colonias to get anything or anybody come in to deliver anything.” He apologized to merchandise-hungry customers with a spelunking flashlight strapped to his forehead in the electricity starved dark.
“I heard they were even forcing some businesses to close downtown.” He explained to me after the ravenous crowd had left.
“Soon people are going to start raiding the stores. With all of this rising uncertainty, they’re going to get scared that they won’t be able to get food when they need it so they’re going to stock up.”
“Those who suffer are the people, while these guys sit around and decide whether or not to have dialogue,” He rightfully complains.
As I walked from one of the always stocked product depleting pulperias to the next, the dust packed road was almost empty, allowing it to haze into the city-plagued darkness above.
Pulperia #2, unlike #1, had candles for sale.
There, an old man with more gaps than browning teeth sprayed through them,
“32 injured at the Brazilian embassy off to Hospital Escuela. But, then again, those protestors, hooligans on both sides really, being paid off, and then when the police crackdown, eh, well, that is just another level of thug.”
Right before my eyes were the visible signs of “the people” growing disgruntled and losing faith in a “Honduras for Peace and Democracy”.
Many of them were behind and in front of me in the 65 person line at the pharmacy on Wednesday, when, due to all over outrage with the 30 hour curfew (toca de queda), that a local pro-interim government newspaper called a “toca de hambre” (Hunger Curfew), the interim government saw it necessary to give Hondurans at least a window to shop: between 10am and 4pm. Unsure of when this chance would come again, afraid the current government was going to continue to grip so tight their nails would start digging into the country, everyone that had the resources went out, waited in 500 people grocery store lines and bought. The parking lots to malls and grocery stores couldn’t fit the demand of parking space, nor the grocery stores themselves fit the customers, hence the lines. Gas stations and banks echoed in similar chaos. When we asked for a handful of money, the amount of $US1,500, the bank teller told us we had to wait for the money truck to come, which at 10:30a.m was just filling up.
“I never thought anything like this would ever happen my country. Never in my country!! Look at this craziness!!” Said an outraged middle aged woman waiting to buy her medicine whose teenage daughter, having apparently heard the spiel many a time before had contracted a sickness of her own that involved repetitive sighing.
“All because of these two power hungry men, who act like they need all of our freedom and money, we have to do crazy things like rush to the store all at the same time, wait in line, hoard what we can find,” she raised decibels, which inspired eye rolling in the already annoyed.
“Puppets, that’s all we are to them, being tossed and manipulated to their very whim. Is this entertaining to them? Their own sick form of fun!” she continues, defiant and pokerfaced to her daughter’s poor attempt at indirect communication.
Her daughters disease was not the only one newly infected, as booked psychologists and psychiatrists can testify and a rise in assaults and murders has displayed.
“The next step is a military state,” a friend informs me, “first comes the coup, then comes the curfew then the military state,” says one who has lived through the horrific transition from democracy to a dictatorship.
“I remember exactly how it was in the late 70’s, nobody is allowed to leave their house even within their own colonia or allowed to buy anything, like being under a country wide house arrest.”
And that is how it had already begun to feel, as, days later, Roberto Micheletti suspends a slew of civil liberties, including freedoms of the press and of assembly, an accustomed to various levels of abuse population braces themselves for the next blow, not even blinking as they crawl on the ground searching for their candles and matches on the eve of the 50th ‘unplanned’ power outage.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
An American Dream
San Pedro Sula Airport on the way to Houston, TX.
Universal Declaration of Human Rights Article 13:
(1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
(2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.
It has the look of a small but accessible airport: a major Honduran coffee chain “Espresso Aericano” and Wendy’s accomadating anyone’s fast food needs. There are lines, but they are not long like in major airports; passed through in a matter of minutes. An airport tax is necessitated, making tourists pay, as they should, for visiting the country. Spanish and American accented English are spoken interchangeably, and in that lies the difference. Honduran natives holding U.S passports are the majority population. This is the bilingual class of Honduras; fortunate enough to fly in and out of the U.S legally and freely.
No coyotes needed here.
If one were needed, he would cost $6,000 to navigate one’s way from Tegucigalpa to San Diego or El Paso for the chance of possibly safely traveling to and crossing the border, un-interferred. My plane ticket cost $250.
To those who have more will be given.
The life lottery that demands long labored savings has a concentrated burden on Latin America’s lower classes. Those who grew up with garbage as their backyard, unemployment as their job security and $5 a day as a decent wage hear only the success stories of those who shed their rags and aquired more then their fair share of riches on the other side and immediately begin dreaming up an escape plan. Stories of the thousands who lay waste in the desert or back where they started deported, or trading a free and relatively financially predictable existence to an incarcerated, fear based, authorities dodging one either remain untold or don’t sink in. A sign on a highway heading north in Guatemala tried to remind possible future immigrants of these facts. But, with civil war, coups and human rights violations as a history, death is simply a part of life, and therefore a risk one is willing to take against so much oral promise.
This Honduran U.S citizen looks after American children in the city of Houston. She’s lived in the U.S for twenty eight years, starting to out live her years spent in Honduras. She says at first it was hard, but she’s used to the change by now. As the plane lands in her new found home, a U.S native exclaims that he looks forward to a hot dog. A Honduran family talks about eating mashed potatoes.
TECHOS DE CARTÓN/Cardboard houses
Alli Primera
How, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how, sad my people live, in cardboard houses
the worker comes down almost dragging his feet
for the weight of suffering
you see, he has suffered much
you see, the suffer weights.
Above he leaves his pregnant wife
below is the town
and he gets lost, entangled
today is the same as yesterday,
In his life without tomorrow
"Here comes the rain!"
Here comes the suffering
But if it stops raining,
When will the suffering stop?
When will hope come?
children with the color of my land
with its same scars
millionaires of worms
that's why.
how sad the children live
in the cardboard houses
how, cheerful the dogs live
house of exploiter
you won't believe it
but there are schools for dogs
and they give them education
so that they don't bite newspapers
but, the boss
for many years
has been biting the worker
how, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how far hope is
in cardboard houses...
Techos de Carton
(Alí Primera)
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en los techos de cartón;
qué triste vive mi gente
en las casas de cartón.
Viene bajando el obrero,
así, arrastrando los pasos
por el peso del sufrir;
mira qué mucho sufrir,
mira que pesa el sufrir.
Arriba deja la mujer preñada,
abajo está la ciudad,
y se pierde en su maraña;
hoy es lo mismo que ayer
en su vida sin mañana.
Cae, cae la lluvia,
viene, viene el sufrimiento,
pero si la lluvia pasa,
¿cuándo pasa el sufrimiento,
cuándo viene la esperanza?
Niños color de mi tierra
con sus mismas cicatrices,
millonarios de lombrices,
y por eso,
qué tristes viven los niños
en las casas de cartón,
y alegres viven los perros
casa del explotador.
Usted no lo va a creer,
pero hay escuelas de perros,
y les dan educación
pa'que no muerdan los diarios;
pero el patrón
hace años, muchos años,
que está mordiendo al obrero.
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en las casas de cartón;
qué lejos pasa la esperanza
de los techos de cartón.
Universal Declaration of Human Rights Article 13:
(1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
(2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.
It has the look of a small but accessible airport: a major Honduran coffee chain “Espresso Aericano” and Wendy’s accomadating anyone’s fast food needs. There are lines, but they are not long like in major airports; passed through in a matter of minutes. An airport tax is necessitated, making tourists pay, as they should, for visiting the country. Spanish and American accented English are spoken interchangeably, and in that lies the difference. Honduran natives holding U.S passports are the majority population. This is the bilingual class of Honduras; fortunate enough to fly in and out of the U.S legally and freely.
No coyotes needed here.
If one were needed, he would cost $6,000 to navigate one’s way from Tegucigalpa to San Diego or El Paso for the chance of possibly safely traveling to and crossing the border, un-interferred. My plane ticket cost $250.
To those who have more will be given.
The life lottery that demands long labored savings has a concentrated burden on Latin America’s lower classes. Those who grew up with garbage as their backyard, unemployment as their job security and $5 a day as a decent wage hear only the success stories of those who shed their rags and aquired more then their fair share of riches on the other side and immediately begin dreaming up an escape plan. Stories of the thousands who lay waste in the desert or back where they started deported, or trading a free and relatively financially predictable existence to an incarcerated, fear based, authorities dodging one either remain untold or don’t sink in. A sign on a highway heading north in Guatemala tried to remind possible future immigrants of these facts. But, with civil war, coups and human rights violations as a history, death is simply a part of life, and therefore a risk one is willing to take against so much oral promise.
This Honduran U.S citizen looks after American children in the city of Houston. She’s lived in the U.S for twenty eight years, starting to out live her years spent in Honduras. She says at first it was hard, but she’s used to the change by now. As the plane lands in her new found home, a U.S native exclaims that he looks forward to a hot dog. A Honduran family talks about eating mashed potatoes.
TECHOS DE CARTÓN/Cardboard houses
Alli Primera
How, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how, sad my people live, in cardboard houses
the worker comes down almost dragging his feet
for the weight of suffering
you see, he has suffered much
you see, the suffer weights.
Above he leaves his pregnant wife
below is the town
and he gets lost, entangled
today is the same as yesterday,
In his life without tomorrow
"Here comes the rain!"
Here comes the suffering
But if it stops raining,
When will the suffering stop?
When will hope come?
children with the color of my land
with its same scars
millionaires of worms
that's why.
how sad the children live
in the cardboard houses
how, cheerful the dogs live
house of exploiter
you won't believe it
but there are schools for dogs
and they give them education
so that they don't bite newspapers
but, the boss
for many years
has been biting the worker
how, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how far hope is
in cardboard houses...
Techos de Carton
(Alí Primera)
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en los techos de cartón;
qué triste vive mi gente
en las casas de cartón.
Viene bajando el obrero,
así, arrastrando los pasos
por el peso del sufrir;
mira qué mucho sufrir,
mira que pesa el sufrir.
Arriba deja la mujer preñada,
abajo está la ciudad,
y se pierde en su maraña;
hoy es lo mismo que ayer
en su vida sin mañana.
Cae, cae la lluvia,
viene, viene el sufrimiento,
pero si la lluvia pasa,
¿cuándo pasa el sufrimiento,
cuándo viene la esperanza?
Niños color de mi tierra
con sus mismas cicatrices,
millonarios de lombrices,
y por eso,
qué tristes viven los niños
en las casas de cartón,
y alegres viven los perros
casa del explotador.
Usted no lo va a creer,
pero hay escuelas de perros,
y les dan educación
pa'que no muerdan los diarios;
pero el patrón
hace años, muchos años,
que está mordiendo al obrero.
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en las casas de cartón;
qué lejos pasa la esperanza
de los techos de cartón.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Halfed
Halfed
Nueva Suyapa is a slum neighborhood on the side of a mountain on the outskirts of the city of Tegucigalpa in Honduras. It is a neighborhood infamous for its high crime, teen pregnancy and high school drop out rates.One room houses for families of five is the norm. Though most houses are securely structured, some are pieced together by random material lying around. The average education of adult inhabitants is below sixth grade. It is on this scene that this dialogue is set.
Hernan popped up in the same uneventful way he did the day Micheal Jackson died;
“They kidnapped the president,” he says; eyes climbing to his forehead stopping just before they reach it, roofed by raised eyebrows that contain the bulk of his surprise, finished off with a long stare that attempts to cause and assess the reaction in the recipient.
“Yes” I say in my equally unemotional manner. I had been woken up to a phone call that informed me of the news, so all of my shock lay in my initial response.
“They shut the power off in the whole city at 7:00am.” he continued in the same way.
Outside kids and adults are attending to their usual pulperia runs; participating in a buzz of a higher magnitude than usual.
“They say he is in the States,” Hernan comments to a passer-by that stopped to discuss the matter.
Having grown accustomed to his unwarranted fixation on the States, and his tendency to relay faulty information, I don’t believe that end of it. Despite that, my ears remain sponge-like;
“A ton of soldiers are surrounding the Presidential palace.”
“If you look on the TV, you’ll see right there, hundreds, kind of scary.”
“They made Zelaya leave by gunpoint.”
“How they did it was really well organized, up to Zelaya’s body guard, all were in on it. Shows how few people supported him.”
It is true, the plan was genius, seamlessly, bloodlessly and efficiently executed; something to cause at least a fraction of concern.
“I’m happy this happened, the people weren’t in agreement, so the people acted, that is democracy, not all of this stuff about changing the constitution.”
“Ya, I wasn’t going to go to the vote anyway,” comments the stranger
“Me neither.” Hernan agrees.
On Sunday a ballot was organized, called the “Cuarta Urna” to decide whether Manual Zelaya could add a referendum to the constitution which would extend his term limits. The constitution is very sacred to Hondurans, who fought hard to freely create it. The warping, bending and rewriting of the constitution is part of an ugly past that most Hondurans do not want to revisit. Changing firm articles, with which presidential term limits were a part, is illegal. The Supreme Court, Congress and Army were all against this possible change, resulting in Manuel Zelaya firing his chief of defense staff.
“It’s all due to this Chavez guy, he’s wanting to make Honduras communist like Cuba and Venezuela, we can’t have our liberties stolen like that, we have to have freedom.” Charly, overhearing the conversation on his frequent walk past the house, chimes in.
“They say in those communist countries everybody makes the same amount, regardless of what you do, that’s not fair,” He continues.
“Ya, in Venezuela, they are taking the land away from those who own it and giving it to those they think need it,” the stranger makes sure he maintains his place in the conversation.
“Exactly, they would come and say,’ you have two rooms and only need one, now you have to give it to a poor person!’” Hernan indignates
“Ya, rights, property, being taken away just like that, we can’t have that.” All are in agreement.
Honduras had recently signed the Venezuelan initiated ALBA charter which granted Honduras the entry into supposedly free and fair trade initiatives in order to “enhance political and economic trade ties” between other left leaning Latin American countries. The initiative has been criticized by left and right alike for its socialist tendencies. Benefits for Honduras included fuel at market price and $15 million in development aid. Honduran’s first visible sign of the benefits of this aid were environmentally friendly long lasting light bulbs that were donated to Honduran households. Many are now wondering what will happen to this aid, and especially fuel, if the removal of Manuel Zelaya sticks. However, it looks like removing Honduras from ALBA is the least of Honduras’ problems regarding Chavez at the moment.
“I agree with Zelaya raising the minimum wage, but changing the constitution, that’s crazy. He’s just power hungry, we can’t have a person like that running the country. It’s dangerous.”
“Exactly, he wanted to do the same thing that Chavez did in Venezuela, just a puppet of Chavez, will he do whatever he tells him?”
“Ya, right, becoming Hondurans own despot out to defeat the U.S with Chavez and friends.”
Chavez had recently extended his term limits from five to six years in Venezuela due to a very close ballot on the matter, extending even longer his going on ten year reign. Other ALBA member countries have been attempting the same.
Hernan continues to listen to the radio that’s been glued to his ears since three in the morning, when he was sleeping.
“OK, it’s now confirmed that the armed forces have Mel Zelaya in Costa Rica.” Hernan once again reports.
Conversation lulls, electricity returns and we are redirected to the television where the Congress begins to speak. The armed forces suspended electricity, blocked phone lines and censored channels such as CNN to limit communication and possible uprisings and ensure control before the Congress had the chance to meet.
Back in the Congress hall, the representatives are in agreement with Hernan and his neighbors,
“We cannot have a President of this state disobey the Constitution; we must have democracy here in Honduras. This is the consequence for attempting illegal activity!” says a defiant man with slicked black hair and glasses.
All applaud, out-pounding the slew of Constitutional rights they were simultaneously suspending.
“We must defend the constitution and the law, and anyone trying to steal what we as Hondurans believe in, must be stopped.”
Further applause and similar statements subdue.
Now it is time for the vote of the expulsion of Manuel Zelaya. Everyone raises their hands. It’s like they all were in this together. Roberto Micheletti reads the authenticity-to-be-confirmed resignation letter of Manuel Zelaya, and with the tap of a hat Manuel Zelaya is no longer president of Honduras.
“This country will not be without a President.” Congress echoes.
They then explained that because Vice President Elvin Santos resigned, and the head of the Armed forces was recently fired, the next in line to be President is Roberto Micheletti, the Speaker of the Congress.
They pursue the proclaimed necessary routine to make Micheletti president, reading pages upon pages of higher languaged (a.k.a indecipherable by the average illiterate lay man) official inaugaration papers. It seemed the reader was bored himself by the material. Like a high strung salesmen who convinces the unquestioning client that all the written material is a boring waste of time, “So just sign here”, Micheletti and his Congress friends lulled to sleep passive but loyal uneducated Hondurans leading them to sign the life of their country away for the next six months. This all happened within a matter of hours, a speed unheard of in the Honduran government.
Micheletti begins to talk:
“What happened was not a coup, it was a necessary procedure following the law to restore order in this country.”
He hides the meticulous long labored planning for the event, failing to mention that forcing a President out of their house and to another country is also highly illegal and dangerous. Coups and political instability were common in Central America post revolution, the last of which was in 1993 in Guatemala.
“Exactly!” says Hernan, agreeing with all that the Congress and TV is feeding him.
This seems like a common trend for the average low-income Honduran citizen who doesn’t cause trouble and whose only source of information is Honduran news. The slant of the paper can be noted in the title for a pro-Micheletti rally: “Honduras against Illegality.” The biggest crime committed by Honduran papers and news sources in this crisis was the leaving out. I was unaware until two days later of the riots which killed two protesters, injured thirty six and was filled with tear gas and rioters throwing rocks; the ugly side of Honduras that they didn’t want to admit even to its own citizens. The reason: promote the facade that all of Honduras was calm in order to prevent possible uprisings and backlash.
That night the existent divisiveness of the country was evident:
“Mel only wanted to know what the people thought and was asking the people to cast a vote to express these thoughts. He wasn’t going to do anything more,” said Mario who, having had the influence of higher education was more aligned with his left leaning professors.
“Well then it was not well communicated, because the people thought he was taking away their rights and was going to change the constitution,” said Karen who was on Hernan’s side, but had graduated to the ability to think for herself.
“Mel is a man for the poor people of Honduras,” continues Mario, unaware of his growing allegiance to the man.
“Are you poor?” he asks Hernan.
“No,” Hernan replies.
“But were you poor?” he fishes.
“Yes.”
“And how did you change?”
“By working hard.”
“Exactly, that’s how the poor man lifts himself out of poverty. By raising the minimum wage, Mel was supporting the working man in Honduras.”
“That whole raising of the minimum wage was just a way to get people to vote for ALBA, and it worked.” Hernan fights back.
“No, it was for the people, Mel cares about the people, but Micheletti and his stooges, I don’t think so. There are about 300 families that run this country, that own all of the major businesses. They don’t want the minimum wage being raised because it affects their profits. This was their master plan to help themselves through Micheletti and hurt the poor man.”
“I don’t know, sounds kind of crazy to me. How could extending term limits help the people? That’s what I want to know, the direction he was going in wasn’t democracy, how can anything but democracy help the people?” responds Hernan, unused to being challenged by left wing rhetoric.
“But what about what Micheletti is after? Doesn’t seem to have the best track record himself,” I try to chime in.
“Ya, its true. Look; in politics in Honduras, they’re all thugs and thieves, that’s a given, but I’d rather a predictable thug that than an unpredictable freedom thief.” An overzealous Charly charismatically attempts to use his personality and choice of words to convince, starting to sound like a stubborn Republican from the U.S.
“What Zelaya was going to do was bring Venezuela and all its crazy communist laws to
Honduras, we just can’t have that. Do you want that?”
Conversation raises a couple of decibels as both sides, assuming opposing viewpoints from the other, try to out-load political ammunition and shoot at the same time.
Both, too impassioned to even recognize the other’s weapon in hand don’t even attempt to dodge, dismantling the delicately formulated opinion of the other before it even reaches them.
Trying to diffuse the fire, a friend of Mario's starts a side conversation on how it is all in God’s hands, and we shouldn’t worry or argue; that Jesus said the poor will always be with you. Allison, off in the corner, overwhelmed with all the simultaneous conversation, doesn’t know who to follow or believe, and slips off into the back room. Later she tells me she’s glad Mel is gone.
On the TV a lawyer calls for respectful dialogue; Obama chides the same.
This possibility is pursued at my work place, where slightly more informed individuals chime in,
“Ya, I’m not much for Micheletti or Zelaya, they’re both delinquents.” My boss begins the conversation.
“Ya, Micheletti is a coke addict and trafficker.” A co-worker adds.
“Exactly, trying to get his piece of the pie. What I don’t like about this whole thing is the way they did it all, it was unnecessary and illegal.” My boss makes clear his position.
“They could have waited and brought him to court sensibly, why’d they need a coup?”
“And if all was legal, why did they have to bring him to another country, they could have tried him peacefully here,” said a lawyer who earlier commented that she had no opinion on the matter.
“Ya, makes you wonder if something else wasn’t behind it; a little questionable.”
“You know what I say: the US is behind it, they were getting scared with Zelaya chumming up to Chavez and all.”
“Ya the U.S, acting all diplomatic and such, not reducing aid yet”
With US’s former tendency to help in ousting any potential left leaning leader in Central America, and their loyal support and training of the Honduran army, I understood my co-workers’ sentiments, but thought the possibility highly unlikely. Honduras had seemed to convict the US of many ills and accomplishments in which they had not participated; the assumed savior and arch oppressor simultaneously. A dependent relationship at the stage of teenage angst, at fault: its self proclaimed parents.
The conversation was then reduced to making fun of the political rivals. Both Mel and Micheletti had now become easy ways to get a quick laugh around the office, like the age of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. The change, history, settled in, announces its thorough affects when it makes its way down to the bone of children’s rhymes and games. Jokes are not too far from that reality.
Back at the house I am reminded by Hernan that Zelaya may come back Thursday,
“He’s coming accompanied with U.S support,” he says.
Rumors, and gossip with which this neighborhood are experts, wasn’t about to escape this situation; a way to fill in the news gaps.
Diana, Hernan’s daughter, begins to explain how in Venezuela, children at three years old are taken from their homes and forced into state owned nurseries where they are raised to be soldiers, and that Zelaya was on his way to doing the same in Honduras.
Glad to end the topic, Hernan’s partner, that they call La Chavela, is much more emotionally charged about a situation that involved Diana’s child, her five month old granddaughter in the past week.
With this I begin to realize the different levels of news, and the degree of impact each level has on a regular Honduran family. There’s the news that one's daughter’s five month old baby accidentally fell to the ground, provoking an in the chest fear.
The news that a friend with a fractured leg is hurting, causing one to immediately come running. Then, the news that one's President was just rid of his post, which off-settles one for awhile until it becomes back round information to food on the table; only to come back into the spotlight when it threatens that inner close to home level. We are all hoping that doesn’t become a reality.
Over a week later, Allison comes home at 9:00a.m still a school uniformed expectant, again; without given the opportunity of classes. They say schools are going to stay closed until Mel Zelaya comes home.
In the community the same story is retold; a single mother with two children, one deaf and sick often, laments that she hasn’t been able to sell tortillas, her lifeblood, since the crisis began. She at the moment is depending on the good will of her neighbors and friends.
A taxi driver friend complains the same, ridership has gone down since the crisis began, people more afraid to go downtown where the protests are.
Weeks later, my flight from Houston to Honduras had numerous rows that were totally empty. The tourist town of the Copan Ruins, usually swarming with tourists during the peak of the summer mirrors the airplane seats.
Now that the Honduras crisis has been removed from what the BBC calls news, Hondurans are left to deal with dual wars competing: the sudden waging political one and the constant scraping by one which has just reached another kind of unthinkable level due to curfews and anticipated danger.
Chavez’s lightbulbs still blaze on the rich and the poor.
Nueva Suyapa is a slum neighborhood on the side of a mountain on the outskirts of the city of Tegucigalpa in Honduras. It is a neighborhood infamous for its high crime, teen pregnancy and high school drop out rates.One room houses for families of five is the norm. Though most houses are securely structured, some are pieced together by random material lying around. The average education of adult inhabitants is below sixth grade. It is on this scene that this dialogue is set.
Hernan popped up in the same uneventful way he did the day Micheal Jackson died;
“They kidnapped the president,” he says; eyes climbing to his forehead stopping just before they reach it, roofed by raised eyebrows that contain the bulk of his surprise, finished off with a long stare that attempts to cause and assess the reaction in the recipient.
“Yes” I say in my equally unemotional manner. I had been woken up to a phone call that informed me of the news, so all of my shock lay in my initial response.
“They shut the power off in the whole city at 7:00am.” he continued in the same way.
Outside kids and adults are attending to their usual pulperia runs; participating in a buzz of a higher magnitude than usual.
“They say he is in the States,” Hernan comments to a passer-by that stopped to discuss the matter.
Having grown accustomed to his unwarranted fixation on the States, and his tendency to relay faulty information, I don’t believe that end of it. Despite that, my ears remain sponge-like;
“A ton of soldiers are surrounding the Presidential palace.”
“If you look on the TV, you’ll see right there, hundreds, kind of scary.”
“They made Zelaya leave by gunpoint.”
“How they did it was really well organized, up to Zelaya’s body guard, all were in on it. Shows how few people supported him.”
It is true, the plan was genius, seamlessly, bloodlessly and efficiently executed; something to cause at least a fraction of concern.
“I’m happy this happened, the people weren’t in agreement, so the people acted, that is democracy, not all of this stuff about changing the constitution.”
“Ya, I wasn’t going to go to the vote anyway,” comments the stranger
“Me neither.” Hernan agrees.
On Sunday a ballot was organized, called the “Cuarta Urna” to decide whether Manual Zelaya could add a referendum to the constitution which would extend his term limits. The constitution is very sacred to Hondurans, who fought hard to freely create it. The warping, bending and rewriting of the constitution is part of an ugly past that most Hondurans do not want to revisit. Changing firm articles, with which presidential term limits were a part, is illegal. The Supreme Court, Congress and Army were all against this possible change, resulting in Manuel Zelaya firing his chief of defense staff.
“It’s all due to this Chavez guy, he’s wanting to make Honduras communist like Cuba and Venezuela, we can’t have our liberties stolen like that, we have to have freedom.” Charly, overhearing the conversation on his frequent walk past the house, chimes in.
“They say in those communist countries everybody makes the same amount, regardless of what you do, that’s not fair,” He continues.
“Ya, in Venezuela, they are taking the land away from those who own it and giving it to those they think need it,” the stranger makes sure he maintains his place in the conversation.
“Exactly, they would come and say,’ you have two rooms and only need one, now you have to give it to a poor person!’” Hernan indignates
“Ya, rights, property, being taken away just like that, we can’t have that.” All are in agreement.
Honduras had recently signed the Venezuelan initiated ALBA charter which granted Honduras the entry into supposedly free and fair trade initiatives in order to “enhance political and economic trade ties” between other left leaning Latin American countries. The initiative has been criticized by left and right alike for its socialist tendencies. Benefits for Honduras included fuel at market price and $15 million in development aid. Honduran’s first visible sign of the benefits of this aid were environmentally friendly long lasting light bulbs that were donated to Honduran households. Many are now wondering what will happen to this aid, and especially fuel, if the removal of Manuel Zelaya sticks. However, it looks like removing Honduras from ALBA is the least of Honduras’ problems regarding Chavez at the moment.
“I agree with Zelaya raising the minimum wage, but changing the constitution, that’s crazy. He’s just power hungry, we can’t have a person like that running the country. It’s dangerous.”
“Exactly, he wanted to do the same thing that Chavez did in Venezuela, just a puppet of Chavez, will he do whatever he tells him?”
“Ya, right, becoming Hondurans own despot out to defeat the U.S with Chavez and friends.”
Chavez had recently extended his term limits from five to six years in Venezuela due to a very close ballot on the matter, extending even longer his going on ten year reign. Other ALBA member countries have been attempting the same.
Hernan continues to listen to the radio that’s been glued to his ears since three in the morning, when he was sleeping.
“OK, it’s now confirmed that the armed forces have Mel Zelaya in Costa Rica.” Hernan once again reports.
Conversation lulls, electricity returns and we are redirected to the television where the Congress begins to speak. The armed forces suspended electricity, blocked phone lines and censored channels such as CNN to limit communication and possible uprisings and ensure control before the Congress had the chance to meet.
Back in the Congress hall, the representatives are in agreement with Hernan and his neighbors,
“We cannot have a President of this state disobey the Constitution; we must have democracy here in Honduras. This is the consequence for attempting illegal activity!” says a defiant man with slicked black hair and glasses.
All applaud, out-pounding the slew of Constitutional rights they were simultaneously suspending.
“We must defend the constitution and the law, and anyone trying to steal what we as Hondurans believe in, must be stopped.”
Further applause and similar statements subdue.
Now it is time for the vote of the expulsion of Manuel Zelaya. Everyone raises their hands. It’s like they all were in this together. Roberto Micheletti reads the authenticity-to-be-confirmed resignation letter of Manuel Zelaya, and with the tap of a hat Manuel Zelaya is no longer president of Honduras.
“This country will not be without a President.” Congress echoes.
They then explained that because Vice President Elvin Santos resigned, and the head of the Armed forces was recently fired, the next in line to be President is Roberto Micheletti, the Speaker of the Congress.
They pursue the proclaimed necessary routine to make Micheletti president, reading pages upon pages of higher languaged (a.k.a indecipherable by the average illiterate lay man) official inaugaration papers. It seemed the reader was bored himself by the material. Like a high strung salesmen who convinces the unquestioning client that all the written material is a boring waste of time, “So just sign here”, Micheletti and his Congress friends lulled to sleep passive but loyal uneducated Hondurans leading them to sign the life of their country away for the next six months. This all happened within a matter of hours, a speed unheard of in the Honduran government.
Micheletti begins to talk:
“What happened was not a coup, it was a necessary procedure following the law to restore order in this country.”
He hides the meticulous long labored planning for the event, failing to mention that forcing a President out of their house and to another country is also highly illegal and dangerous. Coups and political instability were common in Central America post revolution, the last of which was in 1993 in Guatemala.
“Exactly!” says Hernan, agreeing with all that the Congress and TV is feeding him.
This seems like a common trend for the average low-income Honduran citizen who doesn’t cause trouble and whose only source of information is Honduran news. The slant of the paper can be noted in the title for a pro-Micheletti rally: “Honduras against Illegality.” The biggest crime committed by Honduran papers and news sources in this crisis was the leaving out. I was unaware until two days later of the riots which killed two protesters, injured thirty six and was filled with tear gas and rioters throwing rocks; the ugly side of Honduras that they didn’t want to admit even to its own citizens. The reason: promote the facade that all of Honduras was calm in order to prevent possible uprisings and backlash.
That night the existent divisiveness of the country was evident:
“Mel only wanted to know what the people thought and was asking the people to cast a vote to express these thoughts. He wasn’t going to do anything more,” said Mario who, having had the influence of higher education was more aligned with his left leaning professors.
“Well then it was not well communicated, because the people thought he was taking away their rights and was going to change the constitution,” said Karen who was on Hernan’s side, but had graduated to the ability to think for herself.
“Mel is a man for the poor people of Honduras,” continues Mario, unaware of his growing allegiance to the man.
“Are you poor?” he asks Hernan.
“No,” Hernan replies.
“But were you poor?” he fishes.
“Yes.”
“And how did you change?”
“By working hard.”
“Exactly, that’s how the poor man lifts himself out of poverty. By raising the minimum wage, Mel was supporting the working man in Honduras.”
“That whole raising of the minimum wage was just a way to get people to vote for ALBA, and it worked.” Hernan fights back.
“No, it was for the people, Mel cares about the people, but Micheletti and his stooges, I don’t think so. There are about 300 families that run this country, that own all of the major businesses. They don’t want the minimum wage being raised because it affects their profits. This was their master plan to help themselves through Micheletti and hurt the poor man.”
“I don’t know, sounds kind of crazy to me. How could extending term limits help the people? That’s what I want to know, the direction he was going in wasn’t democracy, how can anything but democracy help the people?” responds Hernan, unused to being challenged by left wing rhetoric.
“But what about what Micheletti is after? Doesn’t seem to have the best track record himself,” I try to chime in.
“Ya, its true. Look; in politics in Honduras, they’re all thugs and thieves, that’s a given, but I’d rather a predictable thug that than an unpredictable freedom thief.” An overzealous Charly charismatically attempts to use his personality and choice of words to convince, starting to sound like a stubborn Republican from the U.S.
“What Zelaya was going to do was bring Venezuela and all its crazy communist laws to
Honduras, we just can’t have that. Do you want that?”
Conversation raises a couple of decibels as both sides, assuming opposing viewpoints from the other, try to out-load political ammunition and shoot at the same time.
Both, too impassioned to even recognize the other’s weapon in hand don’t even attempt to dodge, dismantling the delicately formulated opinion of the other before it even reaches them.
Trying to diffuse the fire, a friend of Mario's starts a side conversation on how it is all in God’s hands, and we shouldn’t worry or argue; that Jesus said the poor will always be with you. Allison, off in the corner, overwhelmed with all the simultaneous conversation, doesn’t know who to follow or believe, and slips off into the back room. Later she tells me she’s glad Mel is gone.
On the TV a lawyer calls for respectful dialogue; Obama chides the same.
This possibility is pursued at my work place, where slightly more informed individuals chime in,
“Ya, I’m not much for Micheletti or Zelaya, they’re both delinquents.” My boss begins the conversation.
“Ya, Micheletti is a coke addict and trafficker.” A co-worker adds.
“Exactly, trying to get his piece of the pie. What I don’t like about this whole thing is the way they did it all, it was unnecessary and illegal.” My boss makes clear his position.
“They could have waited and brought him to court sensibly, why’d they need a coup?”
“And if all was legal, why did they have to bring him to another country, they could have tried him peacefully here,” said a lawyer who earlier commented that she had no opinion on the matter.
“Ya, makes you wonder if something else wasn’t behind it; a little questionable.”
“You know what I say: the US is behind it, they were getting scared with Zelaya chumming up to Chavez and all.”
“Ya the U.S, acting all diplomatic and such, not reducing aid yet”
With US’s former tendency to help in ousting any potential left leaning leader in Central America, and their loyal support and training of the Honduran army, I understood my co-workers’ sentiments, but thought the possibility highly unlikely. Honduras had seemed to convict the US of many ills and accomplishments in which they had not participated; the assumed savior and arch oppressor simultaneously. A dependent relationship at the stage of teenage angst, at fault: its self proclaimed parents.
The conversation was then reduced to making fun of the political rivals. Both Mel and Micheletti had now become easy ways to get a quick laugh around the office, like the age of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. The change, history, settled in, announces its thorough affects when it makes its way down to the bone of children’s rhymes and games. Jokes are not too far from that reality.
Back at the house I am reminded by Hernan that Zelaya may come back Thursday,
“He’s coming accompanied with U.S support,” he says.
Rumors, and gossip with which this neighborhood are experts, wasn’t about to escape this situation; a way to fill in the news gaps.
Diana, Hernan’s daughter, begins to explain how in Venezuela, children at three years old are taken from their homes and forced into state owned nurseries where they are raised to be soldiers, and that Zelaya was on his way to doing the same in Honduras.
Glad to end the topic, Hernan’s partner, that they call La Chavela, is much more emotionally charged about a situation that involved Diana’s child, her five month old granddaughter in the past week.
With this I begin to realize the different levels of news, and the degree of impact each level has on a regular Honduran family. There’s the news that one's daughter’s five month old baby accidentally fell to the ground, provoking an in the chest fear.
The news that a friend with a fractured leg is hurting, causing one to immediately come running. Then, the news that one's President was just rid of his post, which off-settles one for awhile until it becomes back round information to food on the table; only to come back into the spotlight when it threatens that inner close to home level. We are all hoping that doesn’t become a reality.
Over a week later, Allison comes home at 9:00a.m still a school uniformed expectant, again; without given the opportunity of classes. They say schools are going to stay closed until Mel Zelaya comes home.
In the community the same story is retold; a single mother with two children, one deaf and sick often, laments that she hasn’t been able to sell tortillas, her lifeblood, since the crisis began. She at the moment is depending on the good will of her neighbors and friends.
A taxi driver friend complains the same, ridership has gone down since the crisis began, people more afraid to go downtown where the protests are.
Weeks later, my flight from Houston to Honduras had numerous rows that were totally empty. The tourist town of the Copan Ruins, usually swarming with tourists during the peak of the summer mirrors the airplane seats.
Now that the Honduras crisis has been removed from what the BBC calls news, Hondurans are left to deal with dual wars competing: the sudden waging political one and the constant scraping by one which has just reached another kind of unthinkable level due to curfews and anticipated danger.
Chavez’s lightbulbs still blaze on the rich and the poor.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
On the House
I sit here, not so unsimiliarly than the ones with whom I live; stuffed up in the house because of some form of pain, mine is physical, a leg fracture, while theirs is a more ingrained undetectable mental sort. I, like my sisters here, soothe myself into a type of imagined paradise with sweet music as loud as it will go. We sing to it at times when it seems no one is listening. Maria uses a microphone, unashamed of her acquired vocal ability. I am pretty sure, though it has not been proven, that they dance as well while sweeping, I hope with the broom as a partner; which isn’t unpopular around where I’m from either. I saw them dancing at a wedding a little while ago but was too shy to join them as my skills weren’t close to their accelerated ones.
The music I am listening to has been self-classified as neo-soul; while theirs, though it does reach their soul, is a bit of a distance from mine. The point is it makes us feel, long for a love we never had, and writhe about that bad break-up that we never let materialize enough to exist. “What might have been lost” repeats on my computer, answered by “Don’t Bother Me” as “Te Amo” (I love you) repeated on their stereo overshadows it; answered by “Yo no tengo la culpa” (It’s not my fault… An innocent six year old had recently aided me in the full run of these words when he was show-casing his singing skills to me. I don’t doubt anyone’s unintended passive ability to memorize the words as houses and buses seem to frequently swap blasted repeats of the hit). Both songs in their plainly stated or escoteric ways represent a basic human need to be loved well and to love well; or the excruciating loneliness of one never experiencing it. I begin to wonder which camp I am in, aching the latter, looking forward to the former. I imagine those who share these walls with me feel the same, hearts similar to my fractured leg, not aware of the degree of pain, and the amount of their own personal strength until proven broken.
Voices pass; accompanied by the clodding of feet catching up with passer byer's bodies as they race down the hill in front of my house. I even recognize someone crutching by; realizing that will be me in a day or two. Conversations vary, from the morning usual “Apurrense” (Hurry Up) to the evening round of pulperia requests. Children playing soccer and a group of men playing gambling join this chorus. It is further accompanied by cocks crowing (at all hours of the day), buses honking, moto’s humming, construction workers nailing, dog’s roaring, geckos singing, children laughing and base bumping. However, all of this is simply backround singing to the walking sales women’s guttural solo: “Huevos, Huevos! Zanahoria! Huevos!” (Eggs, Eggs, Carrots, Eggs… It is very often an odd combination such as this, actually, it’s usually much stranger, like bed coverings and knives). It is the walking store that comes right to your house, Honduras’s version of an ice-cream man, only there’s more variety, and its stuff you can actually use. I see this as a smart business move similar to the pulperia phenomenon that I will talk about in detail later. Pulperia’s are small stores, kind of like convenient stores that, just like convenient stores are on every corner and have needed and random items, the variety of which depends on the success of the business. The walking salesmen are those with a smaller inventory who seemed to realize their businesses were suffering because their clients, the women of the community, were stationed in their houses, so they did what any good business person would do, and came to them.
Potential house guests have realized and done the same. I too can now only be a passive recipient. These visitors come and go, beginning as early as 6:30 in the morning and ending around 8:00 at night. The guests bring gifts: mangoes, origami paper, dvd’s, cake, paints and paint brushes. They may also receive gifts, coffee and sweet bread (café con pan), lunch or of course, coke. They stay as long as they can or see fit, we ride on the wave of their whim.
The rain is more predictable than the visitors, as it comes between three or four each day, though my mama said she could tell it would come early today because it was really hot right off the bat, and around 11:00 in came the trickles. This rain ranges from sprinkles to near torrential downpours, causing mostly un-umbrella-ed individuals to either wait it out or make a run for it. That’s not an option for me, so I just sit and notice the thousands of pings on the hundreds of aluminum roofs around me, an orchestra dominated by bassier triangles. As predictable as this rain is it always seems to outsmart me, and the moment I begin to turn on the fan due to the uncomfortable heat, it begins to cool down due to the rain. Ahh, my mama’s logic makes sense. She is much more attuned to the movements of the rain than I am, as her learned life’s work depends on it. “The sun’s out early today, I’m going to take advantage and do some washing,” she often says on a particularly hot day, “before it rains and we won’t be able to hang the clothes on the line.” She continues in this manner for each necessary action, carefully planning ahead for any possible setbacks, such as her children sleeping in late reducing the amount of dishes that would be washed in the morning. Evidence of a good businesswoman never given or taken the chance imposed on her household.
“Julia came in at 12 last night from work, I’m so tired. I got up early to make tortillas. Well, Maria’s sweeping, so I’ll change your sheets. We’ll see what I’ll make for lunch today.”
With precision, efficiency and utmost cleanliness they scour every inch of each plate, scrub the spots and anything living out of every piece of clothing, and dust every mantel piece, including the ornament with the dolphin hitting a ball.
They all say they don’t mind being “imprisoned” In the house all day. As long as their husband/dad isn’t there to limit liberties, they say they rather like it. My mama says there is always something more to do, she keeps busy and that they get out more now than she used to be able to before. Which is true, her and Julia have been going to the market more often. Maria says she enjoys being able to play music when she wants to. Julia is working at a local supermarket chain and discovering a new freedom in that.
The music I am listening to has been self-classified as neo-soul; while theirs, though it does reach their soul, is a bit of a distance from mine. The point is it makes us feel, long for a love we never had, and writhe about that bad break-up that we never let materialize enough to exist. “What might have been lost” repeats on my computer, answered by “Don’t Bother Me” as “Te Amo” (I love you) repeated on their stereo overshadows it; answered by “Yo no tengo la culpa” (It’s not my fault… An innocent six year old had recently aided me in the full run of these words when he was show-casing his singing skills to me. I don’t doubt anyone’s unintended passive ability to memorize the words as houses and buses seem to frequently swap blasted repeats of the hit). Both songs in their plainly stated or escoteric ways represent a basic human need to be loved well and to love well; or the excruciating loneliness of one never experiencing it. I begin to wonder which camp I am in, aching the latter, looking forward to the former. I imagine those who share these walls with me feel the same, hearts similar to my fractured leg, not aware of the degree of pain, and the amount of their own personal strength until proven broken.
Voices pass; accompanied by the clodding of feet catching up with passer byer's bodies as they race down the hill in front of my house. I even recognize someone crutching by; realizing that will be me in a day or two. Conversations vary, from the morning usual “Apurrense” (Hurry Up) to the evening round of pulperia requests. Children playing soccer and a group of men playing gambling join this chorus. It is further accompanied by cocks crowing (at all hours of the day), buses honking, moto’s humming, construction workers nailing, dog’s roaring, geckos singing, children laughing and base bumping. However, all of this is simply backround singing to the walking sales women’s guttural solo: “Huevos, Huevos! Zanahoria! Huevos!” (Eggs, Eggs, Carrots, Eggs… It is very often an odd combination such as this, actually, it’s usually much stranger, like bed coverings and knives). It is the walking store that comes right to your house, Honduras’s version of an ice-cream man, only there’s more variety, and its stuff you can actually use. I see this as a smart business move similar to the pulperia phenomenon that I will talk about in detail later. Pulperia’s are small stores, kind of like convenient stores that, just like convenient stores are on every corner and have needed and random items, the variety of which depends on the success of the business. The walking salesmen are those with a smaller inventory who seemed to realize their businesses were suffering because their clients, the women of the community, were stationed in their houses, so they did what any good business person would do, and came to them.
Potential house guests have realized and done the same. I too can now only be a passive recipient. These visitors come and go, beginning as early as 6:30 in the morning and ending around 8:00 at night. The guests bring gifts: mangoes, origami paper, dvd’s, cake, paints and paint brushes. They may also receive gifts, coffee and sweet bread (café con pan), lunch or of course, coke. They stay as long as they can or see fit, we ride on the wave of their whim.
The rain is more predictable than the visitors, as it comes between three or four each day, though my mama said she could tell it would come early today because it was really hot right off the bat, and around 11:00 in came the trickles. This rain ranges from sprinkles to near torrential downpours, causing mostly un-umbrella-ed individuals to either wait it out or make a run for it. That’s not an option for me, so I just sit and notice the thousands of pings on the hundreds of aluminum roofs around me, an orchestra dominated by bassier triangles. As predictable as this rain is it always seems to outsmart me, and the moment I begin to turn on the fan due to the uncomfortable heat, it begins to cool down due to the rain. Ahh, my mama’s logic makes sense. She is much more attuned to the movements of the rain than I am, as her learned life’s work depends on it. “The sun’s out early today, I’m going to take advantage and do some washing,” she often says on a particularly hot day, “before it rains and we won’t be able to hang the clothes on the line.” She continues in this manner for each necessary action, carefully planning ahead for any possible setbacks, such as her children sleeping in late reducing the amount of dishes that would be washed in the morning. Evidence of a good businesswoman never given or taken the chance imposed on her household.
“Julia came in at 12 last night from work, I’m so tired. I got up early to make tortillas. Well, Maria’s sweeping, so I’ll change your sheets. We’ll see what I’ll make for lunch today.”
With precision, efficiency and utmost cleanliness they scour every inch of each plate, scrub the spots and anything living out of every piece of clothing, and dust every mantel piece, including the ornament with the dolphin hitting a ball.
They all say they don’t mind being “imprisoned” In the house all day. As long as their husband/dad isn’t there to limit liberties, they say they rather like it. My mama says there is always something more to do, she keeps busy and that they get out more now than she used to be able to before. Which is true, her and Julia have been going to the market more often. Maria says she enjoys being able to play music when she wants to. Julia is working at a local supermarket chain and discovering a new freedom in that.
Monday, June 8, 2009
In the age of innocence
He comes in the usual polite Honduran way, shaking hands and greeting everyone in the room before being offered a seat. He often makes jokes as he’s doing this, chumming up to each prospective hand shaker. He then sits down and begins to comment or question regarding predictable topics: the weather, the latest soccer game, the latest in Nueva Suyapa’s People magazine or the most recent most corrupt political official. Tonight it was politics.
He is a short man with well toned muscles which he makes sure he shows off with tank tops even in cooler weather. A continuous small talk he has with me is when and for how long we went running that week. I am sure a weight lifting routine is not uncommon as well. He has a mane of a head of hair that flops on both sides, especially while walking. It isn’t too far from the popular male Honduran haircut that comes a little too close to a mullet, short throughout, stretching all the way down the neckline, near the collar, often accompanied with overly gooped gelled curly spikes that he has not taken the time to invest in. His face is evident of his attitude towards life, appears much younger than he actually is. He is not un-handsome and uses the mix of these two qualities to his advantage; cutesying his way into many a less than twenty something heart. This early blooming just teen nonchallantly greets and engages him as any other random house guest.
Both wait for the moment when conversation lulls and the living room population’s attention gravitates towards the latest TV love match game show. He then takes his chance to rob her of her childhood in one single glance, indicating immature intimacy. She reciprocates, as any low self esteemed early teenage would to romantic attention from a 30-something. This jump starts engaged conversation as might occur with high school sweet hearts: a series of questions about homework assignments, class gossip and goings on at the business where he works, reminders of the age discrepancy. He helps her on the current homework assignment she’s working on, as her father should have had he the patience and ability to read. She continues to milk up the manly attention she’s been lacking, learning her green eyes and attempts at flirtation have served for something. They continue to sit next to eachother, just touching, but not too close to alarm anyone. Parents keep a watchful eye but still permit the behavior.
This continued more that once a week for months, until he took it a step too far and took her out during school hours; to do, we are not sure what. She conspired with him, and a group of her friends to make this possible, not aware it was her that was the victim. She could not sneak past parents, who found out maybe a second too late and finally did what they should have a long time ago, not allow him to be a part of her life. The chaos has subsided after a suicide attempt by the girl. Who’s to know from who now she will receive what she rightfully craves.
~Mental health is a taboo topic in Honduras, especially Nueva Suyapa that comes last in the line of bills to pay and mouths to feed. Having food on the table and clothes on the body and sending the kids to school is what is expected of a good parent. This does not mean that the child is not nurtured as needed in many households. However with all the frustrations that living at or below a Honduran working class, investing much needed time and love in their children does not come first. This does not only exist in Honduras, as the US is infiltrated with this problem as well, perhaps only for different reasons. This is only one example of my experience of it happening here. It is a sad reality that has brought me to tears.~
He is a short man with well toned muscles which he makes sure he shows off with tank tops even in cooler weather. A continuous small talk he has with me is when and for how long we went running that week. I am sure a weight lifting routine is not uncommon as well. He has a mane of a head of hair that flops on both sides, especially while walking. It isn’t too far from the popular male Honduran haircut that comes a little too close to a mullet, short throughout, stretching all the way down the neckline, near the collar, often accompanied with overly gooped gelled curly spikes that he has not taken the time to invest in. His face is evident of his attitude towards life, appears much younger than he actually is. He is not un-handsome and uses the mix of these two qualities to his advantage; cutesying his way into many a less than twenty something heart. This early blooming just teen nonchallantly greets and engages him as any other random house guest.
Both wait for the moment when conversation lulls and the living room population’s attention gravitates towards the latest TV love match game show. He then takes his chance to rob her of her childhood in one single glance, indicating immature intimacy. She reciprocates, as any low self esteemed early teenage would to romantic attention from a 30-something. This jump starts engaged conversation as might occur with high school sweet hearts: a series of questions about homework assignments, class gossip and goings on at the business where he works, reminders of the age discrepancy. He helps her on the current homework assignment she’s working on, as her father should have had he the patience and ability to read. She continues to milk up the manly attention she’s been lacking, learning her green eyes and attempts at flirtation have served for something. They continue to sit next to eachother, just touching, but not too close to alarm anyone. Parents keep a watchful eye but still permit the behavior.
This continued more that once a week for months, until he took it a step too far and took her out during school hours; to do, we are not sure what. She conspired with him, and a group of her friends to make this possible, not aware it was her that was the victim. She could not sneak past parents, who found out maybe a second too late and finally did what they should have a long time ago, not allow him to be a part of her life. The chaos has subsided after a suicide attempt by the girl. Who’s to know from who now she will receive what she rightfully craves.
~Mental health is a taboo topic in Honduras, especially Nueva Suyapa that comes last in the line of bills to pay and mouths to feed. Having food on the table and clothes on the body and sending the kids to school is what is expected of a good parent. This does not mean that the child is not nurtured as needed in many households. However with all the frustrations that living at or below a Honduran working class, investing much needed time and love in their children does not come first. This does not only exist in Honduras, as the US is infiltrated with this problem as well, perhaps only for different reasons. This is only one example of my experience of it happening here. It is a sad reality that has brought me to tears.~
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Declarations
I sit, comfortable sipping iced blended
Coffee slush,
a dollar,
cheaper than home,
but a chasm from the two limp chips
I have just escaped
four miles away.
I browse, along with the elites
lucky enough to have to
work the web.
National declaration of Human Rights
my subject matter.
Something that too inspires passion.
Takes me back to:
Seven limp corn on the corner up to Onesimo
Two limp tamales on the Genesis side
Pulperia quantities-for-today-shopping
up top to avoid the six limp trip
to the market where its cheaper
but unbuyable in bulk.
Women incarcerated in houses,
Unaware what lies on the other side.
“Men and women of full age…
have the right to marry and to found a family.
They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage,
during marriage and at its dissolution.”
Juxtaposes every day ingrained
“Feed me
Clean it
perfectly…now!”
while he simply glares and waits
that reverberates
|inside|
well cemented
and p i e c e dtogether walls
all
the
way
down
this shack littered mountain.
But they may never know
The other is an option.
Coffee slush,
a dollar,
cheaper than home,
but a chasm from the two limp chips
I have just escaped
four miles away.
I browse, along with the elites
lucky enough to have to
work the web.
National declaration of Human Rights
my subject matter.
Something that too inspires passion.
Takes me back to:
Seven limp corn on the corner up to Onesimo
Two limp tamales on the Genesis side
Pulperia quantities-for-today-shopping
up top to avoid the six limp trip
to the market where its cheaper
but unbuyable in bulk.
Women incarcerated in houses,
Unaware what lies on the other side.
“Men and women of full age…
have the right to marry and to found a family.
They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage,
during marriage and at its dissolution.”
Juxtaposes every day ingrained
“Feed me
Clean it
perfectly…now!”
while he simply glares and waits
that reverberates
|inside|
well cemented
and p i e c e dtogether walls
all
the
way
down
this shack littered mountain.
But they may never know
The other is an option.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)