Honduras - My First Month

I´m a little unsure of how honest I wanted to be in the blog but I am going to share with you all that I have experienced here in Honduras. These unpredictable, often painful but always healing eight weeks that have allowed me to fit some missing jigsaw pieces into the puzzle of my life. This is a journey which I have made by myself, although I know I have shared it all with you; my family and friends.

I arrived in Tegucigalpa as if it were just another city on my travels. Tired and not ready for the challenge of a big urban sprawl, I stepped of the bus from Nicaragua to the usual hounding by the taxi drivers. My first feelings certainly weren´t “Wow! I´m back, this is where I´m from”. In fact I have spent most of my time travelling avoiding large cities so it comes as a surprise writing this from the colonia (neighbourhood) where I live that I will be staying longer. My taxi driver to the centre was the first to know about my history. That I was born in Tegucigalpa to a Welsh mother, Honduran father, had lived there for two years before heading to Britain where I spent the subsequent 25 years. I had now returned for the first time to find my dad and my Honduran roots. It is a story that I have now told countless times and although I easily tire of my own voice I know that I am opening my soul, something I have rarely been unable to do during the years since my mum´s death.

After finding a suitable hotel, not the cheapest by travelling standards but quiet, clean and with a grumpy receptionist I considered my plans. I had a few contacts in the city kindly given to me by a friend of my mum´s who still lives in Honduras. I had read that the country as a whole was a dangerous place and that of course I should take care. Travelling by myself I was very cautious and did not leave the hotel during the evening for the whole time of my stay. As a result I did meet people in the hotel and eventually made friends with the receptionist. However, the feeling of walking around the city with one eye on the next potential attacker and nights spend in the hotel were very restrictive. I soon learned that although I have Honduran genes, my appearance is that of a European, not even to be mistaken for the lighter skinned cheles of Honduras.

Tegucigalpa is similar to many large cities in Latin America: dense, sprawling, noisy, dirty and polluted. There is no escaping the contrasts in quality of life between the very rich and very poor who own nothing other than what they are wearing. To see someone in a skip, opening rubbish bags and eating left over food was, and continues to impact me. There is a non-existent social security system in the country and hence if someone has no money, no job and no family then they have to fight to live. Unsurprisingly people here do whatever it takes to obtain the next meal or a little money. There is a Honduran saying which goes “aqui no se vive, se sobrevive” (here one doesn´t live, but survives). Children who should be playing in the park instead under the blazing sun sell mangoes, tajadas and chewing gum to cars stopped at traffic lights. People fill in the holes in the road and ask for contributions. Plastic bottles and tins are ripped from rubbish bags in the skip to sell for recycling. These are some people working to survive. Some end up resorting to stealing, robbing or forms of organised crime.

Over one million people live in Tegucigalpa spread over the hilly valley floor and rising up to the steep valley. Here wooden houses with tin roofs are placed precariously on the valley sides. The owners pray not to lose their house to the heavy rain and mudslides that are common between May and November. The city is divided into two by the Rio Choluteca. Tegucigalpa on one side and the often forgotten, marginalised Comayaguela on the other. For all the difficulties that the people face Tegucigalpa has an enchantment to it, or better said is that the people of Tegucigalpa are the enchantment.

On my second day in Tegus I planned to meet Noelia, a friend of my mum´s from when they both lived and worked together in the late 70´s and 80´s. Sent to pick me up was Carlos, the driver of the charity who would become a close friend, who´s friendship and support has been invaluable. Noelia was kind enough to spend time with me away from her very busy role in the charity. Within the first ten seconds of her talking about how loved and respected my mum was I began to cry. Ten years had past since my mum´s death and I knew from the pain that I was feeling I had still a lot of healing to go through. Noelia told me what she remembered about my mum´s time in Honduras, which I will talk about later, if I ever get a clear perspective of. However, I know now that my mum was a respected, solitary, committed and passionate person who fought to improve the lives of the poor Honduran agricultural workers. This knowledge fills me with pride and motivation to follow in her footsteps.

I returned the next day to visit Noelia who had also arranged for me to meet Ricardo; another friend of my mum´s. Ricardo talked a little about my dad and mentioned that he may have tried to look for me many years ago. He also told me that my uncle on my dad´s side was called Eleno and lived somewhere on the North Coast. I had always considered that I would have family on my dad´s side but this was the first time I had a name. Everything began to feel real. That afternoon Carlos and I took the first of many visits to the Civil Registry office where I would try to find information about my family. The Civil Registry is a large, government building where people go if they have lost their identity card or need a copy of their birth certificate. Every child starting the new school year needs to present an official birth certificate to the teacher. I felt sorry for the parents who had to take time off work once a year to obtain a copy for their children. Upon arriving we were greeted by huge queues and I new that if I was by myself I would have no chance of entering. We wondered around investigating where we needed to go. At one point we were approached by one of the many informal helpers who for a fee will help in obtaining whichever papers are required. We gave my details to the helper and waited to see if he would bring any news. After twenty minutes and no news we left our helper to shouts of “come on, just twenty lempira and I´ll get things going”. Since that day every time that I pass the cue he shouts out “El Español” or more inventively “canta me algo Camilio Sexto” (“sing me something Camilo Sexto” (A famous Spanish singer)).

Thanks to a contact that Carlos had we were able to skip the queues and visit an office on the fifth floor. Here they would help me obtain an official copy of my birth certificate which I would later use to obtain my identity card. We would also search the national database for my dad, uncle and grandmother. No luck finding any details and even the passport photos which would appear alongside each name were of no use since I have no recollection of my dad or any photos of him. I would return to the Civil Registry numerous times over the next few weeks. During that period the office would be closed for failures in the system, grey water leaks and worker strikes. By the end I had become friendly with the staff who would always ask how my search was going.

One of the many inspirational people that I met was a friend of my mum´s who founded Committee for the Detained and Disappeared in Honduras (COFADEH) www.cofadeh.org She told me how my mum arrived to work with OXFAM and how they became friends and ended up living in the same apartment blocks in Tegucigalpa. Even when we had moved to the UK my mum continued to keep in contact and would send my old clothes to her son who was four months younger than me. The most amazing story that Bertha told me was of when my parents were no longer living together and how my dad took me without my mum´s permission. After several days of looking my mum found were Miguel was living, jumped the security fence and took me back. It’s nice to know that both cared about me so much.

Not even a week had passed and I was learning so much but that first weekend would change the course of my stay. I met with another friend of my mum´s and we talked a little about my mum´s time here and the landworker movement in Honduras. He told me that his son Gilberto was living in a house in the city and I was welcome to stay with him. So the next day I was being picked up and taken to the house in a colonia called El Hato. To this day I am still living here and it looks like I will be here for the next year.

I couldn´t have had more luck with the house. All young people and part of a political organisation with a distinct leaning to the left (If you are interested you can visit their website www.losnecios.org ). I even had my own room. Over the following weeks I would get to better know René, Ian and Claudia as well as many of the people involved in the organisation.

During the next week I would continue to meet friends of my mum´s. All inspirational people who had survived difficult times during the late 70s and 80s, and were still working for a just Honduras. My most memorable visit was to The Honduran Institute of Rural Development where my mum worked. I was met by Guillermo and Andres. I had no idea what was awaiting me and once we had sat down Guillermo read me an article that he had published in the Institute´s Magazine. The article entitled “Nia….Nos Puedes Oir” (“¿Nia….Can you hear us?” ) talked about her impact with the organisation and her solidarity with the poor landworkers. Immediately I was in tears, again another occasion in which I realised that I still find it difficult to deal with her death. Then whilst still drying my eyes I was taken downstairs to meet all of the staff and I was presented with a plaque entitled “El Rincon de Nia Williams” (“The Nia Williams Corner”).Guillermo and I together stuck the plaque to the wall. The story goes that the plaque was actually ordered some months ago and it seems that I arrived in Honduras just as they were preparing to hang the plaque.

Again, Guillermo surprised me and took me to meet the doctor who was present at my birth. My mum hadn´t time to reach the hospital and I was born on the kitchen table.

So slowly I began to settle into the city. Our colonia is working class and relatively quite. However, like most areas of Tegus there are problems and there is always the need to walk carefully. It´s good to have the odd note in the socks, reply whilst walking when the kids on the corner ask for a little money and not to wander the streets late at night. All common sense really. However, more seriously my local internet café was robbed at gunpoint and a friend´s dad was assassinated a month ago. So far I´ve been fine and not experienced any problems myself. The colonia does have some charm and the little plaza in the centre always has people selling fresh fruit such as pineapple, watermelon, avocados and plantains out of their vans. Two old men will sit day long peeling orange skins whilst every lunchtime and dinner time women will sit on the street corner selling maize tortilla. There is also a great selection of Honduran fast foods. For example, baleadas: flower tortillas filled with fried red beans, cream and a chilli sauce, papusas: similar but originally from El Salvador, tamales: boiled mass of maize wrapped in banana leaves. Our neighbours are really friendly and I will often sit outside with them chatting in the evening.

Thanks to Carlos I began to meet many people and eventually got round to playing football with his friends. The first match I lasted only ten minutes and had to be substituted as the standard was high, my skill low and my fitness nonexistent. As the weeks past I wandered back into goal (my position during my youth) and can now proudly say that I am a valuable member of the team.

On an aside football is the only sport in Honduras and when the national team plays the country comes to a standstill. So far no one is buying there ticket for the 2010 Finals in South Africa but there is a good chance this year to qualify. It would be only the second time in their history and a welcome distraction to the nation from the daily grind.

That same week I accompanied Gilberto on a trip to Trujillo on the Caribbean Coast. When we arrived at the meeting point at 6.30am I had no idea where we were going and was surprised to be told we would be travelling in an old US school bus across the country. The long journey with the Bloque Popular, a mixture of trade unionists, students and political activists took us northwards rising out of the pine tree valleys of Tegus and toward Lago Yojoa, the largest freshwater lake in the country. From there we arrived at the North Coast feeling the humidity and temperature rising along with the appearance of African palm and banana plantations.

I swore that night was going to be the last time I sleep with 30 men. What I actually mean is that sleeping in a dorm with 30 other men didn´t allow for a good nights sleep. Amongst the snoring and farting I was awoken at 3.45am. Someone was listening to the official Cuban radio station news. Then at 5am the person sleeping next to me woke up spitting profusely on the floor about 50cm from my bed. Not a big deal and all was soon forgotten eating a typical Honduran breakfast of refried beans, maize tortillas, cream and a black coffee.

We had travelled to Trujillo to support three campesinos that were due to be trialed for the murder of a ten people. The prosecution was demanding a sentence of 500 years, unknown in the history of the Honduran justice system. The campesinos from Valley de Aguan, a valley which the centre of land struggles between the poor campesinos and the powerful terratenientes (landowners). The campesinos, in their attempt to recover their land have been intimidated, threatened and killed. All that they wish is some land to plant maize and frijoles for food and income for their family. That morning we marched on the town of Trujillo with banners, chants and music. We visited the Council offices, the Mayor´s office and the local courts to present a document asking for a fair trial. Unsurprisingly, the Mayor´s office would not open to receive the document and in the local courts everybody had gone to lunch. It was a fantastic experience and had some poignant moments thinking that over 25 years ago my mum and dad were doing exactly the same: supporting the campesinos in their struggle. A day later, back in Tegus we heard the news that another campesino had been shot and one was seriously injured. A real eye opener to how difficult life is for the campesinos in that area of the country.

I spent the next week a little frustrated. By now I was no longer travelling and neither was I living in Tegus. I have always been patient in the search for my dad and know that one day soon I will find him. However, not being able to do anything to advance the search was difficult and I felt a little lost. I re-learned that the best remedy is just to get on with life. I dragged myself out of the house and made good friends with the baleada family and Angel of the internet café. It felt great to develop friendships and feel some personal contact.

Towards the end of the week I was invited a friend at the charity TROCAIRE to visit HIV projects in Choluteca, SE of Honduras. This area of the country which borders Nicaragua has a high rate of HIV partly due to the migration and movement of truck drivers and prostitutes. In Honduras there exists an extreme amount of discrimination and misunderstanding regarding HIV and AIDS. Our visit included meeting with a support group for people infected with HIV. Of the group of twenty of one person had been able to tell there family of their condition, this was a young girl with a child of two years old. We also visited the home of a woman who is part of the group. She lived in an isolated house some distance from the nearest village which had no electricity or running water. She told us how she was unable to obtain work as people would openly discriminate against her. Her only support came from the group and the hammocks she made and sold. The income from this had to go to supporting her two children, buying the antiviral and the adequate food for the antiviral to work. We also visited a primary school and a high school where a local charity had been working not only to educate about HIV but also discrimination and human rights.

As I mentioned before a friend´s dad was assassinated 200m from where I live. At 7am when he was preparing to go to work he was shot three times in the head. It is believed this was done professionally and as a response to his work which investigated fraud and corruption. There have been over 2000 killings this year in Honduras related to gangs, robberies and hired professionals. The government´s response has been to increase the number of police on the streets as well as to provide military support. This does have an immediate effect but undoubtedly the root of the problem is far greater. Marginalisation of the poor, inadequate education, poor police pay and lack of police education amongst many reasons. Where to start? Corruption is ingrained at all levels of society, the penal system is ineffective and people are scared to report crimes. Honduras faces a huge task and part of the solution must be to better divide the wealth that the country has and stop the exploitation of the workers. This year the minimum wage was doubled to 5500 Lempira, about 250US dollars, still a very small quantity.

So that has been my first month here in Honduras. I have tried to give an accurate description of the country and my experiences here. This is the reality as to how over 50% of the population lives.

I´m glad to say that I´m happy, taking care of myself and leading a healthy life. I hope you are all well and enjoying the arrival of Spring. Lots of love. You are in my thoughts

Alexis