Last thoughts on Honduras

Most everyone in Honduras is in the same spot of scraping for work and wondering if it is all worth it.  Most all are young, full of energy and what the U.S. would consider poor. 

One thing this trip has made me consider is the broad definition of the word "gang".  The battle between gangs is the repeated objection against gangs from Honduran people.  The second major complaint is the "war tax".  The "war tax" is essentially extortion for what gangs claim are protective measures from the enemy gang in the neighboring barrio (neighborhood).  The safest neighborhoods are the ones where there is no question as to who runs it, thus not as much bloodshed.  

 One of my last interviews was with an high ranking officer of FUSINA.  We talked about the repeated offenses of murder and kidnapping by people dressed as the police and he explained to me that somehow gang members steal police uniforms.  I think we both knew that it is very likely that the gangs didn't have to steal anything.  

We also talked about how the police wear masks to protect their identities.  If one is to be a legitimate police officer they will be in great danger to live in just about any of the barrios within Tegucigalpa.  However if the police are as corrupt as most of the people in Honduras have told me, then an honest legitimate police officer will be in great danger being within the police force as well.  

How deeply this corruption might perpetuate throughout every branch of government is beyond my knowledge.  Without doubt though, Honduras is percolating, full of desire, potential and possibility.  Full of people wanting to work.  

But it would be wise to not pity them for being poor.  As the amputee migrant told me in an interview, "poverty does not mean death or even a miserable existence."  I would add that perhaps it is easier to live a miserable experience within wealth and with the fear of losing your wealth, hence miserly.  

Being poor means to be tightly tied to a bigger community, whether by choice or by necessity.  Each individuals fate is closely tied with the fate of the whole much moreso then within the wealthy communities.

A friend described it to me perfectly the other day, he said he was saving up some "Fuck you" money.  That is money that gives him the security of knowing that at some point he can tell his boss "Fuck you."  Eventually he can save up enough "fuck you" money and move to Tahiti if he so desires.

This affluent independence makes our communities weak.  It also makes us more prone to depression.  It is difficult to fortify this concept in words and it sounds trite coming from an outsider whose economic existence has always been somewhat better.  My only defense is that I can feel this truth, in every barrio and village I walked into.

I want my share of comfort and the power of being able to walk away independently.  There is nothing wrong with that desire, but with its acquisition comes unintended consequences. 

Ultimately the strength of every community and individual must come down to resiliency.  

There was a man that spoke English in El Chimbo that I ran into occasionally near the banana stand.  His front neck was scarred from the removal of a large tattoo.  He was waiting a year to try to cross the border again because he was on probation.  The probation specified that if caught trying to cross again he will be in prison for 7 years.  He told me all of this tired after a 10 hour shift of heavy construction labor for which he profited the equivalent of one hours pay from McDonalds.  Frustration seethed from him as we talked. 

He was at such an economically rigged disadvantage and yet with this knowledge he still awoke every morning for an honest day of work.  How much stronger Honduras would be if only he could be paid his worth in his own country, rather then feel the need to leave for a foreign land and to send his honest pay back.*

It is inherently unfair and is hard to fix, but is not beyond repair.

* This (remittances) actually accounts for around 20% of Honduras GDP - http://www.indexmundi.com/honduras/economy_profile.html

  

A Death in the Market

Oscar the candy-man and I met up for another run around town. 

Oscar the Candyman

He doesn't sell much and his sales pitch is him tapping on his hard wooden box with a twig.  The most expensive candy Oscar sells (the cookies) costs 5 Lempiras, roughly 25 cents.  At this rate his profit margins probably never exceed 1 lempira (5 cents).  Despite this, he is gratuitous with his candy.  Shoddy looking disheveled men without money approach him for a sweet and he hands over a sucker with a smile.  A sucker that probably represents a half hour of his profits.

After sitting down for an interview I picked up his candy box for him and I was shocked at the weight.  I had assumed it was about 20 pounds but what I lifted felt around 35 pounds.  He has not once complained about his job. 

Masked Homicide detective at scene of murder in market

As we walked through central market we heard shots nearby, which isn't unusual.  In the faces of the hundreds of people flooding the streets I see a brief flash of concern and quickly they return to the hustle and bustle. 

We came to a crowd and worked our way to the yellow tape and the dead man.  He was running through the market trying to escape gang members.  He was running through a sort of maze inside a musky building past the smells of butchered meat.  As he dashed outside unto the light upon the street he took his final step and was shot. 

I took this photo of the masked homicide detective perusing the scene and looking menacing.  After I took the photo he quickly jumped on his bike and drove off.  Our passage was blocked and so we turned around.

Girl at murder scene

Within about 10 steps of turning from the murder scene a truck doing a three point turn almost plastered Oscar the candyman to the wall.  Oscar is a bit fearless in his handling of traffic but this time the truck was clearly being an asshole.  We waited for the truck to finish turning and walked behind it. 

However, the truck driver was pissed and decided to let Oscar know his feelings.  Oscar wasn't having it.  He gave the fat driver a piece of his mind.  The scene escalated and the driver got out and lurched toward Oscar.  This fat man was a good match for Oscar and I thought my friend might need some assistance.  I decided to forego photography momentarily and began looking around the tables of the vendors for some form of weapon while saying over and over again, "Cuidado hombre."  As fat man came closer Oscar pulled out his garbage bag wrapped machete which promptly caused the truck driver to get back in his Toyota and drive off in a flurry of curses. 

View from Picacho

Oscar and I made our way to mount Picacho which I kept calling mount Pikachu.  Picacho is at an apex of Tegucigalpa that offers a stunning view of the city.  We had to leave his candy box with the Honduran military at the gate.  The military ended up stealing his cigarettes while we took in the scenery.  Thank God Oscar didn't make a fuss about getting robbed by one of the many Honduran military men equipped with AK47s.  One of those military guys was giving me the stink eye as I walked in, I bet it was him.

We decided to go to the zoo.  The monkeys were stretching their hands out of the cage trying to get fed by the people outside.  One baby monkey hid in the corner sucking on a lollipop.  Whenever a smaller monkey managed to get food he had to run, swing, jump and eat all at the same time while escaping as he was pursued by several screaming jealous monkeys intent on robbing him. 

 All monkeys confined to this small space of land and surrounded by borders trying to escape and getting dumped back in the cage.  Arms outstretched through the wire for help.  Whenever one monkey gets something nice he is targeted by jealousy and endangered by his good fortune.  Meanwhile the man at the gate makes money off the show. 

Mi Casa in El Chimbo

The place I am staying at is a three generation strong camp of the Zelaya clan.  My hosts name is Brenda, her 80-year-old father has lived in El Chimbo most of his life.  He and his recently deceased wife have had 12 children.

Each one of those children has roughly 2-3 children of their own, roughly 2 dogs and 1 cat and one spouse. I have asked around and the final count of heads on the compound comes to 27 humans, 11 dogs, 6 cats and 3 roosters (each with a very distinct sound) and the number of chickens fluctuates too wildly to keep track.

  It is jovial.  The front house facing the road consists of two shops.  One is Sonia the seamstress and the other store is Brenda's tined where she sells trophies, school supplies and delicious home-made popsicles in plastic cups.  Connected to each house and shop is another house.  They must have popped up as the family multiplied and as money became available.  Each house has a wash basin for clothes and the trash that escaped the fire surrounds the entire encampment.

About 3 minutes ago the window fell out of the third story and caused a commotion.  Each family came out to witness what just went down.  The building is pure utilitarian with no bells and whistles and nothing to mask the elements of the home.  The drapes are held up with pvc pipe, there are gaps in house and the sink is essentially the shower.  It looks better compared to the other houses which seem to be made of a brick foundation on top of scrap wood with tin roof.   

Everyone seems genuinely happy.  Papa cooks up a huge batch of black beans every week, the neighbor comes to clean up every couple of days.  The kids sing and play hide and seek with little to no supervision and never seem to get bored or hurt beyond repair.  Every morning someone blasts latino punta music to start the day.  The roosters start crowing around 430 am and don't stop until about 9. 

 The youngest child of the 80 year old patriarch is 23 which means he was staying busy until the ripe old age of 57.  He walks around the camp with a battery powered radio that he keeps beside himself religiously.  He wears a tattered old white cowboy hat and has two tiny front teeth that have withstood the test of time. 

Brenda yells a lot and if you didn't know her you might think she was serious, but she she yells out of love.  I have taught the clan how to play rummy and speed.  The last speed game ended in a banana peel fight that included a few limes and lasted about 20 minutes.  The kids get bored sometimes so they grab a stick and chase a chicken, or see what unique operations can be done with a wheelbarrow. 

Everyone is in poverty by the US standards but everybody seems to hold a capacity for joy unlike anything I have ever seen. 

Brenda has just interrupted my writing to blame her stomach pain on my coffee being made too strong.  I argue as best as I can in my broken spanish.  She has taught me new bad words, most of which she uses while watching her husbands football game on Sunday afternoons.  She is strong too, I barely managed to beat her at arm wrestling. 

I could go on with details but suffice to say that these people have close to everything they need and nothing that they don't.  Except perhaps the dog that has pissed in my bed twice.  That damned black mutt has done it very purposeful too, I go to the bathroom and when I come back he is coming out leaving a grand puddle of stinky dog piss dripping off the blankets. 

Tomorrow they will throw a grand bash to see me off back to the U.S.  I had expected that I would only stay here with Brenda for a week and then head into the dangerous city of San Pedro Sulla.  It occurred to me that if I am to chase hell and trouble and forego a nice beach vacation then I had better have a joyful scene to come home to when I am tired at the end of the day.  This family has provided me more then I could have asked.  Another stunning testament to the beautiful and humble people of Honduras.  

~

A Walk Through the Barrios

   Oscar walks with a limp.  He has a voice that has witnessed decades of darkness.  I only understand about 3 out of 5 words.  Sometimes I feel as if he could punch me in the middle of one his speeches because of the hard gaze he throws with his one straight eye.  He never gets much above a whisper but the growl underlying his voice gives inflections. 

  He spent 15 years in prison and he is now a christian.  He has been out for less then a year.

   I've walked with him twice on his candy runs.  He runs a small business out of wooden box strapped around his neck.  The box weighs about 20 pounds and he sells loose cigarettes, matches, suckers, cookies and other misc sweets.  People know him by name. 

   We were searching out the trash dumps where people make their living sifting for recyclables.  We checked out a few small scale operations.  I ran into one his old prison buddies.  He had the same serious growl.

   The places we sought were dangerous and I asked him how dangerous he thought they were.  In his many words I halfway understood that he had faith that we were not in danger.  I sensed he was basing this on his belief that we were doing Gods work.  It was a nice thought but I had my reservations. 

   I had spent the morning going through the Honduran newspaper and in the past 24 hours a victim was thrown out of a car with nails in his eyes.  Another was hacked up into little pieces and bagged up.  The previous day I was appreciating the rustic nature of one of the barrios in Molina.  My friend told me that a body was shot and thrown from the cliff above us and landed on the tin roof that we were looking upon.

    My nerves were on edge but I was willing to risk the equipment I had brought that day which amounted to about $350.  As long as whatever crime committed against me was logical and without passion I would be safe, I might lose a camera but what is it worth if I don't take the risk of using it? 

   I was filming the vultures eating trash near the river and I realized there was a 9 year old girl rummaging through the garbage.  Three more younger kids popped up and then there was a whole family peering out of a shack.  Filthy and one with the trash.  I am envious of the immune system they must have developed to thrive in such grime and grit. 

    From there we walked around a corner.  I asked to photograph an old toothless woman and asked her to step into the shade but she stepped into a watery mud pit and I felt bad so I just dealt with the shitty light.  She kept talking to me the whole time and the I only understood the words, "Here, famous, pistol, dead, dangerous." 

   And with those words we continued.  The looks from people passing were becoming graver and graver with each step.  There was a bar with a man laid out in a wheelbarrow with a swollen blue face.

    Usually in these situations I have a way of walking that keeps me in control of my exit route if need be.  Oscar still had a job to do and anyone who wanted a smoke or light got his and my full attention.  I was confined to the sidewalk blocked off by cars and surrounded front and end with people.  Usually I think the more people the better for safety but when it is a tight spot with the same type of people it is bad news. 

   I saw more and more glue huffers.  Most use a blue bottle cut off halfway and they huff away laid out on the sidewalk. 

    We took a bus through Carraval into Colonia Lomas where Oscar lives.  We hiked up about a mile through winding steps and we met up with his brother who shared his one room shack with him.  His brother talked to me for awhile about how my mission was from God and blessed.  I told him that my mission was journalism and whatever I put out into the world from my experience here will be a reflection of what I see, not for God.  But if God is the truth then yes. 

    I interviewed Oscar for an hour and his neighbor blasted Mariachi the whole time.  Oscar was talking about some heavy deep seeded issues with a voice I would not want to hear in an alley after dark and the whole time this cheesy background of accordions, hollers and tubas is killing the atmosphere. 

   It began thundering and as we walked up the tire steps from his shack I realized his barrio was covered with masked police carrying AK47s.  I immediately counted roughly 20 on the street and as we turned the corner I counted 10 more.  Down the stairs to the bus I counted another 5.  They seemed to be searching random houses. 

    On the bus ride back Oscar and I had attempted more failed conversations.  I noticed something protruding out of his shirt.  I realized the entire day while he was selling candy and smokes he had a huge machete shoved down his pants.  I had a new found respect for him.  I thought he was foolishly putting his and my security into his religious ideology and the entire time he was on guard to hack some people up and at any given moment. 

   He is not the perfect fixer, his English is none, I begin to wonder about his Spanish as he is by far the hardest to transcribe.  But he looks half crazy, he's independent and he's armed. 

The Youth and the Gangs

    I have the kids next door help me out with the transcribing of these interviews.  I felt bad paying them so little at first but I soon realized I was paying them top dollar. 

     My transcriber is a teenager girl named Nila and tonight she was making a card for her friend at school.  Cutting cardboard and color paper with bright markers and glue and sparkles and typical young teenage girl stuff. 

     I had just learned that the last kid I interviewed in Colonia San Francisco is part of a gang and had been told to rob me next time I came out to film.  Ivan liked me and he didn't want to do it so he warned me.  Nila had transcribed the interview and I told her about it. 

     She didn't seem to be shocked.  I asked her why she didn't seem very surprised.  I wasn't too surprised to learn he was in a gang either, but I had seen him, had seen the way he dressed and checked out his Facebook page.  Nila had only transcribed his words. 

     I teased Nila that the kid she was making the card for was her boyfriend.  She told me the kid had just been shot in the stomach.  She said this to me in such a nonchalant way as if she was telling me we would be having spaghetti for dinner.  Here were three little girls gluing cardboard hearts and sprinkling glitter and they seemed unphased by the real and possible violence that surrounds them. 

    The more I have asked about the gangs here the more complicated and nuanced they become.

    It is safer to be in a place where the gang has unquestionable control.  There you know at least there will not be any gang vs gang fighting. 

    Gangs actually look out for their community in some ways.  They often help pay medical bills for people in the community.  I hear stories that they help in parenting.  If a kid is talking bad to his mother and the gang hears about, or if the mother actually tells they gang, the gang will "hit him up".  Which is to say they will beat the hell out of him. 

    One woman told me that gangs force girls into prostitution.  Another source refuted that.  He tells me gang member will take on girls to be their 'Heinas' which is kind of a booty call.  My friend went on to tell me about a kid he knew named Carlito.

    Carlito was a 14-year-old with a dad that left him for the US.  He was poor and living in a tough barrio.  One day an acquaintance asks him to deliver a package.  Carlito does not ask what is in the package, just does it.  He may or may not realize that the acquaintance was part of a gang but regardless he has made his first step into the gang life. 

    The gang member gives him a cell phone one day for his deeds, next time it is a pair of shoes.  People in the barrio notice Carlito has some nice things and they suspect that he is in with the gang. 

    The small deeds go on for a month or two and one day one of the gang members asks Carlito, "Are you with us or not?  You need to decide."  Carlito thinks about it for awhile, he is afraid because he knows who these guys are and he has unwittingly drawn himself deeper and deeper in with them, but now he has a choice. 

    He says no, he wants out.  He is still nervous though as he knows too much now.  He keeps himself locked away in his mom's house for a long period of time and doesn't want to see anybody.

    One night a friend comes over and convinces him to come out and enjoy himself so he does.  This "friend" takes him to the gang where he shot dead on the spot at the age of 14.

The American Dream in Honduras

I caught a ride back from Cedros with a Tegucigalpan violin teacher.  He blasted Spanish operetta the whole way.  We rode through a town called la Ermita and he told me that all of the houses were built with money sent from families of immigrants in the U.S.  One statistic claims that 30% of the Honduran GDP ($410 Million) comes from money sent from immigrants in the U.S.

 I recently attended the dedication of a home built by missionaries for an old man outside of tegucigalpa. It had been built out of wood.  It would have cost the same to build it out of cinder block and it would have lasted through the honduran rain and hard winds.  

I asked how much all of the supplies were.  90000 Lempiras.  That is $4500 in US dollars.  $4500 for all the supplies you need to build a house.  The land was twice the cost at $9000 so all told, one house and a piece of land is roughly $13500.  

However the average Honduran makes about $200 a month and everything else costing roughly the same.  Actually computers, cars, phones usually cost more in Honduras.  It makes great sense to make a run to the US, work for a month and bada-bing-bada-boom you got a house.

Some Hondurans don't manage $200 a month.  As the violin teacher and I rolled into Northwest Tegucigalpa around Comayaguela he pointed out the trash heaps and workers.  There is a cluster of barrios that work the trash and collect aluminum and metals through the garbage.  For 1 pound of aluminum they get 30 Lempiras = $1.50.  Most manage to get about 2 pounds a day which means a monthly full time job of garbage sifting get you $90.

Electricity and Bus Rides

 Last night I had a line up of students ready to be interviewed during the night classes at the Colonia San Francisco and halfway through the first interview the electricity in the entire neighborhood went out followed by the excited screaming of nearly 1000 teenagers.  The electricity goes out often in Honuras and since I have been here Tegucigalpa has cut off electricity entirely in 4 hour gaps throughout the day. 

I had run out of contacts and asking street merchants wasn't working so I walked into the newspaper office of El Heraldo and met a man named Mario who was a well of connections.  With his direction I headed to Carraval which is a foot market in the dangerous Northwest side of Tegucigalpa.  From Carraval I caught a bus to Cedros. 

The bus ride was 3.5 hours long with a constant stream of people jumping on and off to sell corn, cream corn, fried corn patties with sugar, fried plantains with slaw and hot sauce, candy, soda, razors, batteries, snake oil, bread, cane juice and sugared peanuts.  Some people would get on and testify to the entire bus and ask for tips. 

The buses here are fantastic.  Each has its own flair and uses cursive to announce where it goes.  The cost is 7 lempiras which is $0.35.  There are two types of buses, one that blasts Reggeaton which is kind of Central Americas answer to hip hop electronic, the other blasts sappy romantic 80s U.S. music.  The Awesome 80s buses are the majority and everytime I ride I feel like I am back in an 88 Aerostar van listening to my mom sing "I wanna know what love is!  I want you to show meeee!"

The bus rode through the moonless pitch black night into a lightening storm blasting reggaeton the entire way.  I was let off in the tiny town of Cedros near the border of El Salvador. 
There I met up with Mercedes who works with the education of Hondurans and is unique in how outspoken she is with gang problems of Honduras.  She talked a lot.  I asked her to slow down for my gringo ears but she didn't seem to get the hint so I listened for hours and got the general outline of what she was talking about. 

The next day we went out for a few interviews.  Most interesting was an old woman stuck with three children from her brother.  Each child had a U.S. passport and had been dumped off with this poor old lady in a tightly packed house of 7 where they all slept 7 beds in one tiny room.  She wasn't too pleased about the situation.  Although those kids have the golden ticket when they come of age.

I took a shower which consisted of walking to the river and plunging a bowl in a concrete basin and pouring it on myself.  It was very refreshing and conservative.  Outside the concrete roofless wash room the women of the neighborhood washed dishes and clothes. 

It's hard getting crime to fight crime

I am told that the new Honduran president (Juan Orlando Hernández) is good with photo-ops and kissing babies and has even gone so far as to actually throw money at crowds but when it comes to cleaning up corruption and working towards social justice he is either on a leash or part of the problem.  

THe day I flew in there had been 8 people mowed down in a hail of bullets within miles from the airport I landed at.  I asked the cab driver how to avoid being killed and he put it plainly, "give the gangs what they want and do not negotiate."  

I think my cab driver was a good guy however I am told that many of the cab drivers in Tegucigalpa run errands for the gangs.  Usually the cabs get to a point where they know too much and they magically disappear.  

The man telling me much of this is a minister, lets call him Jose.  Jose does a lot of mission work and when he takes groups to work in the gang controlled barrios (synonymous with ghetto) he has to make two phone calls.  One is to a gang member to let them know he is coming to do some work and the other is to the police to let them know he is going to do some mission work and to not show up.  If the police show up during his visit to the barrio then his trust with the gang member is broken and he may well disappear just like the cab driver.

I asked Jose why he gets away with it.  If the cab driver disappears after he knows too much why doesn't Jose disappear if he knows enough to call an actual gang member before he shows up in his territory.  Jose has been ministering for decades and the reason he knows many of the gang members is because they attended his church when they were children.  

"They keep sure that you are in line, every Sunday as I preach I look out and I see a gang member.  They want to check up on you and make sure you are the real thing and not talking to loudly about the gangs.  I know a preacher in San Pedro that was killed for this very thing,"  Jose said.  

If someone wants to get out of the gang to join the church the gang respects that.  They want to make sure that you are not leaving there gang to join up with the enemy gang.  So the gangs check up and make sure the preachers are legit.  

"We have a shack shop outside of the church that sells chips and candy.  They began selling liquor and people were getting drunk outside of the church and causing trouble.  I asked the shop owner, 'Why do you do this?  You know it is illegal to sell liquor within a certain radius of the church'"

The shop man challenged Jose to denounce him.  "If you do not like what I do then go ahead and denounce me,"

This situation is another way in which society breaks down under gangs.  The gangs collect a "war tax" from business owners.  "They ask for it, you pay it and you do not negotiate," as my cab driver put it.  Additionally, they look out for the businesses they collect the war tax from.  if a business is paying the gang and someone gives them trouble they can complain and make that person disappear.  

In this way, gangs are essentially mercenary police forces.  This may be how every primitive army or police force began in its early baby stages.  

So if Jose denounces this liquor vendor outside his church and the vendor is paying his war taxes then poor Jose is in deep shit.  It's also a gamble because Jose doesn't really know if this vendor is paying his war taxes.  He might just be bluffing.  

These rules apply to businesses and within schools.  A thirteen-year-old kid could rule the entire classroom if he has the right connections.  I have been told of executions during class as well.  You really have to consider the ramifications of failing someone for algebra.  

http://cogwm.org/church-of-god-pastor-murdered-in-honduras/

https://www.worldwatchmonitor.org/2011/02-February/33499/

http://latino.foxnews.com/latino/news/2014/08/10/8-die-in-shootout-in-honduras/

Bananas and Coffee

Today the headline was that 9 were gunned down and killed in San Pedro Sulla. They were shot at the morgue waiting to retrieve the body of a family member that had just been murdered in La Ceiba.  Another headline reads that 5 children the US has deported back have already been murdered by gangs.  I am not entirely sure how many we have deported back to put that number into perspective, but I believe the deportations from the recent flood of child immigrants began in mid July.  Over the past 10 months Border Patrol have apprehended 63,000 unaccompanied migrants below the age of 17 at the border. 

There are arguments being made that the migrants leaving Honduras are not truly leaving to escape violence but to find a better life with better pay.  Hondurans must have become calloused to the violence a long time ago.  The reasons why are probably grey.  Some are escaping violence, some are trying to get to their families who left them behind to send money from the U.S. and some are trying to get a decent paying job.


The violence has been escalating and the poverty has remained for quite some time.  Most people in Honduras live on roughly $1.25 a day. Hondurans working in the U.S. send more than US$2 billion each year to their families in Honduras; these remittances account for 28.2% of Honduras's GDP (2007 information [4]).  I have also read that 40 percent of residents are under the age of 15, although I haven't verified that from a reputable source I will concede that it is close to true.

 I think this article below sums up the recent history -
I also found this old United Fruit Company logo.

This is from the Associated Press -     In the late 19th century, U.S. companies like United Fruit and Standard Fruit owned vast tracts of land and relied on the Honduran military to quell labor rebellions. The elites then formed the country's two major political parties in support of the fruit companies, cementing ties between Honduras' business and political interests, said Marvin Barahona, a historian at a Jesuit think tank in the capital.
With wealth concentrated in the hands of a few families, Honduras remained poor. Decades later, as U.S. aid poured into government coffers, many citizens complained that their country had been converted into Washington's client state, a base for the U.S. military and U.S.-backed Contras fighting the Sandinistas in neighboring Nicaragua.
But the status quo was fine with the oligarchy. Zelaya, a rich landowner from Olancho state, was one of them when he was elected president in 2006. When he began to move away from Washington towards Venezuela's leftist President Hugo Chavez, however, his opponents feared a populist threat. His proposal for a referrendum on changing the constitution was the last straw. He was booted out by leaders of his own party, backed by the army.
The U.S. suspended aid as a sanction for the coup, and in the ensuing political chaos, drug traffickers saw an opening.

To that I would add the effect of Hurricane Mitch in 1998 which left nearly 11,000 dead and 2.7 million homeless and the terrain of Honduras being so mountainous and hard to tame. 

While thinking of possible ways to fix the situation I am reminded of a conversation I had between a Nicaraguan named Ana and an Arizonian named John.  John was talking about how he refused to shop at a particular grocery store because they treated their workers badly.  It led to a conversation about Maquiladoras and sweatshops.  John had made a general rule not to shop at sweatshops and Ana was upset because the sweatshops were a great help to Nicaraguas economy.  The basic take away was that it is wrong that sweatshops exploit labor so cheaply and treat their workers badly, but when sweatshops are the only thing available it is an ideal choice between work and going hungry.
  
Sending aid to the government seems to be a waste as they are so corrupt.  I think perhaps the best thing for Americans to do is to not buy cocaine and to buy as much Honduran coffee and bananas as they can.  As the economy gets better it must be left to the Hondurans to fight for justice within their government and to strengthen their labor unions. 

Or you can pick a non-profit and hope they know what they are doing.  Here is a one that I have worked with -  http://www.educate2envision.org/

Dollars vs Lempiras

I had a terrible interview with a recent deportee today.  I asked him for an interview and he obliged so I met him at the banana stand and set everything up.  Setting up two cameras and two mics in a small village at the local banana stand is a big deal.  Everyone is watching in curiosity and both the interviewer and interviewee get kind of nervous.  

This guy answered everything with one word, it was horrible.  But then his brother came up.  

His brother has crossed into the U.S. 13 times.  The rule is the more you are busted for trying to illegally enter the worse the sentence.  Last time he crossed he spent 3 years in prison for it.  

Three years in prison with a lot of hardened criminals is a big deal and a harsh sentence for anyone who is trying to migrate for better work.  He was put on a sort of "probation".  Basically after his release the government told him that if he gets busted within the next three years trying to cross he gets 6 years in prison.  

The man was sharp, bilingual with slicked back hair.  I could tell he used to have a tattoo on his neck that had been removed and I spent a good bit of time trying to decipher what the tattoo used to be.  I also noticed he had had his throat slit at some point.  

I have picked up a production assistant to aid in the interviews.  Her name is Mina and she is about 12 years old.  She is helping to transcribe as well.  She has insisted in working for free but I have insisted otherwise as she has no idea what a pain in the ass transcribing can be.  

Minimum wage in Honduras is roughly 20 lempiras.  20 lempiras = $1.00

I always argue that money is relative so for the sake of my own logic lets point out some basic costs.

1 bannana = 1 lempira = $0.05

1 avacodo = 5 lempiras = $0.50

36 eggs = 40 lempiras = $2.00

I gallon of Gasoline = $4.50

1 year of College (including books and utilities) = roughly 15000 lempiras = $750

So my relativity of money theory doesn't really hold up when it comes to gasoline.  Hell it doesn't really hold up well when it comes to anything except bananas and college.  I am only calloused by how much an education costs in the US so this cost makes sense to me. 

I don't think I could get away with paying anyone 20 bananas an hour in the states.  

The Overthrow of Zelaya

A quick refresher on the coup that took place a few years back:  Basically through order of the Supreme court the Honduran military took president Zelaya out of office and sent him into exile dumping him off in Costa Rica.  

Zelaya was bringing in socialistic ideas into Honduras and he was defiant about it.  He was very popular with the poor people which is a huge chunk of Honduras.  He raised the minimum wage by 60% and he pissed off alot of big money.  His major flaw was that he was stupid and didn't know how to pace himself.  That and he might have been a corrupt coke-head.

Zelaya is accused of stealing roughly $2 million before the coup.  This is not the only accusation of corruption toward Zelaya and I do not doubt that some of the allegations are true.

Still, he raised the minimum wage by 60% that means a lot anywhere but in a place like Honduras where houses are made of plywood with tin roofs and dirt floors that is a game changer.

Following the coup there was a surge in drug planes coming into Honduras.  

  

Afterwards under the presidency of Pepe Lobo there has been a massive increase in murders of disagreeable journalists.  Because of this murder there is increasing self censorship from the media.  Lobo left office in January 2014.  

For anyone wanting more info on Zelaya here is a fantastic argument between two very well sourced people that is both entertaining and informative. - http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=102x4866416

and this goes over the smear campaign the new government gave Zelaya - http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/25/world/americas/25honduras.html?_r=0

Here is an interesting link about the murder of Honduran Journalists - http://latindispatch.com/2011/05/09/whos-killing-the-journalists-of-honduras/

Back in Honduras

For years I have been wanting to return to the story on migration and when the news of all the child immigrants flooding the border hit me I knew that the time was right to jump back on the saddle.
 For some time I considered heading to Texas but I realized that with my credentials I would be filming across the street from a detention center and interviewing a bunch of Texans.  Then I considered returning to Nogales Mexico but it occurred to me that it would only be a regurgitation of my first film on the desert crossers.


Of all the child migrants coming over the Texan border a high percentage of them are Honduran, particularly from San Pedro Sulla and Tegucigalpa.  So after much internal debate and before losing my nerve I decided to buy a ticket and see whats kicking in Honduras.

So here I am, and here I will be for the next 5 weeks.  I will be reporting from this blog as much as possible so stay tuned and there should be some deportee interviews on the way.

Crossing Nogales

This was the first documentary I ever made.  It also represents about 6 months of my life back in 2008.  I had no idea how much this work would change my life when I was making it.  The productions standards are terrible and the font I chose was absolutely tasteless.  This documentary has been ripped apart by many other professional documentarians including myself at this point.  I was running on dreams and train smoke with a cheap Canon Xti and plenty of time. I couldnt have done this work with nicer equipment, I would have been too afraid of being robbed.  Despite this being terrible production standards, the story is stronger then anything else I have worked on.

Tales from Agua Prieta

I filmed Agua Prieta for over a month back in 2010.  I had it in my mind that I would go back and make a much bigger project of it all but in the meantime alot of life came my way and the footage just sat around getting old.

It occurred to me that these stories are time sensitive and need to be released to do any good in the universe.  So I swallowed my aesthetic pride and put together what I could to bring you these stories.  

The first story contains one of my most favorite humans in it, Hermana Engracias.  She is the Catholic nun toward the end.  Her and I used to laugh at bad jokes and shoot tequila before heading out to serve migrants frijoles in the border town of Nogales, Mexico.  I was worried when I first went out to work for her, after spending a month with wild hippies on a commune in the Ozarks of Missouri I thought it would be boring to work with Catholic nuns.  Lord, was I wrong.  Never judge a book by its cover and never judge Catholics by the pope.  

This last story is from a migrant whose identity will be limited to his mouth.  This story is more popular then the Migrant tales story because everybody wants to hear about the horrible Zetas.  Thats youtube for you.  I tried to put his story into the whole schibang but I didn't want to edit him as his story holds strength in entirety.  

The Sanctuary Movement

The title Iran/Contra scandal is confusing I think.  If it were named "We gave a shit ton of money to death squads in the 80's and we kinda knew they were assholes" nobody would ever be confused about what the Iran Contra scandal was about.

As part of a bigger story on migration issues I went to Tucson Arizona to interview the founder of No Mas Muertes aka No More Deaths aka people who leave water in the desert of Pima county so that migrants don't die.

Before interviewing him I did some research and discovered that he had been in the game for quite some time, all the way back to the 80s.  I had never really looked into the death squads of Central America to deeply.  Basically what started as a small interview became something I obsessesed over for about about a month.  It was a dark period indeed.  I decided to leave out the major vulgarity of some of the footage I put together for this film to make something more palatable for people who just want to understand what sort of happened.  

The great photographer Adam Kufeld was kind enough to allow me to use his photography from El Salvador during this period.  I cant imagine what it would be like to photograph some of the horror he must have witnessed.