Welcome to Honduras


I had ridden my bicycle into Honduras from Nicaragua in 1986. Not a good time to be coming from Nicaragua into Honduras; the beginning of "Iran-Contra". Even under the best of circumstances, the Honduran border is famous in Central America for its suspicious, labyrinthine, hostility. I'll never forget the soldier searching the bags on my bicycle. He would pull each thing out separately, hold it up at arm's length, and then drop it on the table in front of him; and I am not talking dirty laundry here. When he got to my camera I took a step forward as though to catch it, assuming my camera would be treated no differently than my tee shirt, books, flashlight, bathroom kit and alarm clock, and the guy next to him motioned me back with the tip of his M-16. And sure enough, after looking at my camera he dropped it too. They confiscated my red and black LL Bean bandana (red and black are the Sandinista colors ), an ancient Standard Oil Company map of Nicaragua and a Hemmingway Reader (Hemmingway was a "Communist", you know).

Two young Americans, traveling by bus, who said they wanted to see the ruins at Copan, were given only forty-eight hour visas. Just outside the border station some woman tried to sell me her daughter. The next day I was stopped by two soldiers for riding my bicycle the "wrong way" around the plaza in a small town. At a roadside check-point the soldier there refused to return my passport unless I gave him my watch. In the central plaza of Tegucigalpa when I asked two soldiers where the museum was they put me against the wall and did a full body search and never did tell me where the museum was. One night I interceded when two policemen were arresting a young couple for kissing in public. Nice place. So when I said I would drive a truck full of medicine down to Honduras and then spend a month photographing a poor people's clinic there, run by a guy on the right wing hit list, I confess, there were moments when I could not help but question my own sanity.

I got to the Honduran border about one in the afternoon. There was no problem getting out of Guatemala except at the very last check point, the old pole across the road. The young soldier kept looking around my truck, peeking inside, asking to look in the engine, squinting at my papers until finally I said, "Hey, what's the problem corporal?" (I could see the two little stripes on his shirt) and he looked at me and smiled and said, unabashedly, "the problem sir, is one dollar." I laughed at his good humor about it all and said, "Well, for God’s sake man, why didn't you say so in the first place," as I gave him the dollar and a small bottle of Tylenol.

I had driven through Guatemala, for security reasons, in tandem with a few other vehicles, one driven by young man in a beat-up Toyota 4x4, another fellow in another beat-up pick-up and a wealthy Honduran in a big, shiny, white, new Ford one-ton diesel Pick-up truck...this last being one of those guys with the gold chain, gold watch, gold pen, gold ring and a wad of hundred dollar bills stuck in the breast pocket of his embroidered white shirt. This guy Jaime, had reassured me that I would not have any problems getting into Honduras this time. "My cousin is assistant comandante of the air force," he told me. He said, "You know Arturo, those F-5's are fantastic. When the Nicaraguans invade us we just send down a couple F-5's and they bomb everything, kill everybody, everybody gone, no more Sandinistas. Whooouissshhht! Just like that!" he said, as he sliced the air with his hand. I said, "You know, Jaime, Honduras could probably sell those F-5's and it wouldn't be the poorest country in Latin America any more." But, trying to convert this fellow to a less glandular view of Central American politics would be like trying to get the Pope interested in Planned Parenthood. Furthermore, he said, "And I have a friend who works at the border. You will have no problems Arturo."

So, driving down the hill from Guatemala I had every hope of sliding right into Honduras.

As we pull in, a swarm of ragged young men run frantically after our trucks yelling and waving, grabbing on to the door handles and saying things which, although linguistically incomprehensible to me, I understood only from experience to mean that they each want to be my "agent" in getting through the antediluvian immigration procedures. Little did they know that with thirty-thousand dollars worth of antibiotics, syringes and pain-killers in the back of the truck this was not a job for amateurs. I can barely get out of the truck they press in on me so desperately. I say "no, gracias, no, momentito, por favor," with no visible success, as I walk over to Jaime. He is talking to a slightly less ragged-looking young man who is apparently his "friend". I am introduced and told that I will have "no problem." I give him the papers for the truck, my visa and passport. Then he asks if I have a pen he can use and I give him a gold Cross pen my mother had given me for some birthday twenty years ago. I had virtually never used this gold bauble and actually brought it along for just this sort of exigency. I tell him that if he can get me through there with no problems the pen is his. He smiles and says, "no problem" and the pen does not leave his hand for the next four hours.

Air travelers do not understand these border outposts. They land at the airport, usually in the capital, with a bunch of other tourists and are hustled through customs with few inconveniences. And there is always the support of fellow travelers and a phone if necessary. Presumably, there is even a consulate nearby -- not that it would do much good unless you are a CEO or CIA. But out in the sticks, two hundred miles from La Capital, you are on your own; at the mercy of these bored and frustrated corporals. They are the law. For example, in five hours that afternoon, not one other vehicle crossed this border. You can fantasize that you will call the US Embassy later on, that you will write letters to your Congressman and the newspaper, that you will raise hell about these rural bullies, but the fact of the matter is that they don't give a damn about any of that. I mean, who is going to reprimand them....the chief of police or the head of the army, who, as likely as not, does the very same thing but on a bigger scale?

Our agent buddy comes back a few minutes later and says he needs the list of medicines and the documents explaining my mission. They look very official, full of stamps, photographs, seals and baroque signatures. He smiles and says , "no problem" and I go off to the side and settle down with a coke where I can keep an eye on the truck which is surrounded by a ravenous band of young men.

A while later Ric, the agent, comes back and talks to Jaime. I never made a formal study of sign language, but through the years at borders, in police stations and elsewhere, I have learned the myriad gestures which mean "money." The two of them saunter over to me and say there is a "problem." Jaime "explains" to me that Dr. Almendarez, the person to whom I am delivering this stuff, is a Communist. If it weren't for that there would be no problem of course, but....well, you know...he shrugs, gestures and says, "Arturo, you have to be very careful who you give these medicines to. Maybe you can give it to the National Children's Trust instead." Meanwhile, Ric gestures apologetically as he tells me that because of this problem the "Jefe" (boss) needs a hundred dollars. Now it is my turn to lecture, and I tell them that in case they have not heard, the "Wall" is down and the Cold War is over. What is this "communist" crap? But, glazed eyes and deaf ears reveal the truth that as long as Castro holds out in Cuba there will be an excuse to bully and repress people in the rest of Latin America, so I give him a "C" note and he smiles and says everything will be all right.

In the meantime, several of these penniless young men surrounding my truck demand that I open it up for them to "inspect." My Spanish is far from perfect, but I can't believe what I am hearing. I am absolutely shocked at the presumptiveness of this suggestion and say, "No me jodas" (you've got to be kidding). Apparently the system is so corrupt that the men inside who are paid to inspect don't bother to and instead just have one of these ragamuffins do it and then they just sign the papers. This mockery of inspection had the character of a bad joke and I was not humored. It was like a stand-off: the boys kind of hanging around with their arms crossed waiting patiently for the inevitable (what else did they have to do?) and I sit on the tail-gate glowering in defiant disbelief.

When Ric comes back, he tells me that it is illegal for private citizens to have hypodermic needles in Honduras; that I could be arrested right then and there as a matter of fact. I said, fine, arrest me! He says that another hundred dollars will fix it up though. I give him another hundred and then he tells me, "by the way you've got to unload the truck and let one of these muchachos inspect everything so we can match it up with the list".

I laugh and throw up my arms and say to this crowd of boys, "You motherfuckers knew all along that this would happen didn't you!" I say this in English of course, more to relieve my tensions than to hurt anybody's feelings. They laugh too at the strange sound of a foreign language and they shuffle and look eager now, hoping to be chosen to be The One to do the "inspecting".

I play eenie-meenie-minee moe and pick the fellow it lands on and begin unloading the truck out onto the hot dirt. Boxes and boxes of medicine and a dozen huge bags of clothes and three hundred pounds of seeds. And my back is sore from two weeks of driving. The whole pile is surrounded by about twenty ragged young men who can't keep their hands out of the bags with the clothes. Out come shirts, pants, jackets, sweaters, shorts. What a treasure trove! So I give everybody something. But then they want more and then they want to exchange things and then more people come and it doesn't take long for things to get out of hand.

And then Ric comes to tell me that the Jefe (boss) wants to see me about my papers. "What about my stuff?" I ask. He says, "No problem;" the young man I had chosen, is responsible for guarding it all. I take my cameras. Inside, I am escorted to a fat fellow smoking a cigarette behind a counter. He is very absorbed in a letter from Global Exchange, the parent organization for this whole project. He finally looks up at me and says, "It says here that you are going to give this truck away. How do I know that you are not going to sell it? because all vehicles coming into Honduras require a tax." I said, "I promise you that I am going to give the truck away. I work for a humanitarian organization. The truck is a donation. That's the way we are in the United States, the rich give to the poor." Jaime had followed us inside and was standing there. I say to him, "Isn't that right, in the United States the rich are taught to give to the poor? Tell him about the Salvation Army, Jerry Lewis, and the United Way." I enjoyed sticking these little barbs into Jaime who, I suspect, despite his avowed American citizenship, had never given a dime to anybody; but I pretty much forced his hand to explain the legitimacy and purpose of my mission against his will. I was fingering another hundred dollar bill in my pocket when, to my surprise, El Jefe signed some official-looking paper and turned to other things. My truck was still there, surrounded, expectant looks on everyone's faces. I sauntered over to the little kiosk selling cokes and ordered my fourth coke of the afternoon. I had been very worried about the truck and with that apparently over, I was feeling optimistic.

Jaime and Ric come back and tell me there is still a "problem" with the medicine. Jaime tells me there is a community health project right here in the border town and they need things too. Isn't there something I can give them? When I was picking up the medicines from Relief International in Santa Barbara I anticipated this sort of thing and asked if I could have an extra case of Tylenol and they were very obliging. I had only given away a few bottles in Mexico and Guatemala and still had most of the case -- about four hundred dollars worth. I gave that to them with the stern admonition that that was it, no more bribes, payola, bulshit. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. (I have crossed at least a hundred borders in my life and each one is like a different opponent -- sometimes one is best being obsequious, at other times, indifferently courteous, and sometimes just plain tough and uncompromising -- but it is seldom easy because they always hold the trumps-- your passport and visa.)

Meanwhile, an actual official, he even has a badge, comes over to "inspect" the truck. He pokes around in a few boxes and makes some notes on a piece of scrap paper. It is painfully clear that he can barely count, much less write things like erythromycin, syringe or multivitamin. A couple more officials come over and poke around and ask if I can give them this or that. They don't know or care what it is, they just want something. They point to a box and ask if they can have it and I open it up and show them birth control pills and ask them if that is really what they want. Another guy wants a case of fleets enemas. And they all want Tylenol. What the hell is the big deal about Tylenol anyway? Maybe they grind it up and sell it.....

I'll be darned if Jaime doesn't come back and sort of whine to me that there are a lot of poor people around here and they have this community project blah blah blah and can't I show some good will and give them a bag of clothes? It would be a "nice gesture" he tells me. "No kidding," I say, "of course it would be a nice gesture. I would like to distribute bags of clothes to every poor village in Latin America, I would like to end the poverty, illness and ignorance everywhere but I can't right now and these clothes are going to other equally poor people; maybe even poorer people living in the squalor of the capital!" But of course, penury is no friend of comparison. I have no choice and I give him the biggest bag of clothes. I am not talking grocery bags either. These are large, double-strength trash bags each weighing fifty pounds. Fifty pounds-worth of barely-used North Face, Gap, Esprit, Eddie Baur, REI and LL Bean clothes donated by the students at a school where I used to teach.

Meanwhile these other officials are still poking around the boxes but I am beginning to sense that the worst is over. I'll be darned if I am going to give them any more medical stuff. One of these guys asks me if I have any medicine for high blood pressure. I say, "For Christ's sake man, I am not a fucking doctor!" Three hours have gone by. Every bag and box in my truck is spread out on the dirt in the hot, late afternoon sun surrounded by snooping on-lookers. A fat fellow comes back and says the pants he grabbed are too small. "No shit fatso." I say, "I told you that when you took them, but you just ran off anyway." Remember, I have already given away at least twenty five items of clothing to the "original" swarm but those fellows were soon replaced as word spread. Were the officials appreciative of my generosity? I don't think so. I came to the conclusion that handing out more clothing here was counterproductive.

Jaime and Ric come back and Jaime says, "Arturo, can't you find another box of Tylenol. These people really need that sort of thing." I said, "Honestly, Jaime, I have no idea where any more Tylenol is. That one case was given to me for just this purpose, to give away as a present, but the rest is buried somewhere in these big boxes and I couldn't begin to guess which one." I said, "How about one more bag of clothes. Remember Jaime, these are very expensive clothes, the best money can buy. Each bag is probably worth at least five hundred dollars." I was appealing to his gold chains. I knew that whatever I gave at this point had to have the color of money.

Now here is somebody I have not seen before, a large, stern-looking woman who says she is one of the leaders of the local community. She and Jaime confer and she agrees that a bag of clothes will suffice for them to let me through!

Meanwhile, this one guy keeps sitting on the tail-gate even though I have been told that I can re-pack the truck. He just sits there holding a scrap of paper, shoulders slouched, disconsolately staring off into space. I know the look. He wants a present too but just doesn't know how to get it. I go up to the front of the truck and get a small bottle of Tylenol and wrap a dollar bill around it and go back and hand it to him saying, "You look like you've got a heluva headache pal. Maybe this will make you feel better." He was like the kid who thinks he hasn't gotten anything for Christmas until he walks out to the barn and sees his new saddle.

Jaime comes back and says, "Arthur, haven't you got any more of that Tylenol for me. Sometimes my workers get sick and I can't buy it here in Honduras." Jesus H. Fucking Christ! Here is this guy who has been bragging to me about his travel agency in L.A, his ranch in Honduras, he 's got his macho new truck and wears a cheap jewelry store and his embroidered shirt and he has the effrontery to ask me for some godam Tylenol! I mean, it is not as though he has done a whole heluva lot for me even if his cousin is assistant g...d... comandante of the fucking air force. I mean, I am fed up with this quid pro quo shit! At least getting into Mexico only cost me a straight two hundred dollars up front and that was it; everybody took their cut and there wasn't all this whining and creeping around to squeeze everything they could out of me. Even when the Mexican narcotics patrol stopped me and demanded some money they were whimsical about it. I have just about lost my sense of humor. I look through a couple boxes and find a beautiful, brand-new Johnson and Johnson Industrial First Aid kit in a big blue metal box. Jaime thinks that that is just the thing for his truck. He smiles and says, "Maybe there is some Tylenol in here."

Well, all I know is that a while later I was allowed to leave. As I stopped at the pole across the road, the soldier there said to me -- and this is the honest-to-god's-truth, "Are you sure you don't have any more Tylenol?" Holy shit, what is it with Tylenol anyway? I said, "You got a headache or something?" and he nods. I reach over to my glove box and take out a half-empty bottle of Advil and hand it to him. I say, "Here is some Tylenol for your headache." He lifted the gate, gave me a salute and off I went. Welcome to Honduras! I NEED SOME TYLENOL!