Requiem for a Dream

"See, we're five men without any mothers or girlfriends or anything to take care of us. Moreover, we're foreigners. So there's nobody to say, 'Come eat' or 'Shave yourself'."

This brief summary of the past five weeks served as compelling enough logic (combined with my scruffy appearance) for the fine ladies who teach at Las Brisas school to make us brunch every day. When they surprised us the first day with food, it was the answer to a prayer. Just that morning Tian joked, "Is that why we call Dan the skipper? Because he makes us skip breakfast?" No more. The teachers come bursting with enthusiasm for their computer classes, and we come expecting to be bursting with tajadas, stewed beef, and cabbage and by the end of class. Their food is delicious; drinking Coca-Cola with breakfast, not so much. Tomorrow we have been promised empanadas, which Tian calls "those big dumplings". (Doggedly persistent in using the Spanish he has learned here, El Chino endears himself to everyone he meets.) Their generosity is such that you might believe the Director's whispered allegations that these Zelaya supporters are communists ready to 'Heil' Castro and Chavez. The Subdirector and only other Micheletti supporter among the teachers was so kind as to demonstrate the salute.

Alleged communists though they are, we are fortunate to work in the only school in the district where the teachers are not striking. Not completely, at least. Our computer class for them starts at 10am, to the delight of the schoolchildren who therefore will get two weeks of half-days. Now, the teachers let us loose at noon, when we pry them off the new wonders of writing schedules and gradebooks in Excel, looking at Google Earth, and playing Solitaire. And the real work begins when we go to the Villa Soleada construction site behind Las Brisas to dig trenches. (Tian leaves there to girls crying "I love you forever" and only half joking.)


Remember the police came while he was programming the security system? That's our bombmaker Tian.

Trenches are the only security feature Fortress Brisas is lacking, I think. We have been slowly adding security and maintenance components to the computer lab we installed at the end of last week. Also taking shape are the exact parameters of our research project.

A climactic team meeting today decided to abandon Dan's dream of using the Brisas School as a springboard for a long-term project for marketing artisans' crafts over the internet. The skipper was none to happy with the mutiny of the rest of his group when we argued that our research suggests we need to focus on education. And not only our survey responses from Las Brisas, but there is a body of literature about the need to improve educational standards to keep kids out of the maras, supergangs that initiate children as young as 11 into a culture of violence that is called the greatest obstacle to Honduran development. It is certainly the grisliest of the problems we have found in Las Brisas, which our research suggests is a good case study of the country as a whole.

All of the white papers I have read by USAID, the United Nations Development Programme, and various NGOs recommend improving the education system to fight gangs. So now we have a clearly-defined mission, to provide a model for how an engineering team can maximize the resources at a school's disposal with with a relatively minimal investment of time and money.

We are group of five poorly-shaved, formerly poorly-fed young men living in a third-world country rocked by coups and earthquakes. Add "and now we hang out with gang members", and I can expect the good women of Brisas will soon be feeding us dinner and tucking us in at night.

Love in the Time of Swine Flu

Weakly supporting Zelaya is a masterstroke of United States foreign policy. Our vacuous support for the ex-president takes the wind out of Chavez's sails, who doubtlessly wants American credibility to be impeached as decisively as Zelaya himself was one week ago. But we have just sat back and joined a chorus of protestations, allowing the Latin countries of the OAS to take the stage of this circus. What might have been the three-ring act of Chavez, the U.S., and Honduras (the only member of both ALBA and CAFTA and thus a predictable flashpoint) is a minor side-story while we prioritize Iraq and make strides with the Russians. Well done staying out of this one, Clinton State Department. Except that the role of geostrategic noninvolvement played by Mrs. Clinton is on a decidedly personal level, it seems.

Fortunately, Manuel Zelaya's aerial stunt did not result in the "bloodbath" the archbishop forewarned, despite his public invocation of the spiritual strength of Christ's blood and promise to raise the crucifix over Honduras. I was floored by the audaciously messianic overtones of this failed seventh-day return, but my incredulity was unfounded. The military curfew that was abruptly changed from 10pm to 6:30pm extended to actual Saviors, and the 7pm Mass was canceled. Of all times and places to overthrow the state of grace!

On the topic of forbidden love, a taste of spiritual orphanage might well have been the punishment our Heavenly Father slyly meted out to our skipper. (Yesterday Dan learned that half-drunk hook-ups with Honduran orphans are also forbidden by the laws of man). And in another incidence of love in the time of swine flu, a particular clique of girls from Las Brisas (some who can almost-believably claim to be our age) are constantly calling Dan and Rodrigo to profess their undying love.

It was not only spiritual nourishment we were denied, and gorged ourselves on baleadas this morning before going out to Las Brisas for a coup of our own. Indeed our first day of classes were wildly successful, the teachers were as enthusiastic and excited as the throngs of squealing children who gathered around the machines to watch their luckiest peers play pinball, minesweeper, and solitaire. Among all these screaming kids you can see the hope for tangible results that only the skipper could see before.

Of course it was our knowing where not to get involved (periods of personal noninvolvement nonwithstanding) that was the masterstroke, here.

Americans Fire Rockets On Honduras

And the rockets red glare / the bombs bursting in air were not Venezuelan fighter jets dropping their first payload on El Progreso or the military shooting down Zelaya's plane. No, we were bringing a taste of independence to the Hondurans living under martial law, blasting open the curfew with bottle rockets, an old fan stand, and Bobby's American ingenuity...

...which you can see here, as we learned that the mortar could be easily in converted into a bazooka by someone sufficiently under the influence (of love for America) to take a faceful of sparks. We should have brought our alarm system along, except that it was installed yesterday in the (I am proud to report) now fully operational Alvaro Contreras Centro Basico computer laboratory.

The team split up. Brandon, Bobby, and I set out early to acquire an arsenal for the evening but had no luck in the centro. We asked one shopkeeper in a store full of policemen, and his expression of pure terror gave us the suspicion (later confirmed) that fireworks are illegal in Honduras. Particularly under martial law. And particularly past curfew. But the two Roberts were having serious America withdrawal.

The credit goes to Bobby, who contacted a man who knows these things, and drove 45 minutes into the mountains to a password-protected factory where they were making bottle rockets and firecrackers wrapped in yesterday morning's La Prensa. Did we trust them completely? No. But we were intent on recreating the Battle of Fort McHenry over the house across the street. Turns out we were packing some serious firepower.

Photo credits to Walker.

Of course a spontaneous party of Honduran girls-school students, itinerant backpackers, and our gang immediately collected around food, plentiful drink, and loud explosions. It raged long past the curfew, which we marked by firing a salvo of bottle rockets off to the blaring National Anthem. No doubt believing that the Marines had finally landed, the Honduran military stayed in their barracks and did not enforce the toque de queda. Good decision, catrachos. It was a night of firsts. Tian's first Budweiser. Dan's first kiss. My first time firing self-propelled explosives out of a short metal tube inches from my very-flammable-seeming beard.

Brandon and Tian had been replaced by Messrs. Beam and Kharkov by the time we staggered back to our hotel, rang the buzzer next to the gate, and got a bewildered look from Jose Santos, who must be absolutely convicted that our survival to date is only through constant miraculous divine interventions.

He probably has that right.

Phase Two: A Rocky Start

Last night our friends Sam, Michelle, and Christian left us to go back to the United States. We had a lot of fun here with them, and we hope they can survive the torpor that returning to life in such a blessedly boring country must be. The going-away party was cut short by the curfew, and actually we left a little after the 10pm toque de queda had started. I remember us being not-so-mildly inebriated and jogging through the dark the "block" or so to our hotel slanging around what we thought at the time was convincing military operational lingo. We were not to intoxicated to not feel the compunction that the SHH trio was not there to provide covering fire (and in the case of Rodrigo, that Michelle would not be taking up positions at his flank these nights). Safe trip, guys.

Today we spent ten hours at the school getting dirty. Our friend Moises came to help us weld iron bars on the doors (will sunglasses will really keep him from burning out a retina?) and bolt down cages to house the computers. We put our two machines on his ghetto-looking customized tables and ran the alarm system wiring through plastic tubing we had to drill into the cinder block walls. When it comes to collapsing to sleep on sacks of UN food aid, corn is definitely the best. (Red beans are too hard, rice too soft). After all the labor was done, the alarm system keypad stopped responding, and neither Rodrigo nor Tian could reprogram it. It was about to get dark, we were alone in the school, and we were all exhausted. There was really only one thing that could make things better.

We got stoned.

What do you expect from five college students in one of the world's most active international drug pipelines? We panicked when the first rock banged off the tin roof, and ran to lock the doors and gather our equipment when the second came through the window. Fortunately it was only some school-age punks emulating their probably riotous parents (we found out only as we tentatively stepped out of the gate) and not a gang coming to steal the Alvaro Contreras computer lab the day it was installed.

So it was a bit of a rocky start. But I am prepared to believe that it is all part of some beautiful divine plan to have the ribbon-cutting on July 4th. God bless America. Though down here, sometimes, one is sorely tempted to conclude He had precious little left over. Remember Honduras in your prayers this weekend, too.

P.S.: I will link an article from today's NYT that is the best journalism I have seen thus far about the ongoing crisis. Unfortunately I can't find the worst, a story in the today's La Prensa (the national daily) titled "The People Love Their Armed Forces".

The System Is Armed

To make our martial law-imposed curfew movie night more comfortable, we barricade the mattresses into a makeshift couch. The room is a mess. Everywhere you look are opened-up computers, and the alarm system is strewn out all over in a mess of different-colored wires. To complete the bombmaker-chic look, our machetes and Sandinista paraphernalia are also lying around on the floor.

Enter fifteen policemen with helmets, body armor, and semiautomatic rifles. They're walking by our window looking for the prominent Zelaya supporters staying in the hotel. But we don't know this, and dash frantically to stash away our cache of suspicious-looking equipment. Aware that most guests here are Americans leaving Honduras, we are a little worried for the first half of Walk the Line. A good choice. The runner-up, Enemy at the Gates, might have seemed like an ominous choice.

(Hopefully you're laughing at us. We were perfectly safe the entire time.) The point is that when the excitement happens here, it's a little more crazy and confusing then the international press presents it. But of course the New York Times only has so many inches to devote to a country like Honduras. It's not a straightforward right-wing military coup resisted by a marginalized left-leaning underclass. The laws matter less than the guns behind them, and both sides hold them in contempt. So right now it's a panicked situation where frightened people are making decisions under tremendous pressure.

That's the idea if any would-be thief breaks into the administrative building of Alvaro Contreras school to steal the computers there. We spent today playing with power tools, drilling holes in the cinder block to install the control box, keypad, siren, and motion sensors for the alarm system we purchased. Tomorrow, on go the grisly-looking metal doors that look like something out of a horror movie. Then we will finally be able to move the computers and our hotel room will return to looking like a primitive armed encampment, rather than a highly sophisticated terrorist hideout. It's good to be physically putting things in place. At the end of the day we were dirty, hungry, and exhausted. I took a brief siesta on piled sacks of donated World Food Programme corn.

We think it might be poetic if we go operational on the fourth of July.

This will be an awfully fun report to write. We have been here for earthquakes, rising gang violence, a veritable mass murder next door, and now a coup d'etat. And that was only the first month.

How to Survive a Coup d'Etat

1. Be unpredictable. Travel back into the country and through the capital city on the very day the coup takes place.
2. Don't panic. Especially if you are wondering why nobody is in the largest bus terminal the night the president is forced into exile.
3. Head for the hills. Or in this case, don't let the State Department dissuade your travel plans to to tropical islands.
4. Relax. May I recommend snorkeling in the world's second-largest barrier reef system? You will see some truly otherworldly beauty.
5. Have a stiff drink. This is crucial. Don't let martial law and a nationwide curfew stop you from finding a dive and boozing.
6. Never back down. So the police are carting curfew-violators off to jail? If you were promised free seconds, don't pay the full meal.
7. Pray. Four hours of this will do the trick if riots are blocking the only bridge out of town. Your bus will get through on its third try.

The events of the "coup" are all over the news, although we are surprised that word is being used so much. Until Sunday, President Zelaya's actions were widely interpreted as a bid to give him unconstitutional power. The referendum to extend his term limits were declared unconstitutional by the court, and his decision to fire the chief of the military looked like a desperate political move to counter his unpopularity by seizing control of the army. So is it the old Latin American military coup or the other two branches of government intervening to save the constitution from a Chavez-style semi-takeover? Depends on who is really in charge now, which is very confusing for everyone here. Interestingly, the newly-declared president is from El Progreso.


Three guerrilla fighters in Utila outfitted in matching faux Ray-Bans.

We have traveled the length of the country, from the Nicaraguan border to Utila in the Carribean Sea, as the coup has unfolded. Except for more police checkpoints, worried conversations, and a small demonstration in the port of La Ceiba (that blocked a bridge and delayed our return here to Progreso by four hours) the country we have seen is tranquil and confused. There is a 9pm nationwide curfew, though the only difference is this seems to be decreed by martial law instead of the gangs.

We're safe despite earthquakes, gangs, and the putsch. More worrying to us is the probability of a teacher strike that would delay our project indefinitely. And threats resulting from gang disputes in Las Brisas that have made our partner organization temporarily pull out of our work-site.

Better than safe, actually. Utila is a mecca for divers and backpackers, which makes it a tropical paradise that is both cheap and predominantly English-speaking. Though the average Utilitarian has no sense of justice (see #6), most are the very interesting and off-beat people. We would really like to go back and get our diving certifications; the reef and its fish are strange and beautiful and vividly colorful. And you can go either for L25 ($1.25) or if you buy a beer. Ironically the most relaxed I have ever been in Honduras has been in the middle of this military coup of sorts. So I thought I'd share some tips.

Next: some tips for surviving third-world regional conflicts when the Venezuelans send the Nicaraguans over the border.

Adios, Nicaragua

Adios, Nicaragua. We said our goodbyes to the Terans and their enchanting country of lakes and volcanoes. Valeria could not have been a better guide. We spent Friday in Managua, where the scars of this nation's history are most evident in its near-abandoned main plaza. The ruins of the old cathedral, abandoned after a devastating earthquake in 1972, stand eerily between Sandinista shrines and disused government buildings. We later got the chance to tour the stately national theater, named for Ruben Diario. For good reason, I think, Nicaragua loves her poets better than her politicians.

Today we again woke at 3:30 to take the Tica Bus back to San Pedro Sula. The clerk at the Managua station tried to swindle an extra 100 cordobas from Rodrigo and I (about $5) but was thwarted not by our shrewdness at 4AM, but because we spent our last cords on a hammock dyed UVA-colors and Sandinista paraphernalia.

We had been warned that the situation back in Honduras was especially tense. While we were in Nicaragua the president, Zelaya, sacked the head of the joint chiefs in a bid for control of the army. This was condemned as unconstitutional by the country's congress and supreme court. Sr. Teran told us that soldiers were leaving their posts, and we might find unrest in the ramshackle capital.

We were twice detained at police checkpoints and had to submit our passports, although despite this we made better time between Managua and Tegucigalpa. Fortunately, our worst problems stemmed not from the tense political situation in the capital, but torrential downpours that washed out the road to the port of La Ceiba. So instead of heading straight out to the islands, we came back to El Progreso to spend the night with a suspicious-looking taxi driver angry that we had argued him down to a cut-rate fare. At one point during the trip he rummaged through the glove compartment, giving Rodrigo and I the same impression that he was about to pull his gun on us.

It was a long day, especially when you're running on a glass of milk at 4AM and a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies. Time for another vacation. So tomorrow will be another early morning, setting out to join our friends on the coast.