Rambling thoughts after a conversation with Clare

What follows is an undescriptive and polemical monologue, of the sort that Eoin Keehan would not approve. Apologies in advance.

First, a disclaimer. What I write about here on this blog is a worm's eye view. That's what I have to offer, a completely subjective, and tiny, perspective on the big story (of "development"). And perhaps it's a bit baffling, particularly the part about my work. So it has to be said that what I do in the area of citizen participation is one contribution to the broader development project in Honduras. And what I do is perhaps the least obvious part. So to be clear, my organisation does support more tangible things in this country: training for farmers in sustainable agriculture, HIV education, judicial struggles for land rights. And my part: participacion ciudadana, with the intention that with a democratic government, northern NGOs wouldn't have to fund all the other things, which are basic services. Now for the blog:

The skype obsession continues unabated. Today I spoke to Clare in Paris. And my brother in Galway. I have never felt so connected in my life, I have never felt that technological advances made such a profound difference to my life. All that talk of the digital divide passed me by, because I am so darn lo-tech. But man alive, skype is different. It rocks.

I spoke to Clare in Paris about Paris. She said that it's made her into a socialist (some raised eyebrows here: Clare sweetie, you were ALWAYS a roaring trot). I can just imagine: I always feel uncomfortable with the trappings of imperial grandeur in big cities - and Paris defines that - for Clare, it just makes the exclusion more apparent. She described it as "the exact opposite" of what I'm experiencing. Au contraire. In fact, I experience almost as much wealth as poverty. And like Clare, I'm taken aback by the extent to which the wealthy seem unconscious of their blessed status.

The permeation of American culture is absolute here. When we go out, we often go to places that seem to be modelled on MTV: barely dressed high heeled ladies and sports casual men gyrating to identikit pop music. The wealthy speak English, they're educated in Miami. And I'm struck by a poverty in their culture, which is an imitation of one that (for all I disdain it) runs deep in the USA, and has no real roots here in Honduras. The poor too imitate the gringos: nobody is so poor they can't afford bottles and bottles of Coca Cola, and for special occasions maybe a trip to McDonalds or Popeyes. And, for anyone with a modicum of hope, ambition or desperation, the only realistic exit from the mess that Honduras is in is a trip over the Mexican border.
The presence of the US here, it's palpable. We have over 100 tv channels (we pay for cable), of which the majority are American, or pan-Latin American (like CNN en español). They portray a Latin American way of life that doesn't exist, a pretence of a functioning state, secure streets, the existence of a broad group of people who grew up with the same opportunities. No, that doesn't exist in the US either, but it's much less of a stretch to imagine it.

I'm more a part of that pretend life than I am a part of the life of the poor. It strikes me hard from time to time, when I really look at the conditions of the people who live on the roadside. The nature of my work is such that most of the people I meet are at the very least literate and outspoken. I work in "citizen empowerment", and the organisations I support talk endlessly about developing leadership, supporting natural leaders. These aren't generally the most needy: of their very nature they're not, it's a truism that you need bread before politics.

But is IS the real life! It IS more sincere than the fake American dream that makes up my experience of Tegucigalpa. The level of engagement that exists here is astonishing, given the mess the country's in. You'd never see it in Ireland, political engagement from people who don't have running water. Perhaps they should be rioting. But rioting won't make that much of a difference: the government gives in to bully boy tactics (say, with teacher's and police salaries) and the most powerful groups win, but the structure never changes.

A couple of things occur to me here. 1) that this blog doth protest too much. I know. Please comment: tell me to stop whining, tell me to write about my feelings or about my friends, or whatever you want me to write about. And 2) I often refer to the mess the country's in, but that's not something I've described once. I'll rectify that shortly, now that I feel more qualified to diagnose Honduras as a place. And 3): Simon, it's long past the time you were supposed to blog. You were here at Christmas for god's sakes. We're all waiting.

I'll be away for a week and a bit on the north coast, so not sure when I'm going to blog again, but keep checking. And commenting. And hey! Skype me! carol.ballantine

Skype

Oooh, two posts in one day, I'm such a junky! I just wanted to describe where I am now....

I'm in an internet cafe in the mall, over-airconditioned, which isn't helping my trembly hungover state. Next to me, a family is screeching at their computer, taking it in turns with the headsets. Now, they're annoying the life out of me, but nonetheless, this is pretty cool. It's a normal enough looking family, not the typical denizens of the mall with their fancy clothes and their ostentatious habit of speaking English to each other to set themselves apart. And they're using a webcam, so they're looking at their relative in the US, and asking about his job and the other people they know out there, and filling him in on their news. And I think that's really really cool.

On Friday, I skyped Lorraine, who also has a webcam. It was like hanging out in her flat! I hadn't seen her in 2 years, and suddenly, we were hanging out! Skype and webcams have changed my life. They are SO COOL. You all have to get them, and then tell me when we can talk. (Honduras is 6 hours behind Ireland, and 19 hours behind New Zealand). So so cool.

Colomoncagua, Intibucá

One of the things I really like about Honduras is the place names. Plenty of important people in my life can't pronounce Tegucigalpa, and I'm not sure they plan on learning. And then I have to arrange a visit to Colomoncagua, a name not even my Spanish teacher was quite able to manage. The little town is going to have a seriously hard time getting up in the world, and its problems only start with the tricky name.

(it took me about ten minutes to write the paragraph above. I'm not sure why I'm more hungover than most Sundays, though I guess it has to do with the fact that I started drinking earlier than usual, and didn't stop until, my friend Emma tells me, I got into a cab at 5 this morning. Eurrrrlllgggghhhh.)

So on Monday myself and the office driver headed to Intibucá, to the town my German colleague had described as el culo del mundo - the backside of the world. And how. The last leg of the journey, from La Esperanza to Colomoncagua, was a distance of about 80 kilometres, and took us 3 and a half hours. The road, over and through the mountains, is unpaved, and the majority of the traffic you meet is equine, which makes sense since I imagine that a horse can travel faster than a 4x4 around there. I really need to start taking my camera out with me, and posting pictures on this blog. It was stunning.

In the 80s, the town used to host a camp for Salvadoran refugees, being on the edge of the border with El Salvador. Our accountant tells us that when she used to visit there, the road was worse - I don't believe her. It can't be any worse than not there.
Along the way, we gave a lot of people lifts who were standing on the side of the road. There's an organisational policy that we don't use the back of the pick-up for carrying people (my friend explained why one day when we were driving through the hills in the back of someone else's pick up: "if there's an accident, you die"), which I'd explain to them as they clambered up, opening the back door to their astonishment. Nice people, shy, quiet. Very poor.
The hills of Intibucá are squillions of miles from Tegucigalpa, literally and figuratively. It's a total wilderness, forests and dry choked rivers and birds of prey spinning overhead. Hot during the day and freezing at night. The small towns which string along the road for El Salvador all have electricity, but the water services are poor, and I have no idea at all how (or if) the kids get to school. Some of the houses have more holes than walls, and there are rags stuffed in the gaps where adobe blocks fell out. At 10AM, we pass a gang of men carrying shovels and machetes, their day's work in the fields finished now that the sun has become so strong.

Our driver Juan is new, over-qualified and keen to work in development. He's fantastic. And he's absolutely animated by the visit (he gets animated easily, which is one of his endearing traits). From here in the wilderness, our work makes more sense: you can sense the need, the objectives are palpable. And maybe attainable too. I think that what draws people to working in emergency contexts is sometimes the sense that where needs are extreme, almost anything you do has to improve conditions somewhat (not at all the case, but still); and that's how it felt out there in Colomoncagua. It's easier there to become angry, easier to feel robbed and deceived by a system that can't even clothe these people. Juan would like to dig his feet in and try to improve conditions right here. And we chat about development models, and empowering people to do things themselves; but on a personal level, I'm with him completely. It's a paradise. I'd quite like to stay too.

On Saturday, I went to a march against corruption in the capital, which was pleasant if a little toothless, then I played frisbee with 2 friends on a deserted running track. Now my nose is crispy with sunburn, of the kind I haven't got since the day I spontaneously travelled down the Rio Dulce on a yacht with Lucy. I'm ashamed and sore, and of all days to have lost my suncream, yesterday was not the day. That may also be contributing to the hangover that's made this entry take me 40 minutes to write.