So the story continues.

So the story continues. Yes part two (2) as in you have to read part one (1) first.

I made a commitment to read a news paper a day, one I started failing after 2 weeks.
News papers, large stacks of paper comprised of 4 fairly equal segments: Politics, Football, Advertisements and Crime, in the respectful order of importance, just seem so repetitive. The other day there was one small article which caught my eye while flipping through the daily massacres and car thefts; a 15 year old boy was clobbered to death Wednesday night at around 7.30pm. He was wearing the wrong jersey in the wrong neighbourhood on football night. The hooligans must've got him. 15. A small picture portrayed his bloodied lifeless twisted body lying in a ditch. It was only a brief article placed in the column towards the back of the stack.
That same night a swarm of about 150 football supporters in full attire and accessory occupied an intersection blocking off most traffic, rallying support and making their voice heard. My bus home from work usually stops at that same corner. As some heads were turning and nodding towards the tall white boy across street, I luckily managed to catch a ride on a passing bus without delay, as something told me trouble was in the air.

Noticed something really strange the other day. Was lingering around a social aid center after a meeting about the upcoming Commission of Transparency elections and stumbled upon about 200 25kg WFP sacks labeled 'Property of the Republic of South Africa'. I really wondered why 5000kg of super nutrients got shipped diagonally across the Atlantic to end up here instead of the seemingly endless penny-less shacks n shanty towns engulfing KaapStad... or Zimbabwe... or any of the other African Nations on the brink of starvation... Politics?
The follow up meeting to organize the elections were scheduled a week later, we were to leave at 9, I got there at 8 but I didn't leave the office that day. Headquarters hadn't sent enough money to pay the gasstation tab, there was no available cash in the office and a Yamaha doesn't gallop on an empty stomach. 6 Euros would have been plenty full to get us there and back. Another day was lost doing nothing, seemingly how things go around here.

Nestor took me out again today. I have never experienced such a strong, almost compulsory urge to take pictures, Don Nestor however had instructed me to leave my trusty Canon at the office, "pull it out where we are going, and there is a good chance your dead". Another long bus ride. I sat silently somewhere in an unnamed street(dirt track) in an unnamed section of town(the ghetto in the mountains) on an old wooden chair, relieved every time the families only rotating fan passed by my direction and instantly distressed when my 3 seconds of luxury were over, solemnly staring up at the many low quality print-outs of holy taffrails stapled to the wall. A chicken slowly clucked its way around the living room to reach the front porch as we patiently waited for a man who agreed to speak with us. His wife, or one of, started casually informing us about the latest happenings in town. Her aunt was murdered last weekend during a robbery, a local farmer and his family brutally massacred last month and the guy on the corner of the street got shot two weeks back when two lads broke in because rumor had it he had recently purchased a new automatic pistol. Guns are power here, and ammunition is expensive; sometimes a families children are spared for economic reasons, only to live marginally on the border of life without anyone to take responsibility over them. A death of a child means nothing here, kids are numbers.
This was probably the poorest area I have ever visited in my entire life, minimally better than those endless stretches of KaapStad ghettos, but then again, outsiders rarely set foot there. There are 2 schools for 110 000 people. No mans land; illegally, hastily built shacks as far as the eye can observe, owned by people who posses nothing else, have no where else to go and fill their time with nothing. Their faith and religion is their only lifeline, although alcohol drugs and crime are rampant. It is horrible to have to walk by countless people tediously waiting for anything, tracing your steps with the contents of their eye sockets, slowly starving to death losing the laborious struggle for life. A bit further 3 dust-clad boys played in the shade of a tree simulating an intensive car race with rocks and sticks. Nestor was explaining he had inherited a piece of land, pointing to patch of shrubs and hip long weeds, and was trying to build a house but every time he started everything got stolen. Barbed wire, bricks, sand, fruit trees, even his new front door and baby Rottweiler proved to be luxuries he could not seem to keep a hold on in these areas. The inspection ending with the write up of a diagnosis over lunch, eggs beans and tortilla, accompanied by a heated debate with an old ranchero from the area and a communist fanatic who had tried his luck in politics, but stopped when his brother and father were murdered. The subject : the abuse of the Honduran people by the US, the inequality raging in the world and the political, pedagogic and social problems endured by the Honduran nation. The arguments were like none I have ever heard.
A lawyer asked me that day if Russia was as big as Honduras, only after I had attempted to clarify that we did not in fact use Lempiras (the local currency) in Europe. I couldn't keep a day like this to my self and think I might have started to unravel and understand the fighting force and motivation behind journalists.
A day like this reminded me of how selfish and ignorant we as a world really have become, and how selfish I still really am. How can someone see and experience these things, yet still with only a slightly agitated conscious go home that very same day, have an excellent meal and feel annoyed the AC makes too much racket. The old AC bothered me that night, but only until I reminded my self where I had been earlier that day, and a sleep quickly ensued.

Everyone kept telling me the police were one of the worst and most dangerous criminals around, however I always seemed to wave off their warnings and failed to consider the truth. Visited the federal courthouse and an outlying police station with one of my colleagues this week, and was slowly becoming a believer when she took the liberty to sum up and classify the most memorable of her past court cases involving the police. An innocent man picked up and literally beaten to death in front of his father only because he were indulging into a relationship with the commissioners daughter, to mention an example. Fairly understandable as most police are high school dropouts barely able to write properly, who receive no more than 3 months training, 100 Euros a month as compensation for long hours in the basking sun and a big shrapnel spewer which their trigger finger always seems to be wrapped around. Corruption and various other forms of extorting malpractices are everywhere. I think I have come to fear a motorbike patrol officer just as much as a shabby car perched on the corner of the street with the 5 men sitting inside slowly sucking on cigarettes, after dusk at least.

As the southern-lower-back region of my body has accustomed itself to being held against the back of a rattling Yamaha for periods exceeding 3603+ seconds, I have been able to enjoy more of my motorcycle excursions. I often forget how beautiful this country really is. I sometimes phase out sitting laxly on the bike and go whirlpool-swimming with my thoughts only to flash back to reality several moments later (then being that moment), twist my head around from left, to right, to left, and feel my jaw drop at the enshrouding beauty. Enchanting Caribbean coastal villages painted on a backdrop of ancient hills and mountains, gushing streams weaving through clean green jungle (bean?), and so many more sights and sounds I am unable to capture.

We arrived at a rural school listed as 'vulnerable' in the national directory, mission statement: help reorganize everything that needed reorganizing. Sounds fairly simple, only the director insisted on producing a document named 'the plan'. Its layout lead to believe it would have passed as a 13 year olds hastily sketched up ICT assignment. The doors don't close, the toilets are unusable, and its just simply to dangerous to teach when there are heavy rains as the nearby river uses the school grounds as its temporary depository grounds for excess liquid. The teachers bathroom reminded me of several rundown war bunkers I have visited. Will spare any comment on how the meeting went.
This visit reminded me of something I had noticed since my first to an educational institution; and my hunch was confirmed. PepsiCo and The Coca-Cola Company have an ongoing turf war to conquer as many schools as possible, GTA style. Each outbidding the other to sponsor the local canteen, large advertisements included, and be sold in preference to their opponent, all in the process of getting the future population addicted at an early age.

Visited an institution for young culprits with my colleagues on an investigation about police abuse. We sat in a nice air conditioned room when the boy (for he had only just turned 17) was led in and placed in front of us. He smiled and said good morning, looking like your average friendly neighbour, although something hinted drugs had played a part in his earlier life. When my colleague went through the formalities I learned he was convicted for a murder, after pleading guilty, he explained to be part of a narco-gang-related retaliation strike for his brothers death. He quickly added he was clean and would never touch the stuff again. As the interview progressed I understood why we were here - the police officer that had detained him had strapped him to a chair in a dark damp room and had spent hours tormenting and torturing him, relentlessly pounding him with both fist and standard issue baton before finally carving away a piece of his left ear and walking away smirking, apparently satisfied with the damage he had inflicted. Notes were taken and he was excused back to his cell. As we walked around the institution guided by the director, convicts (the boys) thrust their heads in our direction to catch a glimpse of the intruders, freedom-eager limbs dangling through the bars of their tiny bunk-bedded cells, while the others on work duty briefly paused their pointless gardening of a dried up patch of grim yucca plants. We were lead to the littlun-barracks to file a complaint about several newly arrived, apparent under-aged convicts. The institution was erected to deal with the age group 13-18, while two boys were a mere 12 of age and a third who claimed he was 12, however as he was never registered he didn't officially exist. I had the time to ask one of the lads why he was picked up, and got an "ecstasy" as reply. The caretaker of this barrack filled in the blanks explaining he was plucked off the streets dealing ecstasy with his slightly older (15) brother.

People often ask me where I live, and then comment on how 'quite safe' it is. Now, I'm not saying its not a nice neighbourhood, but my host mother does keep me up to date with the local gossip which does make me feel uncomfortable from time to time. A man was gunned down 3 blocks from where I live last week while he was smoking his cigarette outside a car wash, one I pass every day twice a day to my way to work. 'Machinegun Driveby' was how the newspaper had decided to call it. Neighbours got broken into 2 days ago, electric fence snipped, wall jumped and in they were. As it was one of the four robberies in the last two weeks within a 2 block radius, I really doubt our house will go untouched for an entire year. When I casually dropped the half-joking comment of getting a slightly larger pooch (the current one is about the size of a football) my host mother reassured that god wouldn't allow anything to happen, however I try to methodically hide whatever valuables I have every time I leave the house. Just in case. Luckily, no unfriendly encounter has developped itsself in the past 2 months, although I make sure I am off the streets by 7, and dont leave the house past 8 without a car waiting on the doorstep. For this same reason you rarely see peolpe smoking on the streets, tobacco relaxes, and in most parts of town you want all your reflexes on edge.

Saw my first dead man today. Went to buy my 750g Nutella pot and some shaving utensils in the l0cal supermarket, and as we pulled out of the parking onto the main boulevard something was lying in the middle of the junction. A man lay lifeless on his back, bloodied-face up, arms extended outwards to form a cross. Several passer-byers stood around shrugging waiting for something to happen while fellow autoists briefly dropped their (k)mph to sneak a glimpse before riding off to their destination, seemingly uninterested. I was shocked by how little effect it had on me. I felt so removed from the situation, reminding myself this was only one of many in this city who leave this earth every day, slowly unwrapping the King-Sized Snickers bar that had seduced itself into my shopping bag.
Ain't I an asshole.

I am aware that I have not written about anything all too positive, but I just seem to believe these are the more significant of my experiences, and are the most needy to be told.
For those wondering - my family is fantastic to be honest, although it is at times extremely hard to be stripped from all privacy, with the bathroom serving as only true refuge, and to adopt 3 new younger siblings that are constantly in the house. I have not been 'out' in a month, which for one is quite annoying, however the fact that I have spoken to a lot of people appart from my family, my colleges and the neighbours in that same month make me yearn for some freedom-time. I am currently arranging an 8 day holiday to Costa Rica, land of the plenty (and safe) party-places and enchanting nature, which is compulsory as I have to renew my tourist visa :) and will be visiting the ancient ruins of Copan in about 2 weeks. Hoping I will be able to take some worthy pictures. As for the culinary aspects of life - no surprises. I have become accustomed to eating beans twice a day, every day and the average meal usually consists of tortillas, fried beans, fried chicken, fried platanos, luckily-not-fried rice and unfryable mantequilla , a local dairy product translated as butter but which would fit well next to yoghurt on a lactic variation of the periodic table. As for music, what can I say, these people know how to move. My salsa lessons were quite enjoyable until my 21year old newly wed dance instructor called me to say her husband was back in town and it was best if we stopped dancing – salsa was deemed too-flirty a dance. Talk about professionalism... As for reggaeton, what can I say, the girls got flow.

I am here, and I am living a dream. One of, as the rest will soon follow.