tear gas

That one time I went for a walk to get a coffee and ended up getting tear gassed instead.

The Global Brigades office has no windows. It is also located in my apartment. Meaning that if I was to work in said office all day, I would never go outside nor see the sun. Some days exactly that happens. I do not like when this happens. I like windows. I like sunshine. I like venturing outdoors, inhaling fresh air, getting vitamin D, and an assortment of other crazy things. So, I take walks.

Alas, our neighborhood leaves much to be desired in the leisurely-amble realm. It’s mainly residential, with the token pulperia and pharmacy, a Chinese restaurant here and a ferreteria there, and the empty lots serving as makeshift car garages where I can always count on a gaggle of hisses and kisses from the working men, sometimes even a perfect imitation of Joey from Friends “how you doin’?” It’s no stroll in the park, but beggars can’t be choosers. There are exactly two malls within walking distance: Casacadas and the slightly seedier Plaza Miraflores, and not a whole lot else. So when that moment hits me, when my legs get figdety and my eyes overly computer-strained and mind wandered, that is where I go.

Today, I chose Miraflores.

Meandering around the mall, I hardly noticed the extra police force. I hardly notice police, or military, or guns, actually. The fact that there had been riots and protests last week at the university across the street didn’t really phase me, and after a couple months in Central America, you learn that AK-47 is never too far away. I’ll never become immune, always a little shaken by that constant over-arching reminder of insecurity, but you accept it for what it is—life.

I headed toward the gates that led to the street outside, but the policemen directed me otherwise. It was locked, I would have to try another exit. Not thinking anything of it, I headed down the side of the mall, up the stairs and across the overpass. That gate was locked, too. I started to get a little inkling that maybe something was wrong, especially when I saw some people, not running, but hurrying back towards the mall. Crowds had begun to gather in the entrances, and just as I scooted back into the mall, security guards started hauling down the grates, clanging metal sealing off the exits. Men literally dove under the grates, scrambling to get back inside before the bars slammed to the ground. It was like that one scene in Indiana Jones (of course), where Indy rolls past the stone door moments before it grinds to a close. Except this was real. What the heck was going on??

I called Liz in the office. “Um, hey, I’m barricaded in Miraflores. Just thought you guys should know in case, you know, I’m not back in a hour or something. I think it has something to do with the university protests.”

Still, no cause for panic. The food court was still packed, a safe haven of Subway and Wendy’s in the center, far away from the chaos at the entrances. I assured my co-worker that I would wait it out for a bit, assess the situation, then get my gringa butt on a cab home.

A couple minutes passed, the grates opened a halfway, the brave walked out, the tentative stayed inside. I peeked through the crowd, wondering what my next move should be, wishing I spoke better Spanish, wishing I didn’t stick out so much, wishing I wasn’t alone. Looked okay, almost like business as usual, but there was hesitancy in the air.

BAM.

A cloud of toxic smoke exploded from the tear gas canister. Shots, were those shots? The metal grate fell to the ground. People were running, screaming, pushing others out of the way. Bars immediately barricaded store entrances, inviting neon signs quickly covered with dull metal. Some tried to roll under before they shut, seeking the asylum behind. This is not a drill, warning, this it not a drill. My first taste of a mob mentality, of what a riot would feel like, of having no control and every man for himself. I ran.

There was a minute there when I was really scared. Hell, the Hondurans were scared, why shouldn’t I be? I had no idea what was going on, no idea who was going to break through the mall entrance, no idea where to go or what to do. A moment when I was thinking, “Eff. This could get really bad.”

The food court was deserted this time. Mascara streamed down women’s faces, eyes glazed over and watery from the gas. Men covered their mouths with scarves. I was breathing through my sleeve, the air was toxic and thick, my throat was burning with every panicked gulp. Tear gas BURNS. I just wanted some coffee!

Slowly, things calmed down. Grates open, people breathed, I detected the faint semblance of nervous laughter; oh wait, that was my nervous laughter. The vibe was interesting—people seemed shaken up, that much was palpable, but somehow not completely thrown. A semi-normal occurrence, maybe, but one to which you don’t get accustomed. I didn’t really want to venture out to try to find a cab, but wasn’t particularly keen on staying, either.

Adding insult to injury, the cabbie ripped me off on the drive home. I tried to haggle him down from 50 lempiras to 30, but I guess when you are fleeing the scene, you lose a little bit of bargaining power. Needless to say when he denied my lower offer and began driving away, I went running after, “No, no, ok, ok 50 lempira!”

Shaken, not stirred.

So I survived my first—mob? riot? tear gassing? Whatever you call it, it was by far the most…unexpected experience I’ve had in Tegus thus far.

But hey, I lived to tell the tale.

just an average thursday conversation

Daniel: Hey, those riot police throwing tear gas aren't wearing any green!
Me: Think we should pinch 'em??

--St. Patrick's Day 2011, Tegucigalpa, Honduras.

lago miraflores

There wasn’t any warning.

Maybe the wind slightly picked up, whipping the pages of my notebook as though trying to hurry me through my work, maybe the clouds turned a slightly sinister shade of gray, sneering at the sun as they thickened, maybe I had to move from the balcony to finish a phone call because I felt the smattering of rain drops. But it was the dry season, is the dry season, will be the dry season until May. So dry that the water only gets turned on twice a week. So dry that whatever little bit of moisture my body manages to drink in, I sweat out.

Then the sky opened up. To heck with the dry season, mother nature says, bring on the rain.

Rain pounded on the rusty tin roof. Deafening and without mercy. It took me about 30 seconds to realize what was going on, my first thought being, logically of course, that we were under attack. “Oh my god it’s the Russians!!”

“What is going on over there, a stampede??!” asked the club president I was on a Skype call with at the time.

“Oh, nothing, it’s just a little rain in Honduras.”

The balcony was deserted, my sunshine haven battered and defeated, the braided hammock, once a symbol of breezy relaxation now heavy with water and storm, a damp reminder of sunny days past. Sheet and sheet thundered down in torrents. Only one thing to do with rain like this-play in it.

People are look as us like we are crazy gringas anyway, so why not reinforce the image. Like animals let loose from a cage (we really do live in a cage, bars and wire and all—pictures to come), screaming banshees dressed in rompers and tanks and sandals set free upon the earth. Wading through muddy rapids up to our calves, dancing and whooping and embracing it all. The boulevard was flooded, the river grew strong with currents that could sweep me away. The rain was so intense you couldn’t see, couldn’t open your eyes. We ran, we stopped, I stood looking up at the sky, laughing uncontrollably because this is my life. What is it about playing in the rain that is so liberating? The act of spontaneity, the child-like wonder and awe at the power of nature, the refreshing feeling of water against skin, the metaphoric cleansing, the release of inhibition—all sheer joy in one of its purest forms.

Chicas locas, laughed the Honduran staff. Crazy girls. An hour later, I wrung out my clothes as best I could, leaving a trail of footprints weaving through the house, and went to resume work, only to find a lake in our living room. Second floor living room, mind you.

Water had leaked through the tin roof, waterfalling and cascading down, flooding the room. For a couple minutes we just stood there, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation, only in Honduras. Mopping it up with towels, we filled five buckets completely full of water. As we live in a neighborhood called Colonial Miraflores, we lovingly dubbed it Lago Miraflores.

God help us during rainy season.

amapala

Chaotic crazy cacophony of a city one day, idyllic illusory intoxicatingly ideal island the next . Seems as if I’m in an alliterations-esque mood at the moment. I’ll stop.

I had only been in Tegus for a week, but when someone dangles a little Honduran fishing village in the middle of the Pacific in front of my face, I have to take the bait (Get it. Fish. Bait. Puns!).

A wild Friday night of salsa turned into a too early Saturday morning, but after Jordan banged on my door a couple times, I managed to pull myself together enough to throw a bathing suit and some lempiras in a backpack, and off we went. We were quite the duo, Jordan and I, the blind leading the blind, really. Only six full days into the country, my directional bearings were still being fine-tuned and I didn’t know west from Nicaragua and had no idea how to get where we were going, but from what I knew from Central America, there surely wouldn’t be a direct bus. Jordan had never been either, but had written instructions scribbled on a piece of paper. Ok, one instruction, the question to ask our Choluteca-bound bus, “¿Cuándo es la parada del autobús a Coyolito?”

As Tegus lacks a central bus station, the taxi simply dropped us off in front of a rather nice-looking bus surrounded by vendors and luggage. “Aqui, aqui esta el bus.” Honduran-style door to door service. Seats were found, vendors boarded selling everything from bags of sliced yellow mangos and plastic squirt guns, and I was reminded ever so fondly of Central American bus time schedules-hourly departures be damned, you leave when the bus is full.

I sought sleep during that three-hour ride, but it evaded me time and time again, distracted by the roadside show out my window, the green Honduran countryside painted in broad strokes before me, lazily yawning and stretching it legs in the morning light, wrinkled men napping in the shade, street children hiding behind small wooden shops popping out to throw rocks at the bus, goats meandering, the unfortunate deluge of litter, coke bottles and chip bags obscuring the scene.

Just when I was dozing off, the lady next to us nudged me and pointed out the window. We were at a nondescript fork in the road in the middle of a blank landscape, marked only by a gas station (which, by the way, had a designed rest area with hammocks!) and collection of tiny ramshackle huts and benches, apparently the turn-off for Coyolito. The wave of hot air felt like I had walked into an oven. Not like Tegus is cold by any means, but the heat here was thick, oppressive, unforgiving. Beads of sweat formed immediately, forming little rivulets down the small of my back. Get me to the beach, ahorita!

Hitching was the plan, but the bus came before any viable options passed. A 1979-era U.S. school bus, filled to the brim with locals. We climbed in through the emergency exit in the back, trying to awkwardly find space to stand while balancing our backpacks and the beers we decided to buy while waiting. I found myself face to face with a grinning gold-toothed Honduran. Personal space? Foreign concept. The heat and the bumpy ride was starting to get to me, so I fashioned myself a surprisingly comfortable makeshift seat between gasoline cans and rucksacks of rice next to the open window. Breeze is a beautiful thing. The scenery changed, from the countryside to the tropics, and then, my long lost lover, the Pacific Ocean, was finally in view.

The smell of the ocean was intoxicating, salty and sweet and nostalgic. Small motorboats lined the dock, bound for Isla del Tigre. Tumbling out of the bus, again through the emergency exit, armed with seafood suggestions, beach recommendations and an invite to the beach party that night by our new friends, we climbed into one of the boats heading to Playa Burro and puttered off toward the island.

There was one place to stay on the beach, a restaurant meets bar meets hotel, but as it was Valentine’s Day weekend, there were no rooms at the inn. However, in true Honduran fashion, the dueña knew a friend who had an uncle who worked with Jose who had a sister who’s mother had a guesthouse. Turned out to be this tiny little freestanding room, a humble abode, in the back of a family’s home. We literally had to walk through the backyard, passing the daughters scrubbing laundry and dodging the chickens and roosters wandering freely. The shower was more like a leaky faucet, we had a stubborn wasp for a roommate, and there was no knob on the bathroom door so if you wanted to get out you had to knock, but it was near the beach and did the trick.

The island is a gem, an diamond in the rough, nearly complete devoid of tourists except for the Honduran variety. A quiet fishing village, a few niche beaches, tuk-tuks whizzing you around the inactive volcano. Restaurants don’t have menus, men haul their days bounty from a rickety lancha, an hour later a whole fish is on your plate, eyes tail fin bone, an freshly fried adventure to eat, pick and prod. My cevichetarian ways came back full-force, but I was out of practice. It takes skill to successfully maneuver your way through whole fish. Put it in front of a local and all that will be left is a perfectly intact skeleton. Me, I pathetically needed help from a little beach kitty in the end.

The beaches themselves were small, little inlets of beautiful relaxation. I love when the dense canopy of forest and palms press right up onto the beach. It makes it feel wild, undiscovered, tropical. Playa Grande was first, groups of kids playing soccer on the sand, hilarious Honduran tourist in speedos, round belly’s hung over, wading their way into the surf, sunset beers in plastic chairs at the thatched-hut bar, the ever-present reggaeton as background music. In the ocean we befriended a little boy, Carlito, who instantly became our sidekick. Jordan chucked him across the water, he stole my camera and took pictures of himself in my sunglasses, we all watched the sunset spread a brilliant orange sheen across the sky, suspended between twin volcanoes in the distance.

The rest of the weekend passed by with breezy ease, sun, cervezas, an all-night beach karaoke party that the entire island showed up for, ceviche and coconut shrimp, so far from pollution and cars and horns and hisses and internet and hot water showers. If I was just traveling, I could see myself staying for a week, two, a month. For now, it was just a weekend, but I will be back, Amapala. I can promise you that.