Honduras: When the Saints Arrive

American Geographical Society
Honduras: When the Saints Arrive
Author(s): Richard Symanski
Source: Geographical Review, Vol. 88, No. 4, J. B. Jackson and Geography (Oct., 1998), pp.
571-579
Published by: American Geographical Society
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/215713
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HONDURAS: WHEN THE SAINTS ARRIVE
RICHARD SYMANSKI
HurricaneMitch, the most deadlyhurricaneto strikethe WesternHemisphere
in two centuries, killed at least io,ooo people in Honduras,Nicaragua,and El Salvadorand
left tens of thousands homeless. Some needed food; others, medical attention. Americans,
Europeans,Mexicans,and others almost immediatelyrespondedto the widespreaddevastation by sending largedonations of food, clothing, and medicine.SixweeksafterMitch struck
the Honduran mainland, the author traveledto Honduraswith the aim of photographing
the physicaldamageand its effecton humans. In SanPedroSulahe was sidetrackedby the issue of where the refugeeswere being housed and whetherthey were receivingthe donations
that had been sent on their behalf. This essay narratesthat search and what he found.
Keywords:Honduras,HurricaneMitch, reliefdonations,San PedroSula.
ABSTRACT.
antos has two wives and four children;I haveone wife and two children.Santosis
Honduran;I'mAmerican.Butwe havesomethingin common, Santostells me aswe
drive through a western barrio of San PedroSula."We'redetectives,"he says.
Snoops on the loose, I respond,under my breath.
We'vebeen at it now for three days,drivingthe city from one end to the other,
hitting everywarehousewherewe believeor havebeen told there'sfood and clothing
for the refugeesfrom HurricaneMitch.We'vealreadystopped at seven of the city's
twenty-nine albergues,or refugeeshelters.The list in hand saysthereare7,973people
in these centers,3,251of whom areliving at three macro albergues.The largest,the
Olympic Stadium, is a tent-city home to 1,687people. Twentyof the alberguesare
schools.
The story and the picturewe'regetting don'tvary a whole lot from one placeto
another. In the schools we find hundreds of families living in dark and cramped
classroomsamid theirmeagerbelongings.They cook on smallstovesand tiny openpit firesin the enclosed playyards.Childrenrun aroundnakedand shoelessandplay
as childrenplay.Motherswatchand mope, and tend to smallmatters-keeping track
of their children,fillingbucketswith waterfrom the municipaltrucksthat parkout
front.A few men and some boys wanderabout,but most are on the streetslooking
for work or workingatjobs they hadbeforeMitchengravedhis name on the Honduran conscience in late October 1998.
Everyonehas a complaint to throw our way.Mostlythey'redirectedat me, because I'm the tall white Yankeewith a Boston baseballcap and Spanishthat'sgood
but obviously not native. Santos, slight of stature and dark brown and wearing
reflectoraviatorsunglassesand a darkshirt and slacks,looks like a maliciousbodyguard.
At the top of everycomplainer'slist is why everyoneis gettingso little food, especiallysince the word is out that foreignershavesent plenty for them to eat. In the six
S
V'b DR. SYMANSKI is a professorof ecology and evolutionarybiology at the Universityof California,
Irvine, California92717.
The GeographicalReview88 (4): 571-579,October 1998
Copyright ? 1999 by the American GeographicalSociety of New York
572
THE GEOGRAPHICAL REVIEW
weeks since the heavyrainswashedawaytheir insubstantialadobehomes, the refugees in San Pedro Sula'salbergueshave gotten exactly two allotments of food: 30
pounds of rice, 20 pounds of beans, lo pounds of wheat soy, a small quantity of
cooking oil. In each allotment, a familyof two has receivedthe same as a familyof
eight or ten-and there arelots of familieswith eight or ten mouths to feed. No one
has receivedso much as a single tin of food or bottle of water.In our firstvisit to the
Olympic Stadium, afterwe'd shown surprisethat no distinction was being made
among familysizeswhen distributingfood, a representativeof the FiladelfiaChurch
said that "someone was looking into the matter."
Manyof the refugeesgot one bar of soap in the firstfood distribution,and none
in the second;or vice-versa.The kids,andthey'reabouthalfof the refugees,aredirty,
and if not nakedthen shoeless and needy.The parentsand adults,though nevernaked, arenot much betteroff.Yetwhat'ssurprisingis thatthere'snot much uncleanliness to smell, and nothing like what you'd expect with so little soap.
Santosand I hear,and see, reasonfor other complaints.No one has receivedany
clothes or shoes.And almostno one has put his headon what is needed most, something decent to sleep on: anythingthat resemblesa mat, something reasonablysoft,
something other than a piece of thin cardboard.
At one of the school sheltersSantos and I get a realearfulbecause three of the
men had workedfor a couple of daysat two of the largewarehousescontrolledby the
Chamberof Commerce.Therethey sawhundredsof boxes and scoresof palletsfull
of canned goods and bottled waterand clothing and medicines,and they couldn't
haveany of it. Theyweren'teven allowedto pick out a pairof shoes from the mountains of zapatosthat cameinto view.Theyweregettingnothing,andneitherwas anyone else, because,aswe weretold, it all had to be "classifiedand sorted"beforeanyof
it could be distributed.No one would be getting anythingreal soon because there
weren'tenough people to do the classifyingand sorting,because"properauthorizations"for distributionhad not been received,becausethe Chamberof Commerce
was no longer responsiblefor the albergues,becausethe albergueswere now the responsibilityof the municipalityor the churchesor... no one was reallysurewho was
responsible. Almost nothing in these two warehouseswas being distributedbecause,well, in addition to what I'dheardor surmised,I was gettingtoo snoopy and
no more questions could be answered.
All thisput Santosin the mood fordoinga stakeout."Didyou see the carthatcame
in and filledup and left and no one signedanypapers?"Santosasked.A littlelaterhe
said,"Doyou rememberthattruckwe sawparkedin frontof the firstwarehousewhen
we came in? It left full. We should follow it. Youcan guesswhereit's going."
Wedriveto anothergovernmentwarehouse,one that'ssupposedto be distributing food to the city'sMitch refugees.Out front,and insidethe guardedgate,it'slike a
frontlinemilitaryfortification.Lotsof young guys in militarydressand short haircuts and polished black boots are standing around, and they'reall carryingheavy
weapons. They bring to mind all the privatesecurity guards in front of the city's
banks, car dealerships,fast-food joints, any business that makesenough money to
HONDURAS:
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THE GEOGRAPHICAL
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FIG. 2-Refugees in the Olympic Stadium, San Pedro Sula, Honduras, December 1998. (Photograph by the author)
tempt gun-toting thugs.Toget insidethe foreign-aidbodega,Santosand I weaveour
way among these other sorts of thugs who feel good about keeping their fingerson
triggers.
Santos,I note, staysa safe distancebehind me wheneverI approachone of these
stiff-legged,uniformed henchmen. He doesn'twant to get too close to their action,
to the snoopy questions;he hasto livehereafterwe stop playingdetective.ButSantos
is all eyes behind those darksunglassesand the droopymustache,andwhen we leave
he's good at helping me make sense of what we've seen and heard.Likewhy everybody's passing the buck, sayingthat someone else-the municipality,the RedCross,
CARE,the Chamberof Commerce,Caritas-has responsibilityfor meeting the needs
of Mitch's city-bound refugees.Likewhy I'm supposed to believe that the paper
shoved in front of my face is anythingmore than lined paperwith numbersand that
it would be truly amazingwere the figuresto bear a close relationshipto what the
refugeesare getting.
"Santos'"I say at one point, talkingto myself as much as to him. "Whatdo you
make of the numberswe sawon thatbodega sheet?Fortwo of the shelters,they had
twice the number of people that the alberguesclaim to have."
"AllHondurans are corrupt'"he responds.Then he tells me that Honduransare
alwayswaitingfor theirsaint to arrive.Andwhen he arrives,it'spayday,it'stime for a
feast, and everythingwithin reachis for the taking.
HONDURAS:
WHEN THE SAINTS ARRIVE
575
We visit more warehousesthat arepackedwith U.S. and Mexicandonations for
Mitch victims. Thesewarehousesalso havethe look of fortifications.LeavingSantos
to his own thoughts, I walkoff on my own. I see messymounds of boxes,bottledwatereverywhere,tins of food scatteredhitherandyon like ajigsawpuzzlejust begun. I
entertain the thought that even the most fastidious inventory-mindedaccountant
could not possibly makesense of or keep trackof anyof these donations:wherethey
came from, where they're going, who's pocketing how much of anything worth
pocketing.
On the curb,standingon the edge of busytraffic,we talkwith two well-groomed,
middle-agedwomen from CARE seatedin an all-gearfour-wheelerabout to leavefor
the capital,Tegucigalpa.They tell us storiesabout the frequentdistributionsof food
and clothing that CARE has made to the albergues.Littlethey tell us bearsthe slightest relationship to what Detective Santos and I are finding, seeing, hearing. I'm
temptedto tell Santosaboutpostmoderntruths,but I changemy mind. I decidehe'd
say that Hondurans have never known any other kind.
Santos and I build a theory about donations from abroad for the victims of
Mitch. It goes something like this. Classifyingand sorting are delay maneuvers.
They'rethe means of sorting the salableand usablefrom the "junk,"to decidewhat
to take home, give to friends,sell. The piles of paperand foldersshoved at us are all
part of the cover.Forjournalistsand aid agenciesand uncredentialedsnoops like us
they're meant to "verify"that so much went here, or there, or that everything is
neatlyaccounted for.In fact,the documentsverifynothing at all.They'remerewindow dressing,lists of names of people who allegedlyhave received"something,"a
something invariablywithout descriptionor number or quantity.They are documents that purportto show that some numberof boxeswas sent to such-and-sucha
place;but there'sno way to find out what was in any of the boxes.The theory we're
building as we drive from one albergueor warehouseto anotherholds that nobody
takes responsibilitybecause it's not wise to do so if you might be held accountable
for what will soon vanish into thin air.
The natureof what and how much will go whereit wasn'tmeant to go is time dependent, my Honduransidekickof considerableacuityasserts.In the short run, for
as long as this whole Mitch thing keeps people talkingand giving and begging and
crying, donations will trickle and dribble from bodegas into the albergues.Then,
when Mitch is history and people'sminds havemoved onto other matters,perhaps
another natural disaster,another period of rampantinflation,the quotidian business of life as usual,it will be time to enjoythe fruitsof the saintlyvisit. Then will be
the time to empty warehousesand fillpocketsand find new waysto spend the booty,
compliments of all those good and caringAmericansand Mexicansand Europeans
who just don'tunderstandthat,asSantosandothersin farawayCholutecaandTegucigalpanevertire of remindingme, when it comes to such matters,some Hondurans
are thoroughly corrupt.
I don't have nearlyenough knowledgeof Hondurasand the cultureof this usuallyforgottencountryto judgethe worthinessof this often-mouthedgeneralization.
576
THE GEOGRAPHICAL REVIEW
But I have no trouble latchingonto specifics.In one, and then in another,of the albergueswe visit, men of variousagesangrilyclaimthat the reasonthey receivenone
of the donations sent by foreignersis that Honduransof classesabovethem have alwaysseen them as basura,asgarbage.This is nothing new,they say;theyjust hatebeing remindedof theirimage,especiallywhenthey'vebeen insidethe fullwarehouses
and can'teven get a cleanshirtor pairof old shoes,some of those cannedgoods, anything else that'sjust lying there.
In the Chamberof Commerce,where I'm treatedwith considerabledeference
(becauseI'mAmericanand askinguncomfortablequestionsthatshouldn'tbe asked
because the wrong answersmight slow the flow of goods from the land of infinite
riches), I'm told by severalpeople that categoricallying among the refugeesI'm encountering in the alberguesis nothing less than a nationalpsychosis.These people
are only making a fool of me when they saythey'rereceivingnothing. They say the
same to all outsiders,I'mtold. They'relaughingatme forbeingso gullible,so stupid.
I see no profitin respondingthatwhile I'vebeen takenfor a fool more than once,
I also understandhow to graspthe consistentstoriesI'vebeen hearing.I see no profit
in sayingthat all the refugeesI'vebeen talkingto speakas one voice. I see little profit
in noting that churchrepresentativesworkingwith the refugees,and those who are
laboring on behalf of the municipality,are telling me the same thing I'm hearing
from all these "psychotic"liars.
The national psychosis,Santosand I agree,is not to be found among the lying
uneducatedand uncultured"basura"that populatesthe Mitch refugeecenters;it is,
more likely,squarelylocated in all those well-to-do households that are the selfappointed keepersof countrymen perpetuallydown-at-heels.
Santos, I note one bright and hot morning, is getting a bit edgy. Beforewe're
long on the road to anothershelter,he saysit'stime to let him find me a date rather
than make yet another trip to one of those warehousesI say I've got to return to.
Santos is worried: He's not sure that trigger-happyHondurans are going to take
kindly to talkingwith me again,going over questions I've alreadyasked,having to
dealwith the new ones that aremeant to separatepoppycockfrom some semblance
of truth.
Sure enough, Santos startswhistling at potential companions on the street, at
bus stops, and then he picks one out and picks her up. I tell him no thanks,Santos,
I'm reallynot interested.In a short skirtwith gold ringingher two front teeth, she
looks scaredsitting therein the backseat,and I insistthat Santostakeher home. We
do, and on leavingher house he tells me that a wild woman in bed is betterthan facing a gun in anotherman'shand.I agree,but I tell him I stillwant to talkto thatjowly
fat little colonel we saw at the second warehousewe went to this morning. Santosis
being paidwell, so he agreesto takeme there.Butthis time he staysin the car.He says
he needs a quiet smoke, awayfrom it all, at the far edge of the parkinglot.
I understandwhy afterI try to talk to the bulldoggishcolonel who swatsat my
words and hurriesby me as if I were more than merelypesty.I get the messagethat
I'm stepping into quicksandand it'll soon be over my head.
HONDURAS:
WHEN THE SAINTS ARRIVE
577
FIG. 3 Albergue in a school, San Pedro Sula, Honduras, December 1998. (Photograph by the
author)
Santos askswhen he sees me.
paso6?"
",~Que'
"The colonel didn't like my questions:'
We returnto the Olympic Stadium,for me not a sports arenabut a small city of
crampedand darktents that ring its perimeter;no one is allowedinside the stadium
grounds, that would be too messy.The first time we visited, we talkedwith half a
dozen families, all of them huddled in small spaces,sleeping on dirt or broken cement or cardboard.All told the samestoryaboutthe wrongkind of beansthey'dgotten, the soy thatwas givingtheirkidslots of gas,the shoes and the clothesthat no one
had received.
On that visit I had talkedwith an Americanwoman from Long Islandwho had
been there a week and was dispensing medicines. She was likable,giving her heart
and, it seemed, utterlyoblivious to just about everythingother than the medicines
she was keepinga watch on. I didn'tthen know,in talkingwith her,that I would conclude thatMitch,in at leastsome ways,hasbeen prettygood forthe childrenof those
who had lost their homes. The diarrheaand the parasitesand the coughs and even
most of the skin problemsweretherebeforeMitch,and now theywerebeing treated.
They hadn'tbeen treatedpreviously.At least for a while, some of Honduras'shun-
578
THE GEOGRAPHICAL REVIEW
dreds of thousands of underfedand sickly childrenwould be better off. Too bad a
Mitch didn'tcome alongeverycouple of months,I could heara knowingchild say.
Then, too, even the parentswould have to admit that Mitch has been good for
these childrenin otherways,most notablyin all the otherkids they'vegotten to play
with. A home or no home-you can'texpect a two- or four-year-oldto careabout a
lot of wind and too much water and a house gone downriver,not in comparison
with the more palpableplaylikemattersof the moment.
The adults,Santosand I conclude,areanothermatter.Theirbiggestanxietiesare
not really food, protestationsto the contrary.In fact, notwithstandingwhat they
aren'tgetting and should have gotten, most are probablyeating better than before
Mitch got nasty.Seventyor 8o percentof them still havethe jobs they had beforethe
disaster.So despite being cheatedby those who see them as psychotic, uncultured,
mere refugees,their diets haveimprovedslightly.Maybemore than slightly.I'm not
sure where to place the emphasis;neither is Santos.
The biggestanxietyfor adultsis wherethey'lllive.So farthe governmenthas told
them little about their tomorrows, and those few who claim to have heard something believe they'll be relocatedwithin another six weeks.
Six months if they'relucky,Santos opines when we discussthe matter.
But where will they be when these schools open again?I wonder out loud.
Santos chuckles, in a way which makes me understandthat he knows I don't
know Honduransvery well.
I try out some new ideas on Santosabout wherewe should go next with our detective work. But Santos is uneasy.He sayswe've alreadygot the story.It'sall these
puzzle pieces that won't quite fit together,andyet do. It'sall these people who won't
take responsibility.It's all this paperwe've seen that means nothing. It'sthe stakeouts that we could do but don't need to do becausewe alreadyknow that an awful
lot of the people who could make a differenceare on the take,ripping,waiting for
the big rip when the public storm passes and the foreignersmove on to their next
cause.
"It'slike the lastplacewe went to,"Santossaysby wayof summarizing,returning
to thoroughly corruptHonduras.
At that alberguewe had talked to the two young men in charge of the pile of
clothes we saw,the firstand only pile, and it wasn'tverybig. It had arrivedsince Santos and I began our work, askingthe wrong questions,makingpeople uncomfortable.Theseyoung men were,predictably,sortingand classifying.Theyweremaking
a few small piles to distribute,they said.One was wearinga new shirthe found, one
that fit well.
We went out into the school yard and walkedaround and talkedwith eight or
nine women. They were dirty,raggedlydressed,shoeless, and they had bad teeth.
By
Theyhad receiveda few clothes,they said,but theyweren'tamongthe "favorites."
which they meant they weren'tyoung enough, good looking enough;they had too
many kids, a husband.They weren'tobliging.
HONDURAS:
WHEN THE SAINTS ARRIVE
579
"LikeI told you,"Santossaysas we headbackto the car."Everybody'swaitingfor
the saint, and when he arrivesyou take everythingyou can get."
Weheadbackto my hotel, and along the waySantosis againdeterminedto find a
companion for me. He doesn't want to be a detectiveanymore.
I say,"I'mnot quite finished snooping."
He says, "Ifyou were Honduran,they'dkill you."
FIG. 4-Mitch, the deadliest Atlantic hurricane since 1780?ravaged Central America, especially
Honduras and Nicaragua,for ten days in late October and earlyNovember 1998.