A medium-sized extortion
El Amatillo, Honduras
I. Part One
We pay more, I imagine, because the logic of this place is too convoluted for our feeble First World minds to make sense of. We’re animals who’ve lost our instincts, schooling fish that don’t know how to school. The ebbs and flows of the border might make sense to someone better at seeing and following the patterns of people, but to me nothing is obvious except that I’m lost, alone in the open water. One thing is for sure: the other fish are laughing at me.
It’s not politically correct to say you hate a country. Oh, sure, you “didn’t have the best experience there.” Or maybe you "had the worst luck.” But to say a place is wretched and you never want to return is unacceptable. Of course it’s unacceptable for good reason: that bit about luck is true. If the world’s out to get you, any place can be hell -- and maybe tomorrow I’ll have the perspective to see Honduras as the absurd, large-scale case of bad luck and coincidence it was. But right now, I’m pretty sure I hate Honduras.
The customs men -- in white polos and khaki pants -- bounce their legs as they shuffle papers. The younger one is cool and professional, with a thick middle, rimless glasses and leather boat shoes; the other is older with acne scars, a jerry-curl and a bitter bureaucrats way of avoiding eye contact and questions he doesn’t want to answer. I imagine that, when he was younger, Jerry-Curl was the better of the two, but if there’s an equivalent to going postal at Amatilla, he’s it. He’s had it -- and he’s taking me with him.
To be continued...
I. Part One
El Amatillo border station, El Salvador-Honduras, care of: kariandadam.comThey say that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. The same, it seems, is true of extortion. There are small extortions, like being over-changed a few dollars on a multi-course meal, and large extortions, like those perpetrated by presidents. In between, there’s a room with peeling beige paint, a dysfunctional computer that operates in a DOS-like language and a pigeon that flies in through the open windows -- in between is the El Salvador-Honduras border crossing at El Amatillo.
We pay more, I imagine, because the logic of this place is too convoluted for our feeble First World minds to make sense of. We’re animals who’ve lost our instincts, schooling fish that don’t know how to school. The ebbs and flows of the border might make sense to someone better at seeing and following the patterns of people, but to me nothing is obvious except that I’m lost, alone in the open water. One thing is for sure: the other fish are laughing at me.
It’s not politically correct to say you hate a country. Oh, sure, you “didn’t have the best experience there.” Or maybe you "had the worst luck.” But to say a place is wretched and you never want to return is unacceptable. Of course it’s unacceptable for good reason: that bit about luck is true. If the world’s out to get you, any place can be hell -- and maybe tomorrow I’ll have the perspective to see Honduras as the absurd, large-scale case of bad luck and coincidence it was. But right now, I’m pretty sure I hate Honduras.
The customs men -- in white polos and khaki pants -- bounce their legs as they shuffle papers. The younger one is cool and professional, with a thick middle, rimless glasses and leather boat shoes; the other is older with acne scars, a jerry-curl and a bitter bureaucrats way of avoiding eye contact and questions he doesn’t want to answer. I imagine that, when he was younger, Jerry-Curl was the better of the two, but if there’s an equivalent to going postal at Amatilla, he’s it. He’s had it -- and he’s taking me with him.
To be continued...
Freda Moon
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