Ben Anson
Ben Anson
Nov 6 · 15 min read

Eating Chinese takeaway with drug dealers.

By Ben Anson.

Marero.

That’s the name they go by, the name that they are known for.

Skinny, malnourished and deeply lost youth whom nobody could care a flying **** for.

Such young men thrive worldwide. They are to be found in every nation on the face of this earth within the poorest, most deprived settings where neither law nor education bear any presence at all. Education of any form that is, from academic to the kind of education which ought to exist in the family household.

Let us begin indeed, by examining their upbringings.

Crack-head, coke-sniffing, binge-drinking mothers who go through boyfriends faster than they do toilet paper. These sorts of women being the ones who far more often than not give birth to and ‘raise’ such young men. Their fathers? The kinds of ‘gents’ who see each and every woman that they come across as little more than something to be ‘used’ and forgotten about.

Through poor life choices and frankly a strong dosage of ‘bad luck’ I currently find myself living in such an environment here in northern Honduras.

Mareros are my next door neighbours. Impoverished young men, who take care of all the low-end, ‘dirty’ business assigned to them by those in charge. These boys work for the infamous MS-13 street gang. A criminal faction whose origins are traced to Los Angeles, where it was formed by Salvadoran migrants as a means of protection from local African American and Mexican gangs in the late 1980/early 1990s. It was quickly opened to other Central Americans such as the Hondurans as scores of Hispanics fleeing civil wars and poverty during that era — felt a need to ‘stick-together’ up in the ghettos of LA.

The MS gang (MS standing for Mara Salvatrucha), alongside their arch rivals the 18th Street (Calle 18), soon spread out across the Southwest entering Arizona and Texas. On becoming something of a violent epidemic the Bill Clinton administration decided that instead of filling up penitentiaries with these heavily-tattooed devils (grotesque tattooes becoming their affiliation I.D), they would simply deport them all enmasse back to Central America. Thus, El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala suddenly received a horde of violent, merciless gangsters who had never before seen their parent’s and grandparent’s home countries. In such chaos, they introduced violent US gang culture to impoverished nations located in the middle of crucial drugs trafficking routes and overladen with weapons lying around from the region’s previous civil wars.

A complete, irreversible disaster caused by the callous practices of previous US governments.

They have radically expanded in ‘membership’ since the 1990s. Every Honduran town and city is home to one if not both factions — the MS and 18th Street.

The characters next door, work for the MS. The city of El Progreso is their territory as is nearby Tela, La Ceiba and most parts of San Pedro Sula.

Looking at my neighbours, one wouldn’t necessarily place them as gangbangers.

A chilled, Brahva beer accompanied me as I slowly opened the front door with my foot. It had been half open already. I’m sharing quarters in a tiny, prison-cell-like studio apartment with my friend Padilla. We’re two broke losers trying to get ahead in life. I’ve taken some hits over the last couple of years. All culminating in my current predicament.

This is Honduras, the real Honduras. Not the Honduran Bay Islands where gringos party all night and scuba dive in the radiant Caribbean waters by day. This is how Hondurans live. Teachers, drug dealers, single mums, computer technicians, carpenters, electricians and mechanics all live side by side.

Everyone adresses each other by ‘usted’. The polite, respectful form to say ‘you’ in Spanish. Something that most Spaniards rarely do these days in their attempt to be ‘cool’ and ‘unorthodox’. Here in Latin America, the language is spoken traditionally and with pride. Quite ironically too, as it was forced upon them violently by the Spaniards during their conquests.

Anyhow, I wasn’t at all surprised when ‘Blanco’ (whitey) addressed me as ‘usted’ on seeing me appear through our front door. I wished to sip the beer out in the courtyard. This space being where residents hang their clothes to dry.

Ya empezó con las birrias usted va?”

“Now you got started with the beers right?” He chuckled.

Si ombe así es.”

“Yeah man that’s how it is.”

Vaya.”

“Good one.” He responded.

Stood there, playing Bachata music from his battered, little Samsung, which resisted precariously upon a cement washing basin, he simply smiled over.

“¿Quiere una pué?”

“Do you want one then?” I asked.

“Al rato perrin no puedo estar tomando mientras trabajo.”

“In a while little dog I can’t be drinking on the job.”

Vaya.”

“Alright.”

Vaya’ is a word that separates the Honduran from other Hispanics. It is said almost at the end of every other sentence — especially amongst those of lesser education.

It simply means to ‘go’. Conjugated from the verb ‘ir’ — ‘go’. ‘No se vaya usted’. ‘Don’t go’. However it has far more usage for Hondurans, meaning anything from ‘nice/cool/good one’ to ‘well said’ and ‘I agree’.

Quiero comer pizza.”

“I want to eat pizza.”

Vaya” would be a perfect response.

“¿Hace calor va?”

“It’s hot right?”

Vaya”. Meaning ‘yeah, you’re right.”

The trick is to incorporate a heavy Honduran accent and really ‘get into it’. The ‘v’ sound in Spanish is more like a ‘b’ — noticeably so in Honduras. The letter ‘a’ appears twice and must be characteristically slurred as we are in Central America.

“¿Ajustemos por un arroz chino?”

“Shall we all put in for Chinese?” Blanco suddenly asked me, as I sipped on the beer gazing into the distance. I was indeed, rather peckish.

Baaayaaaa”. Was my enthusiastic response.

The skinny, light-skinned yet bronzed face youth produced a hearty smile. His odd patches of facial hair bristled. Bending over to tie his beaten blue sneakers, I noticed he had paint splashed in places upon his saggy jeans and multicolored polo shirt. A cheap and tacky ‘gold’ chain hung across his neck.

“¿Se lo mando a traer entonces?”

“Should I send someone to bring it over?”

“Si, ‘ta bien.”

“Yeah, sure.” I replied, finishing the beer.

“Bueno, cuanto anda ahí usted?”

“Well, how much have you got on you?” Asked Blanco, turning off his music.

Cien.”

“A hundred.”

Vaya, yo ando cincuenta.”

“Alright, I’ve got fifty.”

150 Lempiras. That was enough.

“Voy a preguntarles a los demás.”

He was off to ask the rest. I immediately questioned what I was getting into. The ‘rest’ being the other dealers. I knew this fellow, he was harmless, I didn’t mind breaking bread with him. I wasn’t all that connected with his soldiers though…

A few minutes later and three other shabilly dressed, skinny youths appeared in the horribly messy courtyard on BMX bikes. The bikes appeared in worse condition than their loose shirts and khaki shorts. Holes in sneakers, odd laces and cheap chains accompanied them.

I nodded semi-seriously as they approached. What I wasn’t expecting were smiles and handshakes.

“¡Vamos a comer arroz chino entonces!”

“We’re gonna eat fried rice then!” Beamed the smallest fellow, who has about three teeth left — I swear.

Excelente.” Said the other, with the bandido moustache.

“Que pije idea la de ustedes.”

“What a f****** good idea you two had!” Went the third. The darkest skinned.

Out came their ragged bundles of small notes as they fumbled about getting money together for a soda and an extra large portion of rice. Blanco expressed at least three times that he and I had already placed money, he did so whilst waving the fifty and hundred notes up in their faces.

“Ya vo’ deja de joder hijueputa ya lo sabemos!”

“Enough of that you! Stop fucking about motherfucker we already know!”

Snapped one of them.

“Yo solo digo vos sabes.”

“I’m just saying you know.”

Three hundred Lempiras had been rustled, to which they sent the fellow missing teeth to go and get the food and drink. He was obviously a bit ‘simple’. They clearly take advantage of the poor sod.

“Este no es completo.”

“This one isn’t complete.”

A Honduran way of saying that someone’s ‘not all there’. So they informed me, once he’d taken off on his bike chanting ‘arroz chino’ in a Chinese accent…

Alloooo chinoooo!”

Asíans typically struggle to pronounce the rolling ‘r’ in Spanish as many Anglo speakers do. It sounds more like an ‘l’ when they try to do so. Hence his chanting of ‘alloooo” instead of “arroz”.

A while later and I found myself being kindly offered a place on the mattress. Yes, the mattress. Well, in fairness they’ve one mattress placed on top of another. Adding extra height and ‘comfort’. These two mattresses being the only items of furniture to be found within the tiny yellow colored studio, which is rented out by the boys’ boss. El Gordo.

It is understood that ‘El Gordo’ (the fat man) came to an agreement with the fellow who rents out these hideous little studios where we live, about five minutes away from the shopping mall Megaplaza. Our neighborhood is nasty — quite nasty. Not at all picturesque — apart from the grand, blue mountains behind. Rubbish, stray dogs and cats and general filth engulf the dirt streets which wind between the motely array of houses — built from all materials imaginable to man. Wooden planks, cement blocks and corrugated iron being the most popular — with doors ranging from metallic gates to simple sheets hung up… This depending on one’s financial income.

The drug dealers live in squalor. I immediately wondered — on entering their confines (the first time I have ever done so), just what on earth the sleeping arrangements were? After all, a score of four or five young men inhabit this living space. Surely they are not all one on top of each other? On these mattresses…

As the fried rice was awaited, I found myself sat with Blanco, the dark-skinned fellow and the other one with the bandido moustache. The poor simpleton was out ‘fetching’ the orders.

“¿No crees que se pierde otra vez ese pendejo?”

Blanco asked the dark-skinned kid (whom they refer to as ‘Blacky’), whether or not he reckoned that the pendejo (moron) would lose himself again.

“Ya veremos pué”.

“We’ll see.” Contested Blacky, in his comically high voice — heavily accented.

It was at that point that Blacky and the moustache fellow went out to light a blunt of marijuana. I declined. Blanco, seizing the opportunity, went under the mattress and produced a fucking silver revolver.

“Mira esta bestia Chele.”

“Look at this beast white guy”. He instructed me.

I took it from him and held the piece in my right hand.

“¿Pesa va?”

“It’s heavy right?”

He agreed, with an expected: “Vaya”.

I noticed that it held six bullets. He had it ready for use. I then saw some English print on the handle and asked if it was a US issue.

“Dale vuelta.”

“Turn it around”. He went.

So I did. The pistol had ‘Argentina’ engraved upon it. An Argentine revolver… how random.

“A saber cómo llegó hasta acá.”

“Who knows how it arrived all the way over here.” Furthered Blanco. He then took it off me and shoved it between the two mattresses. I wanted to get a photo of him with it, but quite frankly, how the fuck was I going to get him to do that? I wasn’t about to offer myself up as a journalist. They’ve accepted me as ‘the token gringo’ in the area and have probably conjured up all sorts of stories as to why I am here. Blanco once confided in me that Blacky thought I was DEA when he first saw me months ago.

“Como usted siempre anda con esos lentes y esas camisas formales pué…”

“As you always go about with those sunglasses and formal shirts…”

Me parecía agente de la DEA entonces?” I laughed.

“I looked like a DEA agent then?”

Si no joda!” Giggled Blanco.

“Yeah no shit!”

The fried rice eventually came alongside a three liter bottle of Coca Cola which the others had put in for. I must say, that I would have never have expected to be served with such respect and politeness by these characters. They gave me a first helping of the steaming chop sui and fried rice combo which always comes in the classic white takeaway boxes.

“Le gustaría comer un poco pan con su comida?”

No way. Not at all the sort of language I’d have expected from a tattooed, MS-13 connected drug dealer with the flick knife tucked up in his belt.

“Would you like a little bread with your food?”

He could have been the waiter in a five star hotel. His delivery was very professional. I couldn’t say no to that.

“¿Fresco mi perro?”

“Some soda my dog?” Went Blacky, raising the bottle of Coke in the air as he sat on the end of the mattress, plate of rice upon his lap.

“Vaya pué, gracias.”

“Alright then, thanks.”

We sat there, the five of us, enjoying the food in silence. The simple fellow beamed great smiles and at random intervals would chant the lyrics of random songs, which seemed to suggest that he was happy and quite content with the situation. How he sung so nicely with only three teeth or so, I couldn’t say.

“Mi mujer me estaba llamando pero no le contesté!”

“My woman was calling me but I didn’t answer her!”

That being a line from the reggaeton remix ‘China’ whose artists copied the beat and rhythm from Shaggie’s hit ‘It wasn’t me’.

The others looked over at me and made faces as if to say ‘yes, he’s not all there’.

“Ya mi perro, coma. Usted ya ha cantado mucho, coma — coma!”

“Enough my dog, eat. You’ve sung a lot already, eat — eat!” They encouraged him. For the first time I realized that these lost and unprotected youths were really just trying to look after this lad, who probably wouldn’t survive out on the street by himself. Despite involving him in the drugs trade, he had been given a ‘job’ I suppose and a roof over his head at night. Blanco carried on at him…

“Quiere comer más?”

He asked the boy if he wanted to eat more.

The fellow grunted, which appeared to be a ‘yes’ as he smiled at the same time. His marijuana-smoked-out eyes rolling about…

“Si es que… si quiere más usted diga compa, acuérdese que…”

“Yes it’s that… if you want more just say, remember that….”

At this precise moment the other three joined in and they all chanted simultaneously:

“Cuando hay- hay. Cuando no hay — apreta la pija!”

“When there’s food — there’s food. When there isn’t — put up and shut up!”

These boys obviously go hungry at regular intervals. The simpleton did indeed ask for more food. Shortly after, we had all finished. It was then — about ten minutes later, that a knock on the door was heard. This, caused a ruckus amongst the gangbangers. Empty beer bottles were rapidly hidden and all cigarettes and blunts suddenly put out. They whispered to me that the fellow on the other side of the door couldn’t find out that they had been drinking and smoking whilst on the job.

In he came. With him, a tall, skinny, booted laborer followed. A client, whom they all saluted as the ‘pothead’. I could tell he was a laborer of some sort for he wore overalls and high, black boots. The tall gent squatted down resting his back against a wall. The other man, very short and covered in facial air, sported a large, grey adidas backpack and wore earphones connected to a crappy android laying in his right hand.

He was saluted as ‘The Accountant’. In Spanish of course. El Contador.

I then saw some real shit, whilst sat upright next to Blanco upon a corner of the mattress. Drugs and money came out immediately. I have never seen so many bags of marijuana nor some many sachets of cocaine. They poured the narcotics out of the grey rucksack, allowing the contents to spill out onto the floor. I confess that I managed to pinch one of the cocaine sachets which appears in the photos attached further on. Over a hundred sachets of Coke were counted and a hundred and thirty bags of maraijuana. All for direct sale in the neighborhood. The accountant instructed them that the bosses wanted all that sold in a week.

Imposible”. Said Blacky, upright.

“No me digas eso hijueputa, necesito que vendan esa mierda oyeron?”

“Don’t say that to me motherfucker, I need you all to sell this shit you hear me?”

Blacky offered a very weak ‘vaya’ in response.

“Ajá culero y el billete?”

“Aha faggot and where’s the money at?” Continued the accountant.

Blanco and Blacky reached up into some cupboards and produced a coffee jar. Out came a stash of notes wrapped up in a plastic bag.

I heard them count over $US400 worth, in Honduran Lempiras. About 10,000 HNL.

Each sachet of cocaine costs a customer precisely 100 Lempiras. That being around $US5.00. They provide a pathetic amount as can be seen in the adjoined photos. The contents of the sachet being pitifully small. On cutting it open with my nail scissors, I sprinkled the white powder onto a pane of glass and then wondered just how much of an effect such a tiny amount could have on someone… the filth went straight onto the floor after I took the photo. It was then swept out the front door.

The bags of marijuana (I was unsuccessful in pinching one of them) cost only 30 Lempiras. Almost $US1.00 I believe.

For some reason, the accountant had no interest in me. I would have expected him to ask the boys who on earth I was — yet he was obviously just there to drop off the drugs and collect the cash. Fair enough. On seeing him out of the premises, the boys made faces to each other with the moustache character going ‘phew’ — wiping his forehead.

“Ese hijueputa si da problemas va?”

“This motherfucker sure gives problems right?” Went Blacky.

“Me gustaría meter esa pistola por su culo!”

“I’d like to stick that pistol up his a**!” Stated Blanco, looking worried stiff.

“Vos pendejo, el no se dio cuenta de los mil pesos.”

“You moron, he didn’t realize about the thousand pesos.”

“Espero que no se den cuenta.”

“I hope they don’t find out.” Went Blanco.

I thus pieced together from the conversation that Blanco had gone and spent a thousand Lempiras of their weekly tariff on hookers and alcohol. All the others covered for him and seemed willing to take the fall together.

“Si vos no recuperas esa plata nos van a matar a todos culero… y por tu culpa.

“If you don’t get that money back they’re going to kill us all faggot… and for your fault.”

Blanco and Blacky had to sort this one out. If they don’t I may not be seeing them around any more…

On cheering up over another blunt, Blacky showed me something which he said he wanted me to see before I went and ‘relaxed’ in my apartment. From out of his jean pockets, came a small, handcarved wooden figure of a grim reaper.

“Right…” I thought.

“Macizo va?”

“Cool eh?” He went. Smiling.

I asked him what it was about.

“Es la Santa muerte. Nos protega. Ahora te va a proteger a vos también. Hablaré con ella pa’ que te cuide. Si nos vienen a matar ahorita no nos pega ninguna bala porque la santa muerte está con nosotros.”

“It’s the grim reaper. It protects us. Now it will protect you as well. I will speak to ‘her’ so that she looks after you. If they come to kill us right now not a single bullet will hit us because the grim reaper is here.”

Intriguing beliefs, from intriguing characters. If the grim reaper or ‘La Santa Muerte’ really is out there looking after them, I pray that ‘she’ does and if possible, may she rescue these misguided, lost and suffering young men. May she protect them from all harm and somehow through her divine and mystical powers — transform their lives for the better.

As I lay awake late that night, I heard some commotion at the drug dealers door. It was their usual banter, which is always delivered in English…

*knocking on door. Heavy knocking.

“¿Quien?”

“Who?” Shouts Blacky.

“Sir! Open up! This is the United States Drug Enforcement Agency!”

A loud eruption of laughter breaks from inside their studio.

“¡Sos vos Carlito hijueputa! ¿Lo hace bien va? ¡Pasa por un gringo!”

“It’s you Carlito you son of a bitch! He does it well right? He comes across as a gringo!” Laughs Blanco, greeting whoever Carlitos is.

I hear this go down every other night, the joke never gets old for these young drug dealers…

By Ben Anson.

El Progreso, Honduras

Ben Anson
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