Why life is decidedly impossible in Honduras.
By Ben Anson.
Honduras, es bello. It’s beautiful. A nation blessed in astounding natural beauty, it sits dead centre in the middle of Central America, sporting gorgeous Pacific and Caribbean coastlines. Between those two coasts, lie ancient Mayan ruins, immense swathes of mostly undiscovered jungle, pine forested hills and mountains, colonial towns and villages, modern cities and the isolated indigenous communities — all inhabited by a warm, noble and deeply hospitable, mixed race people.
This is not a nation of solely drugs, gangs, violence, corruption, poverty and femicide — as any lame google search would insinuate.
So why is it then, that the Honduran (especially the youth) flee in their thousands? Why do they feel forced to leave behind their beloved land?
Pisto. Money.
It is not the sole fault of the President. Neither is it that of the infamously corrupt police force. It is not the armed forces. Nor is it all due to the 18th Street or MS-13 gangs. No. It is the Honduran average salary that sends the Honduran to the US, Canada, Spain or even locations as ‘random’ as the Cayman Islands.
“Hay chamba en las Islas Caimán pues?”
“Is there work in the Cayman Islands then?” I asked a young black fellow, tall and gangly, who stood smoking away at a Belmont mint cigarette as we watched some of the neighborhood children play football on a sun baked street in La Ceiba city.
Employed for eight months a year on a cruise ship (as most of my closest black friends are) he has spent time on those islands. Due to their historical contact with Anglo speakers, more black Hondurans are bilingual than any other racial group.
“No, no hay nada allí.”
“No, ain’t nothing there.” He responded flatly.
“Porque se va tanta gente allá entonces?”
“Why do so many people go there then?”
“La gente se va por cualquier lado bro.”
“People go anywhere bro.”
“No creo que una isla caribeña tenga una mejor calidad de vida…”
“I don’t reckon that a Caribbean island has a better standard of living…”
“Pues la gente se va… y sin pensarlo.”
“Well people go … without thinking it through.”
I’ve known a lot who have migrated towards the US border up in northern Mexico. They leave everything behind and quite literally ‘head off’, making their journey any possible way that they can. Money is raised for a coyote. The guides who take migrants across the borders are named after these desert canines. The thing is, they are not just simple guides. There exists a very fine line between narcos and coyotes. I met one a while ago, in a nightclub in El Progreso city.
Heavily pumped (a clear excess of gym), white-skinned, hook-nosed and obviously fancying himself as a cross between boy band member and thug, Manuel got chatting to my friend and I. His hair was swept back and appeared far too perfectly arranged that we both detected hairspray (my friend Padilla and I), he wore studs in his right ear lobe and adorned a gold watch, two golden chains and the long sleeve, white, cotton shirt tucked into the tight white jeans screamed proud homosexual.
“No quieren bailar con alguna mamacita?”
“Don’t either of you want to dance with some hot little mami?”
Maybe he did like girls…
None of my concern anyway.
We inquired about the interest on his part as to whom we did or didn’t dance with. Suspect pimp… The nightclub was packed and bachata music blasted at an uncomfortably high volume.
“Tengo unas amigas allá sentadas… pero vaya, que toman?”
“I have some female friends sat down over there… but go on, what do you drink?”
I confess that we took him up on his drinks offer. It turned out that he was a friend of a friend and he had recognized the pair of us from some photos shared on social media by the aforementioned mutual friend.
The character (Manuel being the name he furnished us with), didn’t waste time on showing off. He had his right hand man come over with a small, black leather sports satchel.
“Miren.”
“Look you two.”
On opening it up in front of us, we were taken aback by the bag’s contents. US Dollars, Guatemalan Quetzals, Mexican Pesos and Honduran Lempiras all lay on top of each other in elastic band-wrapped stacks.
He then produced the thick bags of coke. Yes, cocaine.
“Soy Coyote. Tráfico también, es pije negocio pana.”
“I’m a Coyote. I traffic too, it’s a great business buddy.”
I chose to translate that less crudely than it should have been. Hondurans have a reputation for using foul language, ‘pije’ being one such word.
Coyotes, make major paper. Why? Obvious. Their service is in high demand.
“Mi mujer me va a mandar unos ocho mil dólares pa que me vaya pa ya.”
“My woman is going to send me eight thousand dollars so that I can go over there.” Kevin, ‘waster’, 28 years of age.
“Y esos ocho mil que pedo?”
“And what’s up with the eight thousand?”
I speak in slang with Kevin, his speech is hardly akin to that of Gabriel Garcia Marquez shall we say…
A young man of lowly origins, he was all set to be migrating illegally to the US through the assistance of a string of coyotes whom his ‘woman’ (long suffering girlfriend) had provided for him. She somehow made it as far a New York, where she cleans houses according to Kevin. Anyhow, the coyotes….
Their total price: $US8,000. I have been well informed that their services are rendered for as high as $US10,000 per head. Hence the hefty stacks of cash in the bold Manuel’s sports satchel that night.
“Si me voy con unas diez personas digamos… (raises his hands up and lifts his eyebrows) maje, es billete no jodas.”
“If I go with let’s say ten people …mate, it’s money.”
Those were his very words as he explained his business to us over some smokes outside in the fumar section. We were puzzled as to why he told us everything from just seeing us off Facebook and then introducing himself from out of nowhere. Manuel appeared as the young up and comer who ends up eventually getting ‘whacked’ by the old school gangsters in the movies. A big mouth and far too flash to last long.
Anyway, Kevin, short, poorly spoken and with a face that only his mother could love, did eventually make the perilous journey across Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico before being captured by Federales in the city of Ciudad Juarez (Mexican border with USA). A few weeks later and I bumped into him in a shopping mall. He appeared terribly unshaven, noticeably bronzed and tired. Large, grey rings had formed below his dark, shifty brown eyes.
“Te deportaron pues loco?”
“They deported you then crazy guy?”
“Si vos, mejor fíjate… allá es de meterse con puro cartel y gente mala.”
“Yeah, better though… going over there is about getting involved with cartels and bad people.”
The Mexican cartels and other Central American criminal organizations being those who control the mass migration to the US. Many migrants are extorted, beaten, tortured, killed, held for ransom and many women forced into prostitution in frontier brothels. I recall a fairly recent conversation with a barber friend. Leonardo.
“Hace poco se vino aquella loca mi prima.”
“That crazy woman my cousin came back recently.”
“¿Quien vos?”
“Who?” I asked, awaiting my turn for a haircut in the small business of my friend’s in the beautiful Caribbean port of Tela.
“La Gaby”.”
“Gaby.”
“¿Donde anduvó ella?”
“Where was she then?”
“Allá en México.”
“There in Mexico.”
“¿Y eso?”
“Why’s that?”
“Se acabó trabajando de puta.”
“She ended up working as a slut.”
Silence. Leonardo has a way with spitting out the most unimaginable from out of absolutely nowhere.
“¿Como?”
“What?”
“Si… vos sabes que a veces les engañan a las mujeres esos coyotes hijos de puta.”
“Yes… you know that sometimes they fool the women those coyote motherfuckers.”
Little more was said on that particular subject. Leonardo’s girlfriend informed me a few days later that it was true and that this cousin Gaby wouldn’t go out of the house, she wouldn’t speak and at times wouldn’t even eat. Traumatized, no doubt.
Violence against men, women and children is a common occurrence in Central America. Latin America and the Caribbean, not just Honduras. For some reason, this nation seems to get mentioned for such occurrences more so than its imminent neighbours. This afternoon, at precisely 2.30pm Central America time (Tuesday 29th October 2019), a man was shot dead by two assailants on a motorbike directly outside of the shopping mall Megaplaza in which I give English classes to adults. A stone’s throw from where I am currently living.

Word is, the victim was a rich farmer, it appears to have been a heist ‘gone-wrong’. The Toyota vehicle he drove received various shots as can be seen in the photo, which a young policeman kindly let me take. The victim returned fire (for he too bore a firearm) before actually running the motorbike down. The assailants somehow bailed unscathed. Down a motorbike though…
With such violent events being commonplace, many despair at the situation and decide that anywhere else is better than here. However, the Honduran is well accustomed to shootings, drugs and violence. I shall now proceed to describe in full detail the one major factor that instigates migration.
The average salary here is around 10,000 Honduran Lempiras. Lempira, being a national hero. An indigenous chieftain and warrior who led a guerrilla war against the conquering Spaniards in the 15th century. The currency bears his revered name.
So, 10,000 apparently. $US400. The truth is that most receive 8,000 Lempiras a month. That’s about $US324.132. Needless to say, one cannot under any circumstances, make that pathetic sum stretch for an entire month.
I lay below the reader, the monthly salary and subsequent expenses of one particular young man whom we shall refer to as ‘Eduardo’. His situation is the same as nine out of ten Hondurans.
Eduardo. 27 years. Computer technician at a clothing factory (fabricators of t-shirts, underwear and coats). El Progreso, Yoro department.
Monthly salary: 9,470 Lempiras. $US383.676
Rent: 1500 Lempiras.
Electricity: 500 Lempiras.
Water: 50/100 Lempiras.
Cable: 200 Lempiras.
Internet: 700 Lempiras.
Transport: 700 Lempiras.
Food: 2000 Lempiras (not eating well I must add).
University: 1000 Lempiras.
With just these basic outgoings, Eduardo is left with a grand sum of precisely 2,770 Honduran Lempiras a month. $US112.223. That being what he has left in his miserable, little pocket — to spend on himself.
Now, let’s say that Eduardo is a young man wishing to do normal things with his day to day life. Buying himself some clothes for instance, perhaps a good pair of trainers. Maybe even having a girlfriend takes his fancy.
Now, a good pair of trainers (be them Nike, Adidas or whichever other brand), cost anywhere from 1,600 to 3,000 Lempiras. He has been left with 2,770 Lempiras though. Um…
The girlfriend then… let’s say they go to the cinema. How much would that cost Eduardo?
One cinema entrance: 90 Lempiras.
Two people: 180 Lempiras.
Popcorn and hotdog plus soft drink combo: 210 Lempiras.
*Girlfriend wants extra candies let’s say. Another 50–100 Lempiras.
490 Lempiras have been spent thus far.
2,770 — 490 = 2,280.
The girlfriend then wants to go for dinner. Maybe Eduardo wants to take the young lady to dinner. Either way, they are going to dinner.
Eduardo could take his girl to eat tortilla wraps or such on any old street corner. That’s hardly romantic though is it? They’ve gone to a proper restaurant let’s say…
With each plate costing between 200 to 300 Lempiras plus the drinks (60–100) Eduardo would spend a roughly estimated 800 — 1000 Lempiras on this venture.
2,280 — 1000 = 1,280. $US51 are left in his wallet.
Bad luck suddenly strikes the bold, young Eduardo. He gets sick. Now, the general hospitals are horrendous here. Picture people bleeding to death with stray dogs walking in and out. So, as I do — if not anyone in the remote position to do so, Eduardo goes to a lower end, more economic private clinic.
The consultancy alone to begin with costs anywhere from 200 to 500 Lempiras.
Example: 1,280 — 500 = 780.
The medicine or remedies for his ailment are also going to cost. One must purchase whatever the doctor orders in a nearby pharmacy. Last time I went, with a nasty throat and stomach infection, I spent 500 on half of what I was told to get. The total amount for the array of pills and dissolvable drink powders came to 1,300 Lempiras. Therefore, not feeling like parting with so much cash, I only purchased half of what I’d been instructed to get.
In conclusion, let’s say that Eduardo receives his monthly wage, he promptly pays all his bills that very day and puts the necessary amount of money aside for his transport, food etc… takes his girlfriend out and combats a sudden ailment. Eduardo could quite potentially end up with only $US20 to his name three days into the month….
I forgot to mention little things like haircuts and toothpaste…
I have also forgotten to mention other obvious necessities such as things we need in our respective households. Furniture. Cooking equipment. A bed. A table. Maybe even a television should one not choose to opt for a socialist experience. An experience akin to that of rural 1950s Yugoslavia.
Yesterday, I took to the wretched shopping mall once again. My place of work. Things have not gone even remotely to plan this year, I find myself teaching English again. A profession I simply despise. Poor pay, boring — quite frankly, and there is always that one so and so — the director, principal or ‘team leader’ — with a penchant for breaking balls.
“Ben, remember, you must be active. Okay? Today is the verb ‘clean’. You will teach this class ‘clean’. Clean — yes?”
Chavez. The intolerable boss of the language academy — at 7.30am, on a Tuesday morning. Classes start at the ridiculous hour of 8.00am.
“Yeah mate, active… seven thirty and you want active?”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind.” I said, rolling my eyes slightly.
“Okay, so have a great lesson, active — yes?”
“No doubt.”
“F****** cleaning. Why am I teaching this crap at this time of day? Where the f*** did I go wrong?” I tend to mutter such remarks at several points throughout the day.
Once free, which is always a part of the day in which I thank God, Allah, Buddah, Jesus Christ, Mary and Mother Teresa of Calcutta for, I decided to go and photograph the extortionate prices of household appliances. The Megaplaza mall is overladen with such goods. Photos are attached for the reader’s perusal.





As one can clearly see, each separate item photographed, be it a single bed, a table, a chair, a television, a closet etc… all cost the outright price of an average salary. If not much more. Price tags of 12,000 HNL, 14,000 HNL and all the way up to 30,000 + appearing left, right and center.
Directly above or below the standard prices, appear the ‘cuotas’. These are the small amounts that one would pay each and every month for any period between six months to two years if purchasing an item on credit — crédito. If buying a massive, plasma television on an average salary, which stands at for arguments sake — 32,000 HNL, one could part with a sum of 456 Lempiras monthly with an interest applied. To think, how long it would take to pay the damn T.V off…
Honduras, dear readers, is literally a nation of debtors.
Going back to Eduardo, who represents the vast majority, let’s imagine that he is purchasing four basic household items on credit.
Salary: 9,470 HNL.
We established that after he’d paid all his bills he was left with the pitiful amount of 2,770 Lempiras. He took his girlfriend out though didn’t he? Let’s say now that he didn’t — again, for argument’s sake.
Right, he wants a bed, which costs 10,000 outright or 339 cuota price. Then a cooking stove, which is over 11,000. 495 cuota. A small television: 3,995. 135 cuota. Finally, a table to eat from. No chairs by the way… The table is 12,000 and it’s cuota 341.
He has 2,770 Lempiras at his disposal and we are now saying that he hasn’t taken his girlfriend out.
The cuotas of these four items all add up to an amount of: 1,310 Lempiras. $US54 give or take. He would pay this amount each month for an uncertain period of time.
2,770 — 1,310 = 1,460 Lempiras.
Now, he has around $US60 at his disposal. Back to the girlfriend and back to the imaginary scenario that he falls ill. Eduardo is financially doomed. He will go broke, no question about it.
As everyone concludes in Honduras — ‘no se puede’. It cannot be done.
As a result, people have to borrow money all over the show. From anyone possible. That is, to survive each month. It is a deeply depressing, vicious circle, that cannot be avoided by the average Honduran. How else are they going to get by?
I haven’t even touched on the impossibility of buying a car. A decent one at that. Vehicles are a luxury and an impossible expense for most.
“Yo me quiero ir a España man”.
“I want to go to Spain man.” Padilla, 27 year old male.
“Quiero jalar pa’ los Estados.”
“I want to head to the US”. Carolina, 18 year old female.
“Mi prima me está echando la mano para ir a Canadá.”
“My cousin she is helping me to go to Canada.” Kenner, 25 year old male.
“Voy a ir otra vez embarcada, aquí no hay ni verga.”
“I’m going to work on a cruise ship again, here there isn’t s***”. Jenny, 26 year old female.
Few wish to stay, yet at the same time neither do they wish to leave.
“Quisiera quedar acá, Honduras es bello y el ambiente es macizo, solo que aquí no se puede vivir dignamente.”
“I’d rather stay here, Honduras is beautiful and the ambience is cool, it’s just that you can’t live with dignity here.” Oscar, 45 year old male.
I shall end on a bad note, so that the troubles of Hondurans may remain in the reader’s head for more than two seconds on their finishing of this article. My boss Chavez, is a noticeable homosexual. I live in a rather shady neighborhood across from the shopping mall. He too, lives here. The other day I stood chatting with a young marero. These being the low level gangbangers who do the dirty work assigned to them by those above. The latter being ultra violent, tattooed thugs in the 18th Street and Ms-13 gangs — who are at a constant bloody fight for territory.
This particular marero, is just another skinny, malnourished, desperate and uneducated street boy of around 19 years perhaps. We’ll call him Bryan. That’s how Hondurans spell the name. Brian.
“Loco, ese es tu jefe va?”
“Crazy guy, that’s your boss right?”
“¿Quien?” I responded.
“Who?”
“Aquel gordo que va allí.”
“That fat guy over there.”
Sure enough, Chavez was entering his apartment in the near distance. Dust rose as a horse and cart moved lethargically across the dirt street; a vicious heat seared down upon the corrugated iron above us. As such was the roof of the open air corner shop we stood within, wasting time and chatting aimlessly.

“Si el es mi jefe.”
“Yes he’s my boss.”
“¿Va que ese es culero?”
“It’s true that this guy’s a fag right?”
I wasn’t about to tell him off for using homophobic remarks. This skinny little fiend could have me shot if I tick him off.
“Le gustan los hombres dicen.”
“They say he likes men.”
“No crees que pagará pa’ que uno lo pise?”
“You reckon he’d pay for one to f*** him?”
“Eh?”
“Les debo un billetal a los meros meros vos sabes. Tengo que conseguir pisto como sea perro.”
“I owe a lot of money to the big guys you know. I have to get money anyway possible dog.”
“Anda robar un banco mano.”
“Go rob a bank bro.”
Not the best advice on my part, yet surely better than the notion of prostituting oneself.
The point is, if the neighbourhood drug dealer is looking to prostitute himself, you know that nobody has any money…
“Si yo no pago esa plata, me matarán. Y acordarte que primero viene la tortura…”
“If I don’t pay this money, they’ll kill me. And remember that torture comes first.”
I promptly ordered two beers from the shop owner. That s*** needed washing down with something strong. This was about a month and a half ago. I haven’t seen the kid since.
Ben Anson.
El Progreso, Honduras.
