by Levison Wood
‘Darling?’ asked Alberto.
‘Si,’ said Darling, clearly unaware that there were any connotations to his name.
‘That’s, erm, unusual,’ said Alberto, suppressing a giggle.
‘Right, come on then, Darling. Let’s go.’
And so we followed the likely lads up a dirt track and into the Merendón mountains.
Despite the dark clouds overhead, it was hot and sticky. The humidity was oppressive and though it threatened to rain, I had a hunch that today it wouldn’t. As we trudged up the hill, the track got narrower and before long it had petered out to nothing but a footpath. We passed by Jose and Darling’s family home. It was a little wooden hut with a tin roof overlooking the valley below. Darling ran in to fetch a machete, while we caught our breath outside.
I’d forgotten what proper hills were like. I hadn’t climbed uphill for months – excluding the little jungle hike we’d had in Belize – probably since leaving the Himalayas behind a year before, but until now I’d taken it for granted that sooner or later we’d be faced with real mountains. In my own mind I was mentally, if not physically, prepared. I had forgotten, it seems, about Alberto.
‘Chinga,’ he said, blowing out after just twenty minutes climbing through the banana and coffee plantations. ‘This is horrible. You didn’t tell me we’d be climbing mountains, you bastard.’
‘Think of it as training,’ I said. ‘There’s a few more ahead.’
The further south we got, the more mountainous it would become, and although I hadn’t broken the news to him yet, there was one particular mountain that I was hoping to scale – Cerro Chirripó in Costa Rica. But that could wait, it was still a long way off, and in between here and there we still had two full countries to get through; for all I knew, Alberto may have decided that the beaches of Tulum were a far more appealing prospect, so best not to scare him off too soon.
Jose and Darling giggled as we plodded uphill. They found our slow movements pitiful. ‘How often do you walk this way?’ asked Alberto, in between breaths.
‘Once a fortnight these days, but when we were children, sometimes more,’ said Darling.
I laughed. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen.
‘Why don’t you go more often?’ I asked.
‘It’s too dangerous. My mother won’t let us go to San Pedro Sula.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the gangs. She’s scared that they will kidnap us.’
At that moment we found ourselves at the bottom of a small but beautiful waterfall. The trail had taken us into thick woods, and the path was covered almost completely by the canopy, so that only a few shafts of light penetrated the ceiling of leaves. It was a welcome bit of shade and we took the opportunity to jump in the water and cool off. As we lounged in the refreshing pool, listening to the sounds of the jungle, I heard the noise of hooves.
Twenty metres away, where the path curved a bend, two men appeared riding horses. They looked to be in their early twenties and were wearing singlets, baseball caps and heavy gold chains. They looked more like rappers than cowboys.
‘Good morning,’ we all said to the horsemen in unison, particularly since the lad in the lead had a Smith and Wesson pistol poking from the waist of his jeans.
He stopped and greeted us and asked us where we were going.
‘San Pedro Sula.’
He nodded and gave us an upturned smile as if to say rather you than me.
‘What about you?’ asked Alberto.
‘A party,’ the man replied. ‘A birthday party.’
It seemed like an odd response given that the nearest hut was miles away, but I supposed that even in the jungle the villagers must have birthday parties.
‘And what about the gun?’ Alberto pointed to the pistol.
‘What about it?’ The man shrugged his shoulders as if it was a daft question.
He grinned and handed it to me like it was a prized possession.
‘What do you use that for?’ I asked.
‘Just in case.’
He took back the weapon, shoved it down his pants and rode off, waving goodbye with his friend in tow.
It was a stark reminder, as is often the case in expeditions like this, that beauty and danger go hand in hand.
Five hours and several ridges later, we arrived at a small village called El Zapotal, exhausted, hungry and soaked through with sweat. It had been one of the most punishing days of the journey so far and it was a welcome relief to be able to look down from the top of the hill onto the tropical savannah below and in the distance, nestled in the valley, our objective: the city of San Pedro Sula.
Jose and Darling said that they couldn’t come any further and would now go home. It was gone four o’clock in the afternoon and would be dark soon, but they assured us that up here in the hills they would be safe and make it home in time for the evening.
‘It’s you who should be careful,’ said our wise young guide. ‘Don’t go through the Barrios alone.’ So we paid them a good wage and then they were off, jogging back to the west. He was referring to the lawless districts and suburbs that were run by the gangs.
Until just over a year ago, San Pedro Sula held the dubious honour of being known as the murder capital of the world. Between 2011 and 2015 the city bore witness to six thousand homicides. At its height, killings averaged three a day. It was with some trepidation, then, that we proceeded to follow the trail down the mountain into the outskirts of the infamous town.
Alberto explained, ‘A few years ago, the United States started to deport a lot of the gangsters back to Honduras. In the eighties and nineties, loads of Latin Americans went to find work in LA and ended up in the gangs. They worked with the Mexican drug cartels and basically ran the show in Central America. But for the last ten years, since getting thrown out of America, they’ve brought the gang culture back to these cities, and now this is one of the worst.’
He continued, ‘There’s two main gangs that live here. You’ve got Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, as it’s called, and then there’s Barrio 18, who are even worse. They both hate each other. They’re like two tribes, yet they’re the same people. It comes down to money and drugs and whoever pays them.’
After an hour, we reached the suburbs of the town and found ourselves on a congested street flanked by factories and bus stations. This was, after all, Honduras’s second-biggest city. The cars buzzed past as we picked our way through the busy pavements. It felt bizarre to be in the jungle one minute and in a city the next, but it had become the norm here on this journey.
‘And how do we know who’s in the gangs, and where they operate?’ I asked Alberto, not wanting to accidentally offend a gangster if I could help it.
‘Well, you can’t always tell, of course. A lot of the thugs have got tattoos, sometimes on their face. And look over there …’ Alberto pointed to a concrete wall surrounding a trailer park. Scribbled on it with black paint was the unmistakable number 18.
‘Looks like we’re in one already.’
I felt a shiver of nervousness run down my spine as the sun set behind the mountains we’d just left and the smog of the town filled the streets in a red haze.
‘I think we should hurry and find somewhere to stay, before it gets dark,’ I suggested.
So we plodded on along the main street towards the town centre. The noise of car horns and the chatter of pedestrians was at least reassuring. There were old ladies and children in the streets, and what’s more, this wasn’t a filthy shanty town, of the kind of which I’d seen in Guatemala. No, the roads were clean and there were fancy hotels as we approached the main plaza. Chain restaurants filled the avenues, and our hungry stomachs grumbled at the sight of Pizza Hut, KFC and McDonalds. This didn’t resemble the ganglands of my imagination. There were boutique fashion outlets, shopping malls and posh coffee shops. Given the fact we’d been roughing it for quite some time, we decided to treat ourselves to a good hotel and found a shiny glass building right on the main s
trip. It even had a little swimming pool on the roof. As we stood on the terrace looking down at the city as night fell, it was hard to imagine that it was also the scene of so much horror.
‘Where are we heading from here?’ asked Alberto, looking out towards the horizon.
I pointed towards the south, past the airport, where a rocky escarpment rose out of the flat darkness. ‘That way, towards Rivera Hernandez.’
We both looked at each other in silence. We both had a feeling that it was only a matter of time before we encountered the reality of life in the world’s most dangerous city.
The next morning we’d agreed to meet Daniel Pacheco, a local pastor, community leader and carpenter. Rivera Hernandez, we’d discovered, was one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in the city, if not the entire Americas, and we knew that it would be foolish to attempt to walk through it alone.
A short, jolly man with dark black hair and a smart polo shirt greeted us outside a kids’ playground, where a band was playing. It was mid-morning and the sun was beating down over a bright, jovial city. It was ‘children’s day’ and the whole population was out in their finest clothes, shopping, eating and generally making merry.
‘So, you want to walk through Hernandez?’ he asked with a large smile. ‘No problem. Let me make some calls.’ Our new guide walked away a few metres and began speaking with someone on his mobile. Alberto, I could tell, was straining to eavesdrop.
‘He’s talking to a gang boss, he’s telling them we are coming,’ he whispered. ‘Shhh.’
Daniel walked back over with a grin on his face. ‘It’s sorted, we have permission.’
‘Who did you speak to?’ said Alberto.
Daniel was upfront and honest.
‘I won’t give his name, but rest assured he’s in a position to make sure we will be safe. I spoke to the leaders of both gangs, MS-13 and Barrio 18. I said which route you wanted to take and they will make sure nothing happens to us.’
‘So we will meet the gang bosses?’ Alberto expressed his surprise as well as I hid my own.
Daniel laughed. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘They’re both in jail.’
‘What?’ I said, unable to hold back any longer. ‘How are they able to give us permission if they’re in jail?’
‘It doesn’t stop them running the gangs. It’s the safest place for them. They get treated like kings in there. And anyway, if they want to leave they can. The police are so corrupt here they do whatever the bosses say, otherwise they know their families will be killed.’
‘Well, that’s reassuring,’ I said, half-joking.
‘Really, you mustn’t worry,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ve known these people all my life. I started off growing up with the gangs, but luckily I escaped and got educated. I wanted to come back and save my people, so I became a pastor to try and teach them about God and the value of life. They’re not all bad people, they’ve just lost their way. They send their apologies by the way.’
‘Who do?’ I replied.
‘The bosses. They said if they had more warning they would have had the streets cleaned up and the graffiti removed.’
Daniel patted me on the back. He seemed genuine and loyal and I felt like he could be trusted.
‘Come on, let me show you the way.’
So we followed Daniel off the main street, down an alleyway and into the heart of Rivera Hernandez. It was clear which side of the gang-divide this neighbourhood was. The walls were covered in the words MS-13 at every turn and razor-wire topped the fences. Each house resembled a mini-fortress, with high metal gates and concrete sangars. I was reminded of the Taliban compounds we used to storm in Afghanistan.
Each step took us further into the ghetto. Unlike the city centre, this area wasn’t busy. In fact, it was eerily quiet. A few old men sat on rocking chairs smoking cheap cigarettes on their verandas, watching us through the bars. A woman carried her shopping down the street, followed by a nervous little girl. There seemed to be more feral dogs than human beings, sniffing around the piles of garbage. One thing was clear, though, we were certainly under observation. Teenage boys lurked on every corner, some sitting on windowsills, eyeing us with suspicion.
Daniel’s smile never left his face. He’d wave enthusiastically to every man, woman and child that passed by.
‘Don’t worry, they’re keeping an eye on us for our own protection,’ he said through the corner of his mouth, all the while scanning the horizon.
‘This is where I grew up and have lived all my life. It’s not often we get foreigners here, so people are a bit wary. They all know not to mess, though.’
We were inside the middle of MS-13 territory now. There were no police, only gang kids patrolling here.
‘Saul!’ bellowed Daniel, as we rounded a corner and bumped into a young man in a basketball shirt, his cap facing backwards, and a stream of tattoos covering his skinny arms, chest, all the way up his neck like a black snake. His face was downturned and he looked like a rampant school bully.
‘This is Saul, he’s like a son to me.’ Daniel put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and told him that we were passing through the neighbourhood. The lad said nothing, he only scowled at us.
‘How old are you?’ said Alberto, grasping his hand to shake.
‘Twenty-one,’ he said, without making eye contact. He was evidently a gang lookout. I was surprised. He looked sixteen at most.
‘I try and get these kids off the streets and into education. But sometimes they have nothing and can’t afford to eat, so what can I do except give them love and try and encourage them to live in peace?’ said Daniel, still holding the young man.
Alberto was intrigued and asked the reluctant Saul more questions.
‘How long have you been in the gang? What’s your job? How do you make money? What about your family?’
Saul stood there in silence, before looking to Daniel.
‘Go on son, it’s OK, tell them, they are friends.’
‘Six years,’ he said with a fragile voice. It surprised me a little. Here was a gangster who looked like evil incarnate, yet the voice was that of a nervous child. ‘They killed my brother, so I joined MS-13 to get revenge.’
‘Who did?’
‘Barrio 18. The enemy, of course.’ He showed us his hands. The name ‘Vilmer’ was tattooed across his knuckles. ‘One day I will find who did it and kill them.’ He said it without any emotion. There was only a quiet sadness.
‘My mother is dead. My father, I don’t know who he is. Mara is my family. I make my money in drugs, of course, how else? And sometimes I have to kill people. I’m a sicario, it’s my job.’ He shrugged his shoulders and carried on looking up and down the street.
I’d watched gangster films before. This wasn’t what I had come to expect at all. The lad wasn’t boastful, just direct. For him, there didn’t seem to be much choice in his decision to become an assassin.
‘Do you ever go into Barrio 18 territory?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Not unless it’s war. Now is not war, so I don’t go. But maybe soon I can go and take revenge.’
Barrio 18 territory was where we had to pass through next. Saul walked away without even a goodbye, he just nodded respectfully to Daniel and made off down an alleyway. I think perhaps I was expecting some sort of fortified wall, or a water-filled moat, or at least a desolate wasteland between the two gangs. Instead, the two neighbourhoods backed right up against each other, separated by only a narrow street. There were no walls or barbed wire. It seemed that people could come and go as they chose. Except, of course, they didn’t choose. Only the changed graffiti on the walls signified that we were crossing into a new area.
‘Now we must be very polite,’ said Daniel, his permanent smile wider than ever. As we crossed the invisible line, it became clear we were being followed. I turned around and noticed a pick-up truck with two men sat in the front and one stood in the back, edging slowly behind us at a distance.
‘Don’t worry,’
said Daniel, ‘they’re with us. One is my brother, the other is one of their leaders.’
My heart raced faster, the further down the road we got.
‘These are the most ruthless gang.’
‘What would happen if we tried to come in here alone without you?’ I asked.
Daniel flashed a grin, showing off a glinting gold tooth.
‘A van would come, and they’d put you in it and take you to a place called a Casa Loca and torture you until you tell them what you’re up to. They have hooks that hold and cut out your tongue.’ Alberto winced. So did I. But Daniel carried on, keen to tell us about the brutality of Barrio 18.
‘Many people have been killed. They hang you up in the house naked …’ he motioned by raising his hands in the air, wrists together, ‘… and with pliers and clamps, they squeeze your balls until you die.’
Ahead we spotted more of the spies. Kids, some no older than ten or eleven, stood around chatting into mobile phones, reporting on our every move.
We carried on walking through the streets, slowly and deliberately saying hello to everyone we met. There is no rushing a danger zone; this was no gauntlet to run, better to rely on a bit of charm and manners. Daniel was clearly a respected figure on both sides of the divide. He was non-political and, like a holy man, held the confidence of all sides. As the afternoon wore on, we got closer to the edge of the neighbourhood, until at last we saw the fields and the hills that lay beyond the city limits. It was getting late and we needed to make it out before dark. The past few hours had been surreal and eye-opening in equal measure, but we didn’t want to push our luck, and I think both Alberto and I were keen to leave.
‘There’s one last thing you should see,’ said Daniel, as we walked into what looked like an abandoned council estate. A long block of flats, three storeys high, presented itself as the final building in San Pedro Sula before we could escape into the countryside. It was painted in pink and yellow and stood out against the high concrete wall that surrounded it. Outside there was an open yard in front, where a group of men were playing football. The flats looked fairly new, certainly not more than a decade old, but they were unfinished and bare. There was no glass in the windows or any furnishings. It reminded me a little of those purpose-built houses the Army would construct, so that soldiers could train in urban warfare.
