Honduras This Week Online | Features | Fiction

The Great Honduras - Salvador Soccer War

Part Two

I was quite unprepared to find all of the Toncotin airport terminal windows intact. The landing strip was no rougher than it always is and, to my practiced eye, business was proceeding as usual. "Where is the bomb damage?" I asked my friend who met me on arrival. "What bomb damage?" he inquired with obvious puzzlement. "Here at the airport," I clarified. "According to the news reports, the Salvador air force bombed this airport just last week. They couldn't have repaired all of the damage this fast!" "Oh," he replied matter-of-factly, "that's just propaganda. A Salvador plane did come over and drop some bombs, but they didn't hit anything."

I later found out that the much publicized "bombing raid" involved a single WW-II vintage DC-3. Some certified Salvadoran heroes had first loaded themselves with rum, and then loaded half a dozen fifty-pound bombs aboard the plane and made a pass at the Tegucigalpa airport. Perhaps the mere thought of being shot at by the .30 caliber Browning air-cooled machine guns that constituted the anti-aircraft defenses in Tegucigalpa spoiled their aim. Or maybe they just got lost.

In any case, they opened the cargo door and threw their bombs out of the DC-3 about half a mile south of the-airport and romped home again. The only damage was a broken window in the garage door, at the home of one Charley Mathews, and a hole in a residential roof. That bomb that made the hole in the roof was, fortunately, a dud. It didn’t explode. And, anyway, the family that lived in that particular house wasn’t home when it happened.

Mr. Mathews was then - and still is - the head man in Casa Mathews, the Honduras distributor for Caterpillar tractors, and as such, not a man to trifle with. He is reported to have called the Presidential Palace and raised merry hell about his property damage. At the time, my informant said, Mathews had been under the impression that it was the Honduran Air Force that had accidentally dropped a bomb in his back-yard. Once the situation was explained, Mr. Mathews accepted his shattered garage window in good grace, repaired the damage, and made no further problem about it. In a war, of course, one is liable to have a window broken. It can happen. Fortunately, there were no repetitions for him to contend with.

Until you have seen a country like Honduras at war, you can have no idea how much fun a war can be. Hotels, restaurants, bars and other gathering places were stacked to overflowing, both day and night. People departing for the "front" and others returning provided justification for an endless sequence of "good-bye" and "welcome back" parties. Add to this the largess of the "unlimited expense accounts" that official war-observer groups and visiting military missions routinely enjoy, and it is at least surprising that they didn't eat and drink the country empty.Government offices, which even under the most ideal conditions never function at more than half-throttle, turned into discussion round-tables; with not even token attention being paid to anything other than the latest war "scuttlebutt." Each rumor or tidbit from the previous night's social circuit wasmeticulously told, re-told, examined and passed on. Commercial establishments were somewhat more operational; but even in this category, the level of distraction provided by transistor radios and the latest editions of newspapers made it almost impossible to get anything done.

Military conscription in most of the developed countries is set up in the form of a lottery or individual selection on the basis of age, family status, etc. Not so in Honduras. It comes down to a game of "fox and hounds" played out in the city streets - for keeps!

One afternoon I was walking down a principal avenue when an olive-drab military truck screeched to a stop just in front of me. A dozen or more uniformed soldiers leaped to the street and began grabbing a bunch of young men who were gathered around a radio on the periphery of the city’s Central Park. Some of the more alert ones took to their heels and eluded their captors, but several of them were overtaken and herded back into the truck. Then the soldiers clambered up and the vehicle departed.

On inquiry it was explained that this is the method by which the ranks of the Honduras military are fleshed out from time to time, as required. There are no draft boards, no appeals, no red tape. If the soldiers catch you, and you otherwise meet their patently liberal requirements - which is to say if you are warm and breathing - you’re in the army! The only sure method of avoiding military duty after having been caught by the "recruiters" is to be able to buy off the officer directing the round-up. Anybody who can afford it usually takes this way out when confronted with the necessity. The street price for being allowed to get out of the recruiters’ truck usually ranges from twenty to fifty lempiras, it is reliably reported; a bargain to be sure, if one is strongly biased in favor of strictly civilian pursuits.

Unless one wangles a release, the standard conscriptee must serve six months in uniform - or desert. As concerns desertion, the Honduran military tends to be extremely short-tempered with those. who-do "go over the hill". If caught, the deserter is a candidate for execution on the spot. Again, the procedure is the essence of brevity and expedition. It also has the effect of keeping military desertions to a very modest level.

It was in the middle of this war hysteria that my project required some ten cases-of dynamite. When I mentioned the topic to my attorney, he damn near fainted.

"It is out of the question, Don Lorenzo!" he assured me."But I must have it," I insisted. "There are things that just can't be done except with explosives." "If we were to ask for dynamite we could be put in jail - or you could be expelled from the country." He wrung his hands and mopped his brow with a large blue bandanna.

"My plan is to set the charges in my own land on Roatan," I assured him. "You can come watch me shoot it off." My offer did nothing to capture his enthusiasm. He explained that due to the state of war, all heavy explosives had been placed under the direct control of the Ministry of Defense; and only the Minister of Defense could approve such a thing. Moreover, in his considered opinion, the chances of a foreigner getting his hands an 500 pounds of dynamite in the current situation were about as good as the chances of Jack-the- Ripper being elected mayor of Boston.

"I won't even discuss it," he finally declared. "And my advice to you is to say no more about it to anyone. It could make for you big problems!"

While I had no particular desire for 'big problems', I did need the dynamite - and it has been my experience that whatever you have to do, can be done. The real question usually is just whether one has enough patience to pick all of the procedural locks that stand in the way. In preparation for storming the Ministry of Defense, I began asking some discreet questions about the friends and associates of the Minister, who was the functionary who would have to personally approve my request. In due course, someone mentioned one Julio Zelaya, as being "like a brother" to El Coronel. Julio was a salesman for Casa Mathews (the Caterpillar distributor mentioned earlier) and, most fortunately, an acquaintance of mine from some earlier encounter.

Hondurans can't resist intrigue of any kind. It’s the mother’s milk of Honduras social, business and political life. They thrive on it! So I called Julio; reintroduced myself and after telling him I couldn't talk over the telephone, invited him to dinner at my hotel. Of course, he accepted.

"Don Julio," I began, after we had been seated in a far corner booth and had a pair of drinks in front of us, "it is my understanding that you are a very good friend of the Minister of Defense." I paused while he studied me like a mouse under a microscope. "Is this true?"

"We are like this," he said, wrapping one big pudgy finger around another. "But what can that mean to you? Why do you ask?" "Because I require some materials that only the Minister can authorize for me." Visions of revolution and insurrection flickered in his eyes as he pondered this statement. He drained his-drink and motioned the waiter to bring another. When it arrived, he drained off half of it and leaned across the table.

"If it's arms, forget it. Everything is under total security." "It isn't arms," I assured him.

"Ammunition is the same" he went on in a wheezy whisper. "It's all out of reach - ammunition, grenades, mines, everything!" He paused to drain his glass. "You know we shouldn't be talking about this. Everybody has four ears these days."

"That isn't the kind of thing I need, Julio."
"Then what do you need?"
"Dynamite."
His eyes narrowed.
"Dynamite?"
"Si, Senor."
"How much?"
"Ten cases - and one hundred ten-millisecond electric caps."
A low whistle was his only reply,
"Don't you want to know what I want it for?" I asked,

"No! Don't tell me! Don't tell anybody!" He loosened his tie and lit a cigarette. "Nobody knows the Minister well enough to make such a request at this time. Don't you know we are at war?"
"Of course, dammit," I replied. "But I've got a project underway that needs some dynamite. I've got to have it. We can't do the job with firecrackers or crowbars. I've been told that you can handle this. Now can you, or can't you?"

He settled back in his seat and chuckled quietly.

"I have known for a long time that gringos are crazy,' he said with a smile that canceled the possible insult. "But you must be the craziest gringo I have ever met!"

"This town is swimming in rumors about sabotage, revolution and assassination of the principal men in government - and you ask me to help you get five hundred pounds of that!" He roared with laughter. "Don Lorenzo, you are a good man to know. You have no time to wait even for our war. You have cojones!"

"Now let us eat, drink and talk of other things. If I get drunk enough, perhaps I shall promise to help you - then we will both be crazy,'" He broke into another gale of laughter that brought stares from the other diners - and a waiter to take our orders. It was a good dinner, and Julio did get drunk enough to promise to help me. My taxicab delivered him to his doorstep about midnight, where he probably awakened most of his neighbors by bellowing, "buena noche, Don Lorenzo! Hasta manana, gringo loco!"

In characteristic Latin style, Julio was half an hour late in arriving at my hotel the following morning, and he was in bad shape. A short night of sleeping and the pangs of a well-deserved hangover had markedly reduced his enthusiasm for our visit to the Minister of Defense; but a couple of Bloody Marys and some coffee soon returned him to gladiator form.

We entered the Defense Minister’s huge reception room like visiting potentates. Julio greeted everyone by name and kissed several secretarial cheeks, while informing everyone within earshot that he needed to see El Coronel on a matter of great importance, but only for a few minutes. Some pained expressions flickered over the faces of the people filling the chairs around the periphery of the spacious room. Obviously they were all waiting to see the Minister. But we were escorted into the sanctum sanctorum without even having to sit down in the waiting room. Don Julio was greeted by the Defense chief with warm words and a bear-hug abrazo.

I seated myself some distance away from the official desk and observed the advocacy.

Like all meetings in Honduras, this one began with a somewhat extended recapitulation of the health and related conditions of various family members, friends and past associates. With this out of the way, Julio introduced me to the Minister and launched into a dissertation about my Roatan project that made it sound like I was building another Shangri-la. He extolled my faith in Honduras and my obvious love for the country and its people; else why would I be here investing "millions of pesos" in the new and exciting business of tourismo. Having obtained heartfelt agreement to all of these sentiments from his good friend, the Minister of Defense, he stated that we were there because I had encountered a small problem that needed and deserved intervention at the highest level of government. This declaration caused the Minister, seriously overweight under normal circumstances, to visibly expand and glow with pride in contemplation of his high responsibility.

"Que clase de problema, Don Julio?" the Minister asked.

"A big problem for him," Julio declared, "but a small problem for you, mi amigo!" This was followed by ten minutes of machine-gun style Spanish that I could not begin to follow, but I noticed that every time the word "dynamite" was mentioned, the Minister visibly blanched. Each time the Minister countered, Julio bored in again. I found myself being visually examined as if mere appearance might belie some Bolshevik tendencies that could give rise to a large explosion under an official residence in the middle of some dark night. Bit by bit, Julio were him down. Finally, settling back in his chair, the Minister smiled at me and asked me my name once more.

"Lorenzo Belveal," I told him. "With the name of Lorenzo," the Minister said, "he could be one of ours, couldn't he, Julio?" He pushed a button an his desk and spoke a few words into a desk communicator. A secretary appeared to take a brief memo and we left with a double handshake for me and another big abrazo for Julio. Again he greeted everyone in the waiting - most of them by name! - before steering me out into the street for a taxicab. On the way back to the hotel I thanked Julio profusely for his assistance.

"He had to do it," he told me. "Why did he have to do it?" I wanted to know. "Because he made a mistake." A big smile wrapped itself around his moon face. "He should have asked you to wait outside for a few minutes until he found out what I wanted. He could have told me 'no' while we were alone. But he could never tell me 'no' in the presence of another man - and especially a distinguished gringo financiero!"

The permit came through within hours, authorizing me to pick up my dynamite from the Army Explosives Depot. An envelope was delivered to my hotel that contained a transportation permit and forms that had to be filled out and returned as the explosives were used up. The only problem I had was in finding a freight boat that would haul the stuff to Roatan. Nobody wanted to haul dynamite for me!

After two turn-downs, I had the dynamite cases carefully re-wrapped and marked, "insulating material". Not wanting to send the caps along with the explosives, I put the small package of detonators in my brief case and carried them back with me.

It later occurred to me that, of the two shipments, the most sensitive items by far were riding in my briefcase, right under my seat, as I left the Futbol War behind me and flew back to the "Incredible Island".

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Lorenzo Dee Belveal, Author