Useless youth.

It was as if Covid did not and had never existed. Just the way we wanted it. During the late hours of a Saturday night, ‘Drinking House’ was filled to the brim with locals. I found myself in this tiny, entirely crampt den of drinkers, smokers and bawdy dancers on account of my close friend’s birthday, which we supposedly celebrated as he ordered iced buckets of Corona beer at a bustling bar, whilst I peered upwards at the well-endowed, light-skinned, brunette – scantily clad – shaking herself left, right and center up on the bar.

Males hollered and whooped.

Notice how I didn’t say ‘men’, for a ‘man’ reaches a point where he is no longer impressed by money-motivated harlots twerking for attention – not even tips.

The discoteca was dark, dingy and barely illuminated by neon lights darting about across a ceiling.

The usual reggaeton hits were being belted out one after another.

Young men and women, hot, bothered and promiscuous, grasped at each other – bumping and grinding away. This was simply a typical night out in Honduras – somewhere along the coast.

I wasn’t feeling it anymore, truth be told. That would have been me however – pre-pandemic. Getting big-backed females to shake it up all over my front, alcoholic drink in one hand, the other on her hip, lurid look on my face. Now, one smoked and drank for the sake of it, in order to appease my good friend, who’d travelled a long way to celebrate my own birthday only a few weeks beforehand. Well, it was now my turn to celebrate his, and this was what he wanted.

There was absolutely no space to manoeuvre in. One stood – surrounded by others on all sides, gaumlessly watching how everyone crowded around the three strippers performing sexual madness upon some skinny young nutters – who’d outstretched themselves on the dancefloor. The lustful females rode and up and down on the youths’ crotches, ass-cheeks flapping, tits slapping, as the crowd cheered (for reasons unknown to the more intellectual mind).

I desired my bed.

Once the wretched establishment finally closed, around 12am, we took off to the hotel Casablanca. The latter being another favourite haunt of my friend, in the peculiar, industrial city of El Progreso.

We sat by the swimming pool, with a bottle of Nicaraguan rum in front of us. Some other aquaintances had come along – males all.

“Fernanda went to the US”.

“Gloria went to the US”.

“Sandra went to the US”.

During the course of that weekend, I must have heard at least fifty different names mentioned of young men and women who’d gone to the US illegally (mojado).

One fellow, a friend of my friend’s, whose life ambition seems to have been clubbing, living off the different women he impregnates and ragging his motorbike around, spoke of how he was going to try and illegally cross the border for what would be his second attempt – in-between puffs on a cigarette.

Then an ex-boss of mine turned up; a functioning alcoholic who, through poor choices, such as aquiring flashy and unneccesary cars, has mounted more debts than you could shake a stick at, also declared that he was thinking of going to the States illegally.

As such is the coast.

Honduras.

I sit there, British, carelessly judging them all, quite frankly. I’m no better than any, we’ve all made similar mistakes and lived on the wild-side, yet still, one must analyse and question.

As if the US or anywhere else for that matter is going to profit from these characters entering their country illegally.

“Perro, yo me quiero jalar a la pija pa’ la USA bo jabe no joda”.

Not even their Spanish is to be comprehended beyond the Honduran borderlines, let alone any potential English. One minute they’re hollering at equally ‘light-minded’ girls perform sexualised stupidities on individuals spread out on a dancefloor, the next they’re downing rum and sharing cigarettes. Then somewhere in-between, agreements are established on how “nothing is doing round here” and “let’s all go illegally to the States”.

I’m NO Trump supporter, and he did indeed go far too far with the “Mexican rapist” comment a few years ago, yet it must be said, he did have some sort of point in stating “they are not sending their best”.

If it is true of Mexico, then it’s darn true of Honduras.

The youth here bore me, with their complete and utter lack of imagination, vision or ambition for anything in Honduras. I fear that this part of the world will never change.

Published by Ben Anson

Young writer with a passion for Latin American and Caribbean affairs.

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