It’s a great three-act script worthy of a Hollywood movie. “Based on a true story.” Hand over the Oscar, thank you.

In our 21st century marriage of entertainment and journalism, this is the story the mainstream media (MSM) would like you to believe transpired in Honduras during the summer of 2009. Americans were fed the tale of Honduran President Mel Zelaya, champion of the impoverished, ousted at gunpoint in his pajamas in a classic coup engineered by power-hungry elitists. Clips of Zelaya demanding his rightful reinstatement were interspersed with stock footage of civil unrest in the 1980′s, unrelated political demonstrations, and Hurricane Mitch. US President Barack Obama declared the coup illegal, and she-bear Hillary Clinton promised to see Zelaya put back in power.

But Honduras didn’t stick to the script.

As most of us who actually lived in Honduras during that fateful summer can attest, the actual events were far different than the Hollywood script MSM was jamming down American throats. I recently stumbled across an excellent article summarizing the role of MSM in deliberately misconstruing the facts about the coup to fit their storyboard.

Storyboarding the News: How the MSM Turned the Honduran Crisis into A Comic Book – by Mark Klugmann

To “storyboard the news” is to replace straight news reporting with a pre-shaped comic-book narrative, an edited fable sustained by selective reporting.

Victims of media fraud suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder will be excused for hearing the phrase as a riff on Guantanamo, that “storyboarding the news” occurs when the MSM submerges the facts underwater until the truth surrenders.

The truth about Honduras – such as why the so-called “coup” was not a coup at all – was left by the MSM on the cutting-room floor, edited out of the news reporting because it did not fit into the storyboard.

You can read more of this article at: http://bigjournalism.com/mklugmann/2010/01/06/storyboarding-the-news-how-the-msm-turned-the-honduran-crisis-into-a-comic-book/

News of Zelaya’s return hit West End, Roatan, around noon yesterday (21 Sept 2009). Phone and internet connections became jammed by the heavy bandwidth load of people logging on to find out the news. The facts were scattered, but one thing loomed certain: Zelaya was indeed back in Honduras.

At 4:00PM, Roatan Municipal Police drove down West were ordering all businesses to close and everyone home. An curfew was in immediate effect until 6AM today. Both Hondutel and TIGO internet connections dropped out by 5:30PM. Digicel phone signals were weak and I was nearly out of credit. Like the RECO riots of last year, I was completely cut off from the outside world.

I arrived in West End this morning to find the town eerily desolate. The reason was soon made apparent: police patrols were ordering everyone to return home for a 24-hour curfew. No time to get food or other living essentials. Go home now.

So I’m stuck at my 90F apartment with ten strips of bacon, a gallon of water, a bag of refried beans, a pound of cat food, my Wii, limited internet connectivity, no phone service, and one orange hairball named Einstein meowing at my feet. Awesome.

Welcome back, Mel.

As opposed to the time-honored tradition in America of getting absolutely blitzkrieged on booze whilst enduring the endless onslaught of CNN poll results on Election Day, Honduras prohibits all alcohol sales over election weekends. Given the volatile mix of machetes and machismo that permeates Honduran culture, the separation of Booze and State is probably a good idea. Between the irate Mainlanders barricading the rain-soaked streets and the Gringos drowning their frustrations while “trapped” in the bars, the continued sale of alcohol during the RECO protests earlier this month fueled island tensions to a stupid level. The game of politics is already mankind at our lowest; better to leave alcohol out of it altogether, methinks.

Democracy, in theory, is the best form of government man has devised thus far. When supported by a large, relatively stable and fairly educated middle class, the electoral process provides for adequate representation and a peaceful transfer of power between parties (hanging chads excluded). This, however, is Roatan. The Gringos, who control most of the foreign investment responsible for the island’s expanding infrastructure, are disenfranchised from voting due to their alien status. The Bay Islanders, who represent the original voice of the island, are now a voting minority against the massive wave of Honduran Mainlanders filling the colonials and constructions sites around the island. As such, local politicians, comprised mostly of Bay Islanders, find themselves both pandering to and profiting from a populace that has lived on the island for less than two years. Representation, as you can imagine, is a bit of a muddy issue.

It’s a sea of Rojo versus Azul. Light posts, cars, pulperia fronts, house walls, t-shirts, small children– if it can be slapped with a political sticker, it’s got one. Sure, the parties have names. So do the politicians. It doesn’t really matter if the majority of your voting populace is illiterate. Just hand out a few freebies– maybe toss a village some fertilizer or construction material– tell them which color to choose, and put a ballot in their hand.

In the last mayoral elections, winner Dale Jackson celebrated his victory from jail. Why? He parked a bulldozer in the middle of the airport runway to prevent his opponent from supposedly flying voters in from mainland Honduras. Of course, the airplane allegedly carrying his voters had already landed. It’s no secret nor surprise; just politics as usual in Central America.

(In defense, North American politics is not much different– just with a shinier coat of deception).

As shotgun-weilding police officers leaned idly against the school walls watching the chaotic torrent of voters bustle back and forth, I felt a bit of peace knowing that, through the proper application of sobriety and firearms, peace, if not democracy, would prevail this evening. Tomorrow, debauchery will resume as usual. Until then, I am quite content to watch the sun gracefully descend into the Caribbean sea and sip on the rum-tinted concoction in a half-liter Coca-Cola bottle I purchased from a nearby convenience-store-turned-speakeasy. Ain’t island life great?

November 4, 2008. After one month of depressingly endless rain and wind sinking Roatan to the mud-coated economic low that typifies the island rainy season, things are finally starting to look up. An eclectic international group of expatriates is intensely huddled around a television watching the results of the United States election trickle in. The excitement is palpable: inside, American international policy is finally about to make a profound transition that will hopefully mend the shattered relations between the United States and the rest of the world, while outside the wind is relenting and weather is finally making a turn for the better. When Barack Obama is announced as the President-Elect, the miniature United Nations in our room lets out a cheer. Change is coming. Sunny days are ahead.

November 5, 2008. The sun breaks through the clouds. The sea is calm enough to venture out for two dives along the West End. Full of high spirits, we set out to explore the recently-rearranged wreck of El Aguila and the beautiful storm-scrubbed wall at Spooky Channel. Partway through our second dive, however, we feel the surge begin to violently undulate. Another front is moving in; things are getting gnarly. We stagger back aboard the boat and race to beat out the incoming storm.

Unbeknownst to us, a massive storm has already begun to unleash its fury on shore. Not a drop falls from the sky; no more mud fills the streets. This is a storm of racial tension, a lightning blast of street barricades and machetes, a thunder clap of protests followed by three days of darkness. This storm has been on the radar for some time, but up to this point Roatan has ignored the ominous dark clouds of turmoil looming on its socioeconomic horizon.

RECO (Roatan Electrical Company– the island’s sole electrical provider with a notoriously spotty history of blackouts and bribes) had unexpectedly increased its rates by 82% the previous month, leaving a majority of the sticker-shocked island struggling to scrape together means with which to pay our surprisingly enormous bills amidst the hottest month and lowest economic time of the year. When the bills were distributed (accompanied by a pithy letter feebly apologizing for the financial sodomy), protesters took to the streets for a day to demand that RECO give them a break. The growing thunderhead was momentarily abated when rates were promised to be reduced by the following month, but when RECO threatened to pull the plug on the many poorer families who had failed to pay their bills, the clouds of this perfect storm reached the breaking point.

We pull into West End to find ourselves held prisoner in our own town. Barricades have been laid across the only intersection leading into the beach village, where stick-wielding Hondurans are effectively preventing all traffic flow. The coconut telegraph is alive: rumors fly of similar barricades being erected around the island, of Gringos being violently accosted when trying to run through, of Municipal police officers being assaulted when trying to control the crowds. As we stare across the choppy bay, one rumor reveals itself to be true: the Carnival cruise ship is heading out to sea, ferrying her 3000 American tourists with half a million dollars of tourist income away to safer ports.

Amidst this chaos of tourists trying to make their way back to their resorts, parents struggling to collect their children from schools, and workers fighting to figure out how to get home, the unthinkable happens: RECO pulls the plug on the entire island. Against the din of the countless generators firing up, the storm howls with a cacophonous roar of pure panic. The island’s collective insanity, which has been broiling for the past month against the endless rain and economic downturn, spills over the cauldron of anger, racism, and blame.

The gas stations are the first to be hit. With limited fuel available to power the generators, the pumps quickly run dry as people fill their fuel reserves to the limit. The grocery stores are next as countless refrigerated items are tossed out (much to the joy of the street dogs) and non-perishable supplies begin to wane. Motivated by fear and powered by rum, our angry population begins to fear how long we will have to endure these conditions. Like always, rumors fly: the power will be back on in one day; two days; one week; two weeks.

Meanwhile, we are literally cut off from the rest of the world. As the phone providers run out of juice with which to power their services, our internet and phone lines drop dead. We now have no way of knowing what is happening either on or off our little angry rock in the Caribbean. The ferry stops running and access to the airport is impossible. Never before has the Honduran mainland seemed so far away. We are truly trapped on an wild island surrounded by dangerous locals.

Where are the police? The road blocks continue without the municipal muscle stepping in. Where are the island leaders? Some are hiding in their homes, while others are personally agitating the protests. Where is the solution? Rumors fly of the Cobras (Honduran special ops) and the Honduran President arriving on the island to address the situation, but without communication or transportation we are compelled to ride out the storm in the darkness of ignorance.

November 7, 2008. I am driving back from Anthony’s Key Resort when I notice a promising sign: street lights. As we pass home after home, the beautiful soft glow of electrical lights stream from within. A whoop of excitement rises in my chest, only to be swallowed again as I pull my scooter up my driveway into absolute darkness. I unleash a stream of expletives, consisting mostly of creative combinations involving “fuck” and “RECO”.

I am lying perpendicular across my bed in absolute darkness, contemplating the myriad means of making Molotov cocktails along with various techniques for lobbing them into mobs, when I hear a sound I will never forget. Beep. The gentle sound of my air conditioning unit receiving power. I run through the house, flicking on all the lights, my joy erupting as each flick further illuminates the house. I run the water in the shower, then dive straight in as I feel the warmth of the water heater stream from the faucet, my three days of grime running down the drain.

This storm had been building for some time. Roatan faces the unique sociological challenge of successfully merging at least three distinct cultures– Bay Islander, Honduran Mainlander, and Foreign Expatriate– into one functioning society. So far, we’re doing a pretty awful job. The Bay Islanders have rapidly fractured from a fairly unified fishing culture into a small class of Bourgeoisie businessman-politicians rapidly profiting from the influx of tourism and an expanding Proletariat base marginalized by their own leaders. The Foreign Expatriates have transplanted the wealth from their respective home countries into a previously impoverished but economically stable island, furthering the economic rift by financially empowering the Bay Islander Bourgeoisie through shady real estate deals whilst simultaneously triggering an unstemmed influx of Honduran Mainlanders to construct their developments at exploitative rates. The Honduran Mainlanders have migrated in droves to seek out a land of milk, honey, and employment– only to be disillusioned when the construction contract dries up, their family is marginalized into one of the countless shanty towns around the island, and then the overinflated RECO bill arrives.

The events that unfolded over the last month are an embarrassment to our island, and deservedly so. We are a beautiful island– one of the last true gems of the Caribbean– with so much to offer the outside world in terms of natural beauty and with so much potential for intelligently-planned growth and development on the inside. But we are an island without a voice, an island without unity, an island that is, at present, more content to let the socioeconomic rift widen, the marginalization persist, the government remain aloof, the racism escalate, and the infrastructure devolve than tackle the politically sticky issue of how all three groups are going to coexist both now and in the future. The reward for our current behavior? Three cruise ships canceled, millions of dollars lost, the island slapped travel warning from the US Embassy, negative press around the world, and a tarnished international reputation. Way to go.

Like all winds that blow through the Caribbean, this most recent storm has thankfully passed. The island is back to her normal ways: we have electricity, we have telecommunications, and (most importantly) we have awesome scuba diving. That said, I hope that the next storm to strike this island is of the barometric– not socioeconomic– variety.

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