Skip to main content
THE HATFIELDS AND THE MCCOYS

I was getting ready for a trip to a project region in the south central Department of Olancho in Honduras, but there was some doubt whether conditions in the zone would allow for a safe journey back along the country roads leading to the isolated communities that were participating in the project.  There was talk of increased violence in the region; not that violence was something unheard of in these rural, frontier environments, but over the last year the level of reported deaths in the department (not by automobile accidents or natural causes) had risen to a point where additional safety considerations and analysis were needed.  The news coming out of the area consisted of a too-often vague and mixed up tale of gang rivalries, drug trafficking wars and/or family feuds.  It all seemed just too jumbled up to make sense.  But, by talking to staff of our local partner organization, I was finally able to piece together at least part of the story:

Sometime in 2006, a young man from the Escobar family of the Cuyamel region of the department was reported to have raped a young girl from the Garcia family who lived in the neighboring county of Capapan.  Things remained relatively tense but calm for a while, but finally a member of the Garcia family tracked down and shot the young Escobar boy in revenge for the rape.

The following year, someone in the Castellon family (neighbors of the Garcia family in Capapan) for some unknown reason began spreading a malicious rumor that it wasn´t a Garcia that had shot the Escobar boy – that it was actually a member of the Eoceda family that did the killing.   As the rumor gained strength, a group of about 10 member of the extended Escobar family armed themselves and went after the Eoceda family, killing four of the latter in a shootout.  (Are you with me so far?  It gets even more complicated…)

Later that same year an Escobar kills a Garcia.  Then, in early 2011, another family  - the Gifaros – get caught up in the fracas when they joined with the Escobar family to go after the Castellon family for spreading the unfounded rumor about the involvement of the Eoceda family in the killing of the Escobar boy.  Seven members of the Castellon family were killed in the attack, along with 3 members of the Saenz family, who were just visiting the Castellons at the time.

Six months later, 11 members of the Escobar family went after and killed 3 members of the Garcia family. (Okay, we’re apparently back to the original feuding families now -but not for long.)

A short time after that, a member of the Escobar family who had a reputation as a rough, tough, just kill everybody type brought in some gang members from the nearby city of Catacamas.  There was a rumor that the gang members were provided by a big-time narcotics dealer, maybe just to keep the region in a state of uproar that would serve as a convenient mask for his drug dealings.  The gang members probably participated because, well, a rumble is a rumble, right?  So a group of about 16 members of this new alliance ambushed a car carrying four members of the Garcia family, killing two of them and two innocent members of the Jimenez family who were just catching a ride. 

The most recent report prior to arranging our trip into the region was that a group of about 70 of the now-extended Escobar group had taken their arms and blocked the road that runs between the town of Capapan and Catacamas, the municipal head.  The roadblock was in the area known as Cuyamel.    60 armed members of the Capapan group (now including the Garcia, Saucedo and the Saenz families) took over the road about six kilometers away.

An ad hoc Peace Commission was formed with Municipal members, community leaders etc.  The Commission was successful in negotiating an agreement and everybody had gone to their respective homes (two weeks ago).  The police?  The police just stay the heck out of the area.

Everything continued on in a quiet vein after that, so we went ahead and scheduled my postponed trip into the area.  Things were indeed calmer and the visit went off without any problems.  There was a moment though, as we were travelling along a dirt road  in the clearly marked car of the local partner that I saw up ahead of us a group of men gathered in front of a small rural store, their horses tied to trees and fences along the road.  I thought “a great photograph!” and started to stick my camera out the window to snap it as we passed.  My host quickly told me to please put the camera away.  I did, and as we drove past, I saw that most of the group were carrying semi-automatic AK-47s and shotguns.


Welcome to the Wild West.

Comments

  1. Hello Mr. Weaver, I am a law student trying to research the Gifaros, and your blog is all I've been able to come up with! Can you direct me to the "local partner organization" you mention in this blog? Or provide me with any other source material on the Gifaros? acmanuel@usfca.edu. Many Thanks, Anna

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Marbles are for... Somewhere between unsuccessfully trying to suppress a few sobs at the poignancy of flawed humanity and experiencing a deeply satisfying grin as Bill Murray over-sings Bob Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm” during the credits of my second watching of the movie “St, Vincent” on Netflix, I was hit with a memory from long ago Junior High School as Murray’s Vince, recovering from a stroke, was made to pick up marbles with his toes and deposit them into a nearby bowl.  A strange thing to associate, is it not? But that is what well-done fiction is all about: connecting us with both universal and very personal things. Along about 1964, shortly after the assassination of JFK and still under the influence of his school- based physical education initiative, our local school officials had every student evaluated in terms of stature and other physical qualities.  I remember standing sideways in front of a graphed board set up in what doubled as the Junior High gym...
MUD BY ANY OTHER NAME… Before leaving the remote village where we had arrived after a half-hour motor-boat ride across a placid coastal lake and a pleasant, spirit-inspiring, forty-five minute journey in a dugout canoe through acres of mangrove trees, my hosts asked me if I wanted to borrow a pair of rubber boots as we continued on our way to visit a farmer who was planting nitrogen fixing trees on his small plot on the Atlantic Coast of Honduras.  “There will be mud along the way”, they said.