A short post for now, several more pending. Today, along with a group of about 500 people (COPINH, OFRANEH, Misquito activists, Feminists in Resistance, Artists in Resistance, a human rights delegation from AFGJ, Padre Fausto Milla, numerous national and international journalists, and others) I marched half the length of the side of Palmerola facing the highway, around 7km. About half way, the police went crazy when a few youths starting walking near a wall. Their violent unused weapon: a can of spray paint. They started attacking one of them with their batons, and drew their guns, pointing them menacingly at Pascuala, the Lenca Anciana en Resistencia, and many others. With no notice, the whole area was filled with teargas. It filled my throat (I already have strep, and had been on my way to recovering) and I ran as fast as I could, crying, to a house on the side of the road. A woman came out with a big container of water and a metal bowl, splashing those of us who made it there so the effects would go away. Ya saben, she said, ¡estamos con ustedes! It was miserable, I couldn't stop crying—I couldn't tell if it was from indignation or the burning. In the chaos I lost my camera, with all the pictures from the last several days. The pictures are a much greater loss than the camera.

Luckily, the police surprised even themselves with their violence. They weren't wearing masks when they set off the teargas canisters, so everyone ended up scattering in all directions, and the various youths who had gotten beaten trying to help the first victim all escaped back into the crowd, where they were protected. Despite their wounds, they seemed energized by the escape, and jumped up and down making ape noises (mocking the brute force of the police and army, who are frequently caricatured as gorillas). When we arrived at the base entrance itself, we were met by over a hundred police and soldiers, all Honduran. It was a PR decision to maintain the fiction of Palmerola being Honduran sovereign territory, belied by all the traffic signs in English (and the fact that hundreds, if not thousands, of U.S. troops are stationed there, and U.S. taxpayers are funding new permanent barracks to be built for the DoD to the tune of 20 million dollars). When the AFGJ delegation asked to enter the base, they were informed by the Honduran military man in charge that no such base existed. He just didn't know what they were talking about. (¿Donde está la base? asked Félix Molina. Pues no sé, the commander responded) It was the height of absurdity.

Three days ago, on the plane from Houston, I sat next to a soldier based at Palmerola. He worked in the fire brigade, and had requested to be stationed in Honduras because he had a daughter whom he seemed quite fond of, by a Honduran woman from Comayagua for whom he had nothing but contempt. He told me he'd been stationed in Japan, and Afghanistan—much heavier than Honduras, lots more fires to put out (literally).

I think I brought up Osama bin Laden, although it may have been him. He said "I wanted to catch Osama for that 10 billion dollar reward but then the guys who caught him didn't get it anyway because they were armed forces and we can't get rewards." I said, well, at least you'd get the glory, but he corrected me. They didn't release the names of the guys who caught him, for their own protection. How sad, I said. Not even that.

I asked him if his firefighting was limited to the base, and he said that mostly it was, but there wasn't much to do. The regs were so strict—no open fires, no charcoal. Once in a while during dry season someone's cigarette butt would set some brush on fire, but other than that nothing much to do during the days. I asked if they ever helped the local community with its fires. He said "They're calling on us a lot from town. If it's a factory or something we might go in if it's good PR, but if it's a house, we say 'let it burn.' A few months ago there was a huge fire on the mountain nearby. We let it burn for four days- what did we care? They were calling and calling us, but it was just brush. There was nothing in it for us." I asked why the Hondurans cared so much about it—had there been people living up there? "I dunno."

He told me that no visitors were allowed on base, unless maybe I (as a gringa) had some direct connection. Only contractors and soldiers. He said "There's no other base in the world where you can't sign people on" [not true, incidentally, but it certainly is stricter than most]. He lamented the rule, which had been in place since last year, when according to him a Honduran general ("It's our base but they're in charge" he said, well-trained in the PR) decided no one could come in. The girls from town used to be able to come to the base club, he told me. But now it's totally boring. "That sucks," I said, doing my best to empathize. He was a nice guy, after all. Just a soldier.