The fence got sawed off
Or my life in a Honduran telenovela at 7am, eating chaos for breakfast with guava jam
It’s 7:16 am and I’ve woken up to construction noise from what sounds as though it is directly outside or underneath my bedroom. I’m in Honduras, renting an Airbnb in the leafy, lush hills of Roatán island, pretending that I live there for the month. The noise has made it so that I’ve broken my rule of not touching my phone first thing in the morning, despite how routine-oriented and absolutely stubborn I am.
At this point, I had lived in Central America long enough to know that the mornings begin at 5:30am. It is actually more work to not rise with the sun but there I was, in stubborn stillness, observing the morning sun that gently edged into the room through curtains, warming my bed sheets in my dream island, jungle-adjacent, hill-top home. Normally, by no more than 5 minutes after 6am, every street dog has roamed the town twice to make use of early morning generosity, and at least two cars have driven past the window blaring music - Sean Paul or Bachata - depending on where you are. Where I am, the music is secondary to the irregular haste of the chainsaw.
I lay there at the highest point of Spanish Town, very outside of bliss, feeling guilty that I am from a place where this warrants complaint. I messaged the Airbnb host to find out when the impromptu construction work was going to be over. It isn’t. She tells me that she means there shouldn’t be any. I tell her, while the sound of the chainsaw and heavy footsteps rip through the morning birdsong, that it sounds like there definitely is.
Only after this moment, did I peek out of my window to confirm and find some neighbors and a man with said chainsaw, being persuaded and then hurriedly coming down the stairs. I hear something about police and something else and then nothing, as if the birds were singing over no commotion all along.
I describe this as my pretend dream house because that is how I felt, quite dream-like in the mornings while I burned copal and sent long voice notes, letting the sound of Jorge Ben Jor spill into the space between the high ceilings and the dark hardwood floors. I mostly had the entire house to myself minus a day or two of sharing the kitchen with other guests, so I’d take long down-hill walks to the supermarket and return to make pancakes with guava jam in the open-plan kitchen and living room that I mentally interior designed a few times while leaning against the pillars, sweetly manifesting.
On the day that began with the chainsaw, I stepped out with my usual stack of pancakes and my journal; wood chippings, and dust flying upwards as I flung the back door open. Still, I dragged my chair to the usual position in the sun, determined to savour the morning air, a hot mug of cinnamon tea by my ankles. The fence had been sawed off quite meticulously despite the obvious rage and the aftermath was as heavy on the patio as it was in the community.
I’d like to give some context. When arriving by taxi, I had my cover completely blown while driving up the hill I said I knew well. I was giving directions as confidently as I could to keep the price decent (decent being not the five times inflated price that the taxi driver had begun with), only to arrive at the top of the hill and fall silent. I had no idea where the house was despite memorising the directions and despite my usually pretty keen sense of direction, I was forced to admit I was lost. We had to ask people who lived near where the house was. We came across a man, call him Al, who told me that he of course knew where the house was because he had built it.
Al eased out of his rocking chair, which offered only a view of overgrown trees and bushes which obscured almost everything save 1/3 of the walkway. This allowed him to see, narrowly, who was passing on the opposite side of the road. I imagine this was so he could call out, nod, or ignore. He walked over to the house we were already parked outside of, painted a completely different colour to the one on the Airbnb ad. He welcomed me and then walked back to his chosen spot in the front yard.
As mentioned, the Airbnb was located on a hill, at the very top actually, offering glorious ocean views once you feel the need to stop and catch your breath. Directly after the chainsaw morning, the house itself became the principal attraction. Children, too lightweight for their backpacks, stopped on their walk to school, giggling at the jagged pile of de-fenced wood. Mothers whispered to each other under the shade of their umbrellas, tilted up so they could secure a discrete glance. A couple, seemingly new to their love, sat on a log by the house, fingers intertwined, occasionally pulling in and out of each other’s presence to confirm that what had happened aligned with what they thought had happened. Motorbikes halted, taxis pulled over, elders walked slower at the sight of the undone fence, arms clasped behind their backs in silence.
Honduran homes use those curious windows that reflect as mirrors during the light hours and revert to glass during the darkness. I witnessed the community interactions with the sawed-off fence completely undetected. And it was this, being in the center of this moment, yet being able to maintain privacy while literally overlooking it, that made this softer and better for storytelling.
With this invisibility, I was able to overhear the conversation with Al and the neighbours I had seen earlier in the morning speaking with Mr. Chainsaw. I discovered that the fence was sawed off as an extreme form of compensation. I heard the gentle non-judgment in the neighbour’s voice as he offered “that’s why you should pay the workers on time”. I saw Al walk, the same upright walk with less bounce than I had associated him with, up and down the street, trying to solve things without indulging in small talk.
Overhearing the neighbours, seeing the community react, giggle, and slightly spill drinks while staring too hard at what was done, some knowing who had done it, made me feel a little more at ease. A little closer to real life. I don’t imagine the resorts allow chainsaw-bearing employees(?) to reimburse themselves and their time in a way that ripples through the community with such humor, disbelief, and audacity.
This was actually one of those days that I had deliberately made space for poetry and for wearing my favourite dress. Feeling brave, I climbed the stairs, balancing my arms where the rest of the fence would’ve been. I leaned over the remaining fence, contemplating how despite the chaos, my peace was untroubled, how the experience had made me laugh, had made me and my abode so visible, how it had left me curious and theorising all afternoon, how I was always safe and protected, how this could only happen here, how it could inspire someone else tomorrow, how small this moment was, how quick it happened, how long it will take to rectify and repair, how none of the other guests who stay will ever understand the story the way I do.
Honduras really is that beautiful stretch of Central America that I associate with abundant stories. I will always remember this house, the quiet drama that I saw play out from behind mirrors, and the mix of emotions as from one window, the teeming, tangled jungle lay with leaves fresh with rainwater and earth, and from the other, the remnants of what used to be an innocent white fence. This day was, of course, an eye-opener for me and for many about justice - self-actualised and dramatic. It was also a reminder that, yes, while no one was hurt and I am an able-bodied, single woman with no children’s safety to consider, it could’ve been bad. Dangerous actually. Thankfully it wasn’t, it was simply an unbelievable place to have breakfast. With fallen petals easily able to find their way to the semi-fence-less patio, I embraced it for what it now was.