Unreported World Honduras Diving Into Danger

The Miskito lobster divers seem to live only in the present. They know there's enough air left in their scuba tank when they can still breathe easily. They know they're diving safely when they come to the surface without feeling the symptoms of the bends. They know it's time to set sail on a fishing trip when the ship arrives to pick up divers.

Living in the present throws up huge logistical problems for the film crew trying to follow them as they risk their lives diving for lobsters off the Mosquito Coast. My director Daniel Bogado and I had managed to find a fishing ship with a captain prepared to have us on board, but it was impossible to be absolutely sure when, where or even if it was going to leave. It was hurricane season, and it was Honduras, a place where schedules are notoriously elastic. Our best bet was to get a general idea of where the ship might dock to pick up divers, and to head out there and wait.

The Mosquito Coast is so remote it can only be reached by sea and air. It's a land of circling hawks, wiry mangroves, indigo lagoons and thick jungle. This is the most sparsely-populated part of Honduras, and although some have guessed 200,000 live here, no one knows for sure - there's never been an official census. Its settlements are made up of splintered and decaying pastel houses, perched on stilts, with no electricity, running water or paved roads.

It took a small plane, a speedboat and a 4x4 to get us to Cocobilla, the coastal village where the Miss Yomaly was due to arrive any day. Once the divers were on board, the Miss Yomaly would sail for 13 hours to get to the first fishing banks where lobsters could be found. Miskito men used to be able to wade out from the shore to collect lobsters from the sea bed. Overfishing meant the only way to get them now was to sail far into the ocean and dive as deep as 150 ft to reach them.

We waited four tense days for the ship to arrive. It wasn't lost time. I got to know Alexis Valderramos, a 29 year old father of five who'd been diving for 12 years. He was also waiting to climb aboard the Miss Yomaly, but he wasn't bothered by the delay. He seemed to have a very different sense of time to us. When we made an arrangement to meet him at eight in the morning, he nodded and pointed to the place in the sky where the sun would be at that time. When we changed our plan, he agreed to meet later, pointing to another spot, higher above our heads.

eath and severe disability have become a fact of life for the Miskitos. With no other opportunities for legitimate employment, there was a lobster diver in almost every family, usually several. Alexis's uncle had been left paralysed by the bends, and he told me that only two days before we met he'd buried one of his friends, a 36 year old diver from the same village who'd collapsed from to decompression sickness on a fishing trip. The small Cocobilla graveyard was full of tombstones of divers who'd died young. As I read the inscriptions, I thought about how grotesque it was that they'd died bringing us the sort of food that we order in restaurants as a treat or an indulgence.

Alexis and his wife knew the risks he was about to take when he boarded the ship, but they preferred not to dwell on them. When your very existence relies on being lucky, it's easier to live in the present: you don't have to think about all the times you've been lucky in the past, and the likelihood that your luck might run out one day. With hundreds dead and thousands more paralysed from diving, with lobster stocks dwindling and no other way of making money on the Mosquito Coast, the Miskito men can't be blamed for choosing to ignore their future.

Once the Miss Yomaly finally arrived, we spent two days at sea with Alexis and his fellow divers. The living quarters were filthy, noisy and incredibly cramped, the air thick with marijuana smoke and the smell of stale rum. With no space, no bathrooms, no peace and no privacy, the deep Caribbean seemed an inviting alternative. Two days felt like a lifetime for us aboard the ship, and Alexis had twelve more before the boat returned to Cocobilla. He didn't see it that way, though. For Alexis, time was measured in empty air scuba tanks and pounds of caught lobster.



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