‘They’re dying like flies’: Honduras has an alcohol problem – can prohibition and tough love solve it?
One Sunday morning, the gate to Pastor Rómulo’s alcohol recovery center flies open, and the helpers flock to the back of his pickup to unload the current cohort of barely conscious men.
They smell strongly of alcohol and are carried to a bank and interrogated. “What’s your name? Does your family know where you are?” Some shake uncontrollably from stopping alcohol; Others have difficulty moving or sitting upright, but still experience its sedative effects.
According to Rómulo, this is a regular occurrence at the facility he established two and a half years ago on the outskirts of Intibucá, the state of Honduras with the densest population of the indigenous Lenca people.
Pastor Rómulo leaves the dormitory as two of his assistants help another man, who was found sleeping outside an illegal cantina, into a bed
Intibuca, houses more than 250,000 people, is known for its production of indigenous fabrics and crafts – and for its unusually high alcohol consumption and number of alcohol-related street deaths. It was also registered in 2021 15.5 suicides per 100,000 inhabitantsthe second highest figure nationally and more than double the national average.
“Alcoholism is a nasty disease that has a firm grip on this region,” said Rómulo, whose full name is José Rómulo Osorio Aguiluz. “In this small city center (in the urban part of Intibucá) there are at least 400 addicted people waking up on the streets from their weekend binge – but some will never wake up again.
“By bringing them here, we are trying to save their lives, but they are dying like flies on the streets.”
According to his data, 723 people passed through the center in 2023 alone. There are now 52 people in his makeshift rehabilitation unit.
Intibucá, in southwestern Honduras, has a mainly rural population and depends on the agricultural economy.
However, a Study from 2017 Research from the National Autonomous University of Honduras (UNAH) found that the state recorded 27.9 alcohol-related deaths per 100,000 inhabitants.
This suggests that Intibucá has the highest alcohol-related death toll in Honduras, more than double that of the country’s capital, Tegucigalpa (12.7), and almost three times the national average (9.8).
If Intibucá were a country, it would have the highest number of alcohol-related deaths per 100,000 inhabitants in the world, far exceeding Belarus (21.4) and almost double that of second-placed Mongolia (15.8).
According to María Isabel Mejía, head of the emergency department of the Central Hospital of La Esperanza and Intibucá, the number could be even higher, as only some cases are linked to alcoholism and are registered as such.
“Many come to the emergency room to have their symptoms treated, which are most likely caused by the damage incurred from years of alcoholism, such as liver cirrhosis, gastrointestinal bleeding and other serious medical conditions,” she says.
The problem, Mejía adds, is that many do not mention or acknowledge alcohol abuse, which makes capturing this kind of data extremely difficult. “We can only respond to the symptoms,” she says. “The actual number of deaths from alcoholism is, I would say, abnormally high. We really have a problem here.”
Two men drinking in the morning in a village in Intibucá, which, if it were a country, would have the highest number of alcohol-related deaths per 100,000 inhabitants in the world
One of the main factors driving the high alcohol consumption in the department is the availability of cheap liquor. A liter of the popular, nationally produced spirit aguardiente (ABV 35%), better known as guarocan be bought at any kiosk or supermarket for around 50 lempiras (£1.60).
However, Fernando Pachero, a sociologist and lecturer at UNAH, believes the problem is not merely indirect. “We also need to look at the colonial trauma that this area in particular has suffered,” he says. “It is a zone where many indigenous communities were pushed into as the colonialists used alcohol as a weapon of domination.”
SSeeing the need for more support in the area, Camilo* took matters into his own hands, offering a shed next to his home to host regular Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. He says there are more than 16 AA groups spread out in mostly urban areas. An estimated 500 people participate in meetings spread across the municipality.
“Many people here don’t understand that alcoholism is a disease that is ongoing, incurable and fatal,” he says. “So many people relapse several times while participating in this program, and we have to wait and hope that they come back.”
Compared to Camilo, Rómulo has developed a more practical initiative to combat alcoholism in his “Ministry of Life”. This is where police or family members drop off the person struggling with addiction, and they are locked in the building for a supervised and strict evangelical recovery program.
If there is space in the center, Rómulo drives to the city center with helpers to pick up people who have spent the night drinking in the streets – many against their will.
Rómulo believes that his actions are justified by the level of need he sees. “The men sleeping on the streets are not just faceless drunks; they are lost souls who have families, and many have degrees. We bring them here and lock them in the center because they cannot fight this disease on their own,” says Rómulo.
According to Rómulo, the center receives little financial support and relies mainly on donations, many of which come from people sending relatives for treatment. “Many simply donate what they can, such as the head or feet of a cow or old clothes,” he says.
Hector*, a construction worker, was brought to Rómulo by relatives. “My alcoholism would hit my family very hard,” he says. “My mother brought me here because I couldn’t deal with this disease on my own.”
He has now been sober for more than two months and is allowed to leave the center during the day to work, but remains under supervision.
Romery*, a woman who lives in a village outside the city of Intibucá, says there are many cases, especially in the countryside, where men disappear for months, forcing the remaining family to tend the crops and take the harvest to market .
“Families, especially women and children, are the ones who bear the brunt of a family member’s alcoholism,” she says. “Some farmers have sold their land and cars just to continue drinking.”
One such case is that of Maria* and her nine-year-old son. Every morning she walks four hours from her village to the city center to sell her harvest and returns the same day. The road has not only become long and difficult, but also increasingly dangerous.
“Sometimes drunk men will attack me on the way back and rob me,” she says. “These men take the money to buy more alcohol. But I have to make these trips because my brother drinks so much that he can’t be trusted with money.”
The violence associated with excessive drinking is nothing new for police officer José Morenga, especially when it comes to domestic violence.
“In my entire career as a police officer, I have never had a domestic violence case that did not involve alcohol,” he said.
Cindy Castellano, chief psychologist of the Central Hospital of La Esperanza and Intibucá, has been treating cases of violence and alcoholism for more than twenty years. “One of the main factors for this level of alcoholism and violence is the extreme machismo embedded in our culture, especially in this region,” she says. “Masculinity is idealized, with the man expected to be the patron and breadwinner of the household. This imposed social pressure prevents many men from dealing with feelings because showing or acknowledging them is considered a weakness.”
When Norman Sánchez became mayor of Intibucá in 2018, he was made aware of the municipality’s alcohol problem. To stop the excessive sale and consumption of alcohol, he, along with other officials, introduced a prohibition measure.
“We have taken away all the licenses of the canteens in the rural parts of Intibucá and stopped the renewal of alcohol licenses in the urban parts,” Sánchez said.
The ban extends over a large area and covers most of the population of Intibucá.
The question is whether the problem of violence can be tackled with repression. Pachero disputes the effectiveness of the measure. He says banning alcohol without addressing living conditions and livelihoods increases the vulnerability of farmers, the main affected population.
“As with any banned substance, a clandestine market develops that further marginalizes affected poor communities,” says Pachero. “If communities remain within these marginalizing conditions of uncertainty, the problem will fester and never be resolved.”
Pachero also believes that removing people with alcohol use disorders from the streets is less a public health strategy and more about protecting the city’s image. “I see this more as a cleanup crew to get people off the streets who could hinder tourism,” he says.
According to the owner of a liquor store in the city, who has been able to keep her license, the crackdown appears to be ineffective as sales are skyrocketing. “All this ban has done is boost alcohol sales in the cities because people now come here to get drunk or buy alcohol and sell it to the villages,” she says.
The smuggling economy has grown significantly, with associated profits. For every 100 cases of beer, sellers can expect a margin of between 48,000 and 60,000 lempiras (£1,522 – £1,900), which is many times higher than average monthly income in Honduras of around £180.
With guaro, the profit is even higher: a 1-liter bottle, legally sold for 50 lempiras, fetches 150 to 180 lempiras in the villages.
Wendy*, who runs an illegal cantina in a village near Yamaranguila, Intibucá, says smuggling is becoming increasingly competitive, leading to more violence. “Since alcohol was banned in rural areas, the trade has boomed,” she says. “Alcohol is the biggest market here. Even bigger than food.”
*Names have been changed