Marked men with no place to hide

In an effort to fit into mainstream life, some former gang members try to remove their tattoos. Jorge, 22 years old and recently released from prison, has used battery acid, infra-red laser treatment, and a type of acid cream imported from the US to try to remove the tattoos on his face and arms, acquired during 10 years of membership in Mara Salvatrucha.

Most of these methods, however, are painful and only in replace the tattoos with ugly and indelible scars. But not to remove the tattoos, say gang members, means not only possible arrest but also the certainty of unemployment. "The bosses check to see if you wear tattoos," explains David, a former Mara 18 member and now a friend of Jorge's, despite the fact that they once ran with rival gangs.

But other difficulties loom even larger for these ex-mareros. According to the law of the gangs, to quit is to sign your own death warrant.

"Today, I must hide not only from the police, but also from my former 'homies.' Sometimes, they find you years later to make you pay for the betrayal," explains David.

Rehabilitation of Honduras's gang members is not a problem that will take care of itself, says sociologist Ernesto Bardales. Six years ago he created Jovenes Hondurenos Adelante - Juntos Avancemos (JHAJA) to rehabilitate former gang members.

To help them find work, Mr. Bardales persuades locals to hire ex-gang members that JHAJA trains.

A few miles from the JHAJA office, a small soldering business is flourishing in a neighborhood many once considered too dangerous to visit.

Miguel Angel Baraona left Mara Salvatrucha several years ago. Today, Sandra, the mother of one of his crew members who is also an ex-marero, is preparing red beans for lunch for the whole team.

Sandra, however, worries that the bad times are not over. She fears that the tough antigang laws still in place keep her son perpetually at risk of arrest due to his former associations.

She's grateful for the government's success in its war on the gangs - but fearful of its aftermath. "The anti-gang laws are good. The neighborhood is livable today, but it is not necessary to persecute the ones who have returned to the right path," she says.

In San Pedro Sula, El Body visits his 3-month-old daughter, Darling, at the home of his ex-girlfriend, Pamela. Out of respect for the family, he doesn't bring his gun. For a few hours, eating lunch, holding the baby, he gets a taste of life outside the gangs.

Pondering his future, El Body thinks about heading for the US, where he has lived before and where he knows other gang members have fled.

Maybe, he says, there he could find "a town where I wouldn't meet anyone from [Mara 18] and perhaps begin something new."

But for the moment, he's still preoccupied with making a living - and although he says he now eschews violent crime, he has not fully renounced his old vocation.

It's late in the day and he must prepare for a "job" with his comrades. "We'll see each other again maybe one of these days," he says to a reporter in parting. "If I'm still alive."

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