ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—JULY 2015

“¿ARGENTINO?”

If Barack Obama were President of Honduras, he’d be making Charleston-type “statements” three times a week, to catch the conscience of the populace. Eight teens playing soccer, five friends at a party, a whole family, including babies, on and on. Of course, here it’s drugs not racism, and it’s machetes as likely as it is guns.

We are such a little, lost country; and it’s likely to get worse. There’s the Chikungunya that just won’t quit, for one thing. My friend Fermin put it this way, “The critters like the joints.” I never thought of a virus that way; I never thought of it as individual little tiny creatures colonizing my wrists and ankles and knees, just nibbling away, feels like your hand’s caught in a vise.

But now there is increasing political strife, maybe presaging another coup, as the country’s disgust with its government’s corruption is literally lighting fires, huge marches of folks carrying “antorchas” (torches), demanding that President Juan Orlando Hernandez (JOH) resign in the wake of revelations that he stole 30 million dollars from Social Security to finance his campaign. (His defense? “Oh c’mon, it wasn’t THAT much!”) Meanwhile, JOH partisans are sponsoring equally large marches to renew demands against former President Mel Zelaya and his gang, who stole just as much, highlighted by “wheelbarrow-gate,” when a Mel cabinet member took a literal wheel-barrow full of cash out of the national bank, to finance Mel’s campaign. The military is getting itchy; they do NOT like being caught in the middle. And Obama, who has welcomed JOH into the White House numerous times, is now keeping his distance.

When Chemo and I visited Fermin and Maria and the family in Morazan, we marched right along with their first “antorchas” march: “Fuera, JOH! Fuera, JOH!” (Get out, JOH!) Actually, Chemo didn’t march; after all, he VOTED for JOH! And he’s now admitting they paid him for his vote.

We were in Tegucigalpa shortly afterward, for Chemo’s annual (!) dental appointment; the cab driver saw the huge crowd gathering in front of the presidential palace, and he scrambled to find a back route through alleys and even driveways, to get us back to the hotel. You may remember that Chemo was sick for a week a year ago with dangerously high fever after his teeth cleaning. As most of you agreed, it was due to lack of a “prophylactic” antibiotics treatment, standard for anyone with a heart condition. Well, this year we were ready, and so was Dr. Juan Handal. He called up the national expert, a personal friend, for the very latest protocol. He prescribed I guess you could say the “superglue” of antibiotics, Augmentin, horse pills with a magic ingredient that unblocks any “resistance.” I thought, Great, now Chemo’ll die of an overdose! But it worked like a charm, for the teeth cleaning, and the seven little cavities he had picked up since last year. He felt good enough, and I felt bad enough, watching him squirm for two hours in the dentist’s chair, to get soccer shoes, sneakers, two shirts, and a pair of shorts out of the deal. My pleas that we had just spent $500 on his teeth, fell on deaf ears, both his and mine.

Picking up some meds in Yoro at the Kielsa pharmacy, I was flattered, I guess, when the young clerk heard my Spanish and asked, “¿Argentino?” He thought I was from Argentina! Well, I was torn; I said, “No, I’m a gringo,” but I knew he’d feel bad for such a mistake. I wondered, should I have said, “Yes! Just like the Pope!”? What is an Argentine accent, anyway? I would prefer an Honduran one.

The meds were for Juan Carlos, the young man shot in the shoulder                                                                a year ago by some idiot aiming at his boss; it was finally time to get the bullet out that over time seemed to be inching closer to his spine. Besides the brush with death, the “accident” made me mad, because, here’s a guy, Juan Carlos, now 28, who against all odds has been taking good care of Maria since they met at age 15, along with their two little boys. Living a clean life, no gangs, no drinking, no messing around, and sending money back from the finca where he worked in Comayagua to build a little house in Nueva Palmira about a mile from Las Vegas. Dr. Ruben Garcia, from Cuba, performed the “minor” surgery, just 10 minutes, local anesthetic, cost: $5.00. The expensive part was the bus trip, food, a night in a hotel, the meds, and a fluffy pillow we got to rest his shoulder on the way home over dirt roads. Cuban doctors have been volunteering in rural hospitals of Honduras ever since Hurricane Mitch in 1998. Imagine! The only part of Honduran society NOT corrupt is the Cuban part! Conditions are “M*A*S*H”-level, I guess, with the operating room looking more like a locker room. But there’s a painting over the door that shows Jesus guiding the hand of a surgeon as he operates. Kitsch, I guess, but it caught me up short—I started to pray, because, really, there’s no such thing as “minor” surgery!

Helen had her 16th birthday, Necho his third, his sister Julia her seventh (serenaded by cousins Daguito and Lindolfito), Santa (Nangui’s mother) her [redacted], Santos his 41st and his daughter Mirna her 17th (the same day!)—and Tia Clara her 95th! We celebrated them all!

Chemo is taking First Communion classes, for the umpteenth time! He’d always quit halfway through, when I was in the States. This time it might work, since the wonderful Leila, who has raised 12 kids of her own, is giving him individual attention. She let Chemo pick the day and time for the class—so he has NO EXCUSE for missing any lesson!

I don’t want to miss a moment of your kind thoughts and love and support. Keep in touch!

Love, Miguel







                                         

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—JUNE 2015

MISSION STRONG

Fr. Jeff Harrison, S.J., has been a dear friend ever since we joined the Jesuits in 1975 (I left, he stayed!), so I was thrilled to my soul when he nominated my little efforts here in Honduras for funds from “Mission Week,” an annual event at Regis Jesuit High School in Denver, CO, where Jeff is stationed. You know what, I started praying from that day that hearts would be touched and that our gratitude down here would be felt by all.

The prayers seemed to help. Not only was the very iffy Colorado weather lovely all week—with  a “competition” or event scheduled outside each day—but the kids raised lots to share with us lucky recipients.

When the check arrived, I had some projects already in mind. Some money went to a couple very poor families to get a roof over their head. Cristian had been working from the ground up to make a little house for his wife and three-year-old daughter, digging the adobe bricks himself, asking help from friends to get the walls up, including the same “architect” that helped build my house, Jesus Martinez, and Nelo, who drinks a bit, but Cristian wasn’t paying him, so you can’t find fault with that. Anytime I’d visit, they’d be covered with mud from head to foot, and I’d think, “Hang on, guys, we’re gonna get you some help!”

The other family is Juancito and Minga, who just needed to add a room to their house for a couple grandkids, Esau and Patricia, that they are raising. They just asked for a little help to top the thing off. “Poor” doesn’t mean lazy; Juancito, who’s as frail as a reed, had been night-watchman at the school; and Minga cleaned the rooms after classes. After a month, it became obvious they wouldn’t get paid. It’s a vicious cycle, you might say. Juancito's and Minga’s pay was supposed to be collected from the families of the students. Hello? A lot of families can’t get their kid a pencil! You think the “system” is going to generate some kind of economy?

Also with the prospect of the Mission Week money, I promised Pablo a new bed, two in fact, once we could be sure his father Leon wouldn’t sell them for booze! Years ago, I gave the family a couple simple roll-away beds that are now in pieces. Pablo, then known as Pablito, and his brother Chepito (who goes by Jose now) are my godsons, their mom Irene, and Leon, who was in jail most of the time when I first moved here in 2003. They were my Chemos before Chemo. These beds are solid pine; well, not solid, you strap them up with ‘cabuya,’ a thick twine, and top it off with a sponge mattress—and a nice blanket and a couple foam pillows. Thanks to Regis, no expense was spared! (Actual cost, about $60.) Only two beds? Well, Chepito (Jose) has been working in the mountain town of Lajas for the past two years; we barely have any contact anymore. He is the artist, some of you will remember who proudly display his exquisite drawings.

As I told Regis in my “application,” there are continuing expenses as well that Mission Week would greatly help. Maricela and her mother Erlinda are both diabetics, with appointments every three months in Progreso; Maricela’s little daughter Marite has liver problems and she needs to go to Tegucigalpa every few months. Meanwhile, Erlinda is waiting for an operation for womanly reasons and goes to San Pedro Sula every few months pursuing that “dream.” I give them 2000 Lempiras (= $100) each time for their travel, medicine, etc. Just today, when Erlinda invited me over for some ‘mantuca,’ made from new corn, she said, “Really, Miguel, I think without your help, Maricela and I might not even be alive,” and she ticked off about 8 other friends and neighbors who had met early deaths from their diabetes, basically untreated for lack of resources. I knew them all; I went to their funerals.

Another recurring gift boosted by Mission Week is a little “allowance” for Chemo’s cousins who are going to school. Education is often not a priority when the parents are illiterate; it’s a poverty that, as a former teacher, I find especially sad. I give each one 20 Lempiras a day, which seems “extravagant” in some eyes, but it’s only about 1 dollar, enough for a couple little snacks. There are 6 cousins in 3 households, and I usually include a few random kids nearby. One of the cousins has already quit, Julita. Way too often, a girl drops out: what do you need an education for if you’re gonna make tortillas and babies the rest of your life? Boys drop out for their own reasons: they don’t like school. Chemo, you may remember, never went to school till I took him in at age 13, at which point he started first grade!

There are any number of other “spots” where Mission Week can fill in the gaps. Such as the triple birthday we just celebrated: Marcos, 31; his son (with wife Dania) Elio, 1; and Miriam, 11. These are Chemo-cousins, too. I kept joking that a one-year-old has no idea what a birthday is, but when Elio grabbed a handful of icing off the cake as soon as he saw it, it was like Helen Keller discovering “Water.” HE KNOWS! We added a little neighbor, Marvin, to the mix, since he does not know how old he is or when his birthday is: “Marvin, this is your day, too!” The party featured one of Carlota’s grand cakes. She is the premier baker in the area, but it’s a little tricky to arrive with the cake intact after a wild ride from Jacagua back to Las Vegas in a moto-taxi!

On the way back to my house after the party, another “Mission,” some cash for Paolo, suffering from heart problems and a “hernia” in his backbone. He already missed one appointment at the Yoro Hospital because he had no money for the bus or the X-rays and tests the doctor needs. Paolo and I go way back; he was just reminiscing about my early days here with Padre Patricio when  Paolo was a kid himself.

Then there’s Juan Carlos, shot in the shoulder a year ago by a robber aiming at his boss. The bullet is still in there and has moved around enough that it’s exerting pressure right on his spine, causing agonizing pain. I’m going to see about helping him get some X-rays at Yoro Hospital, and maybe an operation, which could relieve the problem, finally extracting the bullet, or…God knows!

And a hundred other needs and good works, all urgent. Suffice it to say, “Mission Week” made a huge difference here. If you can get up some cash by, say, shaving your beard, let ‘er rip!

The Legion of Mary celebrates the month of May with the custom of “las flores,” when kids bring flowers each day to the Virgin Mary. This year, we added the little ceremony to the end Sunday Mass as well, so the whole congregation could participate. A couple women would bring big baskets of flowers, so there’d be plenty for everyone. For a moment, we were all children!

Chemo and I, with his cousin Dionis tagging along, went to Tegucigalpa for the latest Brigada. Like last time, we saw a young woman crying and sobbing when we arrived, but this time it was with uncontained joy, as they accepted her tiny baby for emergency open-heart surgery (“I came from so far!”) on the very last day of operations. Ron Roll and Alba, the ones in charge, are so good; and of course they were happy to see Chemo. When preparations began for a farewell lunch for the staff, a couple nurses were struggling to carry some kind of serving table up two flights of stairs. I quickly volunteered Chemo and Dionis for the task! We ducked out before the awkward question of whether they’d invite us or not could come up.

Chikungunya—a malaria on steroids—continues to ravage the population. And its effects are lasting. It attacks the joints; my wrists, my ankles, my knees, are as weak as paper. The pain! you’d swear the bones were broken. I can barely wring out the wash; and climbing up to the roof to hang the clothes on line (or climbing down!) is torture; you can imagine going up to the church (or down!). Just pulling on my sneakers in the morning is a major operation, as is the simple act of sitting down in a chair: every “muscle” is on fire. Standing up again—forget about it. I try to plan my day avoiding any “articulation”! I don’t know if the feebleness is permanent, or just for the rest of my life, but we’re all waiting for a “cure”!

But you know, with your love and care, I could climb to the Moon!

Love, Miguel