“¿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
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