ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—AUGUST 2015

LAUDATO SI

When I saw Erlinda, the still center in the swirling caos at the overflowing house of Jovany, who had just been murdered the night before at a “fiesta” (that Chemo also attended!), the fatal blow a machete chop to the neck, Erlinda holding Daisy, Jovany’s wife, a full nine-months pregnant due any day, any hour! Erlinda rocking Daisy, fanning her, briskly (she’d already fainted twice), giving her a cup of water, while crowds of mourners, some screaming like banshees, others pushing and shoving to see the patched-up corpse in the rough casket, with busy women already in the tiny kitchen making pans of coffee, and uncomprehending kids still playing in the dusty street of Paraiso, that’s when I decided to swallow my pride and put out the call that I had been delaying for months, and so I posted:

“ERLINDA'S illness is advancing faster than my own resources can keep up with. She is scheduled for an operation that costs 15,000 Lempiras, about $750. The patient also has to pay for all the supplies required. And then there's the follow-up. I told her I'd ask for help, and it's not the first time, as you probably know. She's the life of our community: midwife, teacher, counselor, nurse, poet, performer, baker and cook, the soul of hospitality, quiet preacher with parables drawn mostly from her own life experience, mother above all--and widow. It was her husband Guillermo's crisis, cancer, and death in 2013 that first forced me to your side, yanking at your hem for help. And you were so good to us! Thank you now for any kind thoughts and prayers and donations!”
I had forgotten to mention her crocheting, a constant handiwork, including her hat in the photo!
———————————————————————————————————
Some generous money started coming in, and I know there were prayers and wishes, too, that I could “see” in my mind’s eye. Erlinda, of course, is beside herself, to think she still has such faithful friends in the USA!

Other celebrations include the birthdays of two of Erlinda’s grandchildren, her daughter Maricela’s sons Juan Jose, 18, and Miguel Angel, 11, sharing a gorgeous cake designed by Carlota, both names entwined.

A spontaneous celebration began with a cry—when just about midnight Fermin’s daughter Esly, 19, and I were sitting across the dinner table from each other with our computers fired up. I was on FACEBOOK, and I assumed she was, too, since she posts a lot. Suddenly, she yelped and burst into tears. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Actually scared me! “Mommy! Mommy! Come here! Please, please, please, Mommy!” Maria, her mother, and Fermin had gone to bed two hours before, but she kept calling. I asked what’s going on; she couldn’t even talk! I thought someone died, maybe her new and wonderful boyfriend was hurt—or was telling her to get lost. Finally, she jumped up from the table and rushed to her parents’ bedroom door and started knocking. I had to look; I turned her computer around and…what is this? Ah! It’s the National University website, telling Esly Caballero Marroquin that she had successfully passed the Entrance Exam! Then I had to cry! She had been, as it were, “hacking” into the webpage to get the results the very first moment they were available at midnight. Just think, in all ways a typical teen, but far more polished and self-aware and accomplished than most, her biggest wish was not for a bunch of money or anything material, but simply the opportunity to continue her education, after already having two intermediate degrees since high school. Maria, nor Fermin, ever did get all the way up; they did all their hugging and more crying in private. But I got my own chance to hug her and congratulate her. She closed up the computer: “I gotta go to bed.” I doubted she could sleep, as excited as she was, and I do imagine she was in her room on her cell phone, messaging friends with the good news. The next day, I went looking for a little present. I found a fancy ball-point pen at the “Unicentro” store, got it wrapped, with a card. And asked her to pose for a picture.

Then there was Nangui’s birthday. I wanted to celebrate, but I didn’t want to meddle. He’s probably the most popular person in El Progreso, so we just had a pizza party for lunch at his mom’s house, because he’d be “busy” in the evening! But we combined the event with his little nephew Yimi (“Jimmy”), who was turning 5, and neighbor Adelmo, who was turning 21.

We returned to Progreso just a week later for “Opening Night” of the new soccer season, a much anticipated match-up between Honduras-Progreso (HNP) and Real Espana of San Pedro Sula, nicknamed “La Maquina” (“the machine”). When I saw that 18 of 19 staff writers for the national sports paper “Diez” predicted a victory for Real Espana, I KNEW Honduras-Progreso would win! The game was in San Pedro, at Olympic Stadium, newly painted and refurbished for the national team’s run to the 2016 World Cup in Russia, pretty intimidating, you might say. A more direct harassment was the confiscation at the gate of any HNP fan jerseys, including Chemo’s that we had just bought for 200 Lempiras (10 bucks). Luckily, a few guys with our group had an extra shirt, so Chemo didn’t have to go in naked!

There was a small crowd, but the “Mega-Lokos” cheering section of Real Espana was out in force. They expected a quick and easy victory, but just seven minutes into the game, their star player deflected an HNP kick into his own goal! Took the air out of the stadium. Now, I sensed the deflation, but I didn’t realize till a day later that it was an own-goal. That’s how much attention I was paying! (My excuse to Chemo, who thought I was the dumbest fan on the planet, is, we were sitting about half a kilometer from the field, I couldn’t even see who was who.) As the game was about to end with a 2-1 win for Honduras-Progreso, the Mega-Lokos started a bonfire. “They’re burning our shirts!” Actually, it’s probably better that none of us self-identified as HNP fans as we left the stadium; there could have been real trouble, the Real Espana fans were so mad. The word I kept hearing was “Mierda!” So we got back on the team bus as quietly and quickly as possible and got the heck outta there. Back in Progreso, we celebrated with baleadas at Nangui’s wife street-corner stand.

This CASA is a little late, because I was hoping to report on Daisy’s baby, but she is still un-delivered at this point. Due dates are very approximate in Honduras, but of course we are worried that her husband Jovany’s murder is threatening more damage yet to the family…. So please keep her and her child in your heart. And if anyone can bring this to a healthy birth, it will be Erlinda, so thanks again for loving her, too.

In fact, may I say, “Bless you”? whether from God or your own goodness. I’m taking a cue from Pope Francis’ so-called “green” encyclical “Laudato Si” (“Praise be!”). The long first chapter is all climate-change science, no mention of God at all, but gently focused on irreducible human dignity, especially of the poor. Then, almost apologizing for “the convictions of believers,” he expresses the hope that “science and religion can enter into an intense dialogue fruitful to both,” based on mutual respect. Thus begins the gorgeous second chapter, “The Gospel of Creation.” Not unlike the Alcoholics Anonymous chapters on one’s “Superior Power,” so compelling a testimony, both inspired by what one might call the “science” of experience.

Love, Miguel

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

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—MAY 2015

FULL

The month of April began in Holy Week, and thanks to Padre Francisco, a big jolly priest from El Salvador, it was the fullest experience we’ve ever had. I am sure that this was the first time in history that Las Vegas had its own “resident” priest for the whole week. He and a young seminarian named Israel, from Morazan, had both been invited by our pastor Padre Chepito, and they stayed in my house! Thank God the water and electricity was working all week.

Services were wall to wall. After a couple days, it struck me who Padre Francisco reminded me of: Captain Kangaroo! Oh, back in the day, we grew up with this lovely creation of actor Bob Keeshan. Sometimes, if I felt a little “sick,” you know, I’d plop myself on the couch and start watching the show before my mother could change her mind about keeping me home for the day.

And like the Captain, Padre Francisco had his bag of tricks. He did several things we’d never seen before. For example, in the Washing of the Feet on Holy Thursday, he washed one person’s feet, who washed the next person’s feet, etc., etc. That we had seen, but then he invited couples, or brothers and sisters, or parents and children to come up and wash each other’s feet. I could see what was coming; he looked over at me, “Michael! [he didn’t like “Miguel”] Whose feet will you wash?” I had already noticed Guillermina, the sweetest, humblest person in town, sitting at the end of nearby pew, so I approached her, invited her, took her by the hand up to the altar, and washed her feet. A few tears were shed.

Another innovation after the Mass, the “Procession of the 4 Tribunales,” the four “trials” of Jesus before Annas, Caiphas, Herod, and Pilate. Little “stations” had been set up throughout the town; we sang our way from one to the other with Chauco as the bound and blindfolded Jesus, and then a Gospel reading and a commentary and prayer. Believe me, no one in Las Vegas could doubt that this was Holy Week, not just Spring Break! When we finally returned to the church after an hour or more, Chauco said, “I was amazed! When I took the blindfold off, the church was full! I couldn’t believe everybody made the whole circuit!”

Good Friday—besides a three-hour Stations of the Cross, with Cristian as Jesus in the sweltering heat, and the liturgy in the morning—Francisco planned another ceremony that I for one was sure would not work, the “Procession of Silence,” at nightfall, where we would carry “Jesus,” a crucifix, that is, to the cemetery. I thought folks would be scared of “ghosts”! But no, once we arrived—a big crowd, yes—Padre Francisco offered just a brief prayer, then invited everyone to visit the graves of their loved ones. With the full Passover Moon shining, it was nearly as bright as day; folks loved it!

Holy Saturday / The Easter Vigil is the biggest liturgy of the year, and Padre Francisco had a plan that really should be standard practice throughout the world! First, he moved the altar out into the aisle and arranged the pews around it, leaving a big open space behind. That’s where he had all the kids gather. After 11 long Biblical readings, including responses and songs, covering the whole history from Genesis to Jesus, he said, “OK, now we take a break!” We had been told to bring sodas, juices, rolls, snacks, whatever, and a table laden with all these goodies was ready. “Kids first!” They lined up so politely, and everyone was served. Afterwards, most of the kids went home, you see, bedtime! And the rest of us were fortified for the other “half” of the Mass.

Several people literally interrupted Francisco’s sermons to praise him: “You speak truth, Padre! You don’t mince words, we’ve never heard anyone like this before!” I don’t know that he was breaking any ground theologically, but his enthusiasm, his clarity, his unflagging sense of humor, above all, his applications to daily life, indeed set him apart. Maybe he had received some of Archbishop Oscar Romero’s spirit when the future saint confirmed him as a youngster. In every Mass, he’d invite someone to give their own “testimony” to the love of God, starting with Anibal, a prime spokesman for Alcoholics Anonymous. (In our little town, no one is “anonymous”; in fact, most members like to show themselves as an example of what A.A. can do for you.) I guess, ultimately, he reminded us of POPE Francisco!

We spent the rest of the month traveling, two full cycles of Morazan, Progreso, Tegucigalpa. April is the hottest, deadest time of year, but it seemed to make sense at the time: Morazan, where both Fermin and Maria were recovering from chikungunya; Progreso for Nangui’s knee operation and his team’s last home game (which they won! with an earnest mix of scrubs, their first victory in a month); and Tegus for the birthday of Chemo’s brother Markitos.

When Chemo saw that his very most favorite singer, Romeo Santos, was giving a concert in Tegucigalpa, well, we had to go. Romeo is “The King of Bachata,” a more romantic and appealing rhythm than reggaeton, or rap. It became a family affair, since Markitos, his mother-in-law Dora, and his wife Yessica would be selling a popular snack, French Fries topped with a special sauce and a sausage, at a stand just outside the stadium. So we all gathered there, to chat and visit, and round up customers, till it was time to go in, 6:30 p.m.

A “crush” at the entrance turned out to be a trap; I was pickpocketed of about 1000 Lempiras, which I had been saving for a birthday present for Markitos. (I don’t why I didn’t give it to him right away!) Fortunately, I had told Chemo we’re not taking any cell phones, any wallets, any credit cards, any cameras. Fortunately, too, they didn’t get the tickets, which were in the OTHER pocket. Fortunately, I had hidden some money in my socks—I should have hidden ALL of it! OK, so I’m shaken and angered and discombobulated by the theft, and I top it off by tripping over my own feet and falling headlong on the pavement. Chemo helped me up, he was probably more alarmed than I was. I noticed immediately that my knee hurt, almost doubling under my own weight. “Oh, great, now I’m gonna need the same operation Nangui got!”

Romeo did not appear till 10:00 p.m., and by 11:00 even Chemo said, “Let’s go—it’s dangerous here.” Bless you, Chemo! We went outside and sat again for a while with Dora and Yessica and Markitos. When we told them about the robbery and that all we had left was cabfare, Dora sprang into action, going from cab to cab to find us the cheapest fare.

But I was sick! It had all the marks of chikungunya, fever, aches all over, no appetite, just dead in the water. Now, can you get chikungunya from a pickpocket? or from falling on your face? I may be making medical history here! At early Mass the next morning in the Cathedral, I just sat like a lump, trying to pray, till I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Miguel, how are you?” Is this an angel? Well, it was Regina, Elio and Mema’s daughter, undoing the meanness of the pickpocket’s grabs. She invited me to a little breakfast with her daughter. (Chemo was still fast asleep back in the hotel.) Gracias!

By the time we limped home to Las Vegas, we had already heard of the murder of the Chief of Police in Victoria, apparently because he was investigating some cattle rustlers. They caught three “suspects,” and Chemo and I felt a chill when we recognized one of them as someone who had brought a boombox to Elvis for repair. So now who wants the job?

All I wanted was my bed and a fan. But the electricity was off—someone knocked down a pole in Yorito or somewhere. I was so far gone, I didn’t even care. I slept in my street clothes about 15 hours, and finally took the advice I’d been giving everyone else: Gatorade! At “room temperature,” it was hardly refreshing, but it got me back on my feet.

Thank YOU for your ever gentle hand!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—APRIL 2015

CHIKUNGUNYA

The entire league could not bring down Nangui, star of the Honduras-Progreso soccer team, but a tiny bug—a mosquito!—knocked him for a loop! It’s called Chikungunya, “Chiko” for short, and it’s already killed not a few Hondurans. An especially virulent form of malaria, it has afflicted at least 18,000 here. There is, of course, no cure. Nangui fell sick on the team bus to a game in La Ceiba, 4 hours from Progreso, a surge of fever, aches all over, every joint clenched, practically hallucinating, scared everyone, especially his mom Santa and family in the bus behind. When Santa called me, it sounded as if Nangui would be hospitalized, but by the end of the game, after some Tylenol and Gatorade at a clinic, he insisted on getting back on the bus. His sister Karla tweeted a photo: looked like a death mask!

They lost the game, of course, but the coach was more concerned about Nangui. “You know, we  missed our ‘jugador emblematico’ tonight due to sickness.” Our emblematic player! I haven’t heard such evocative language since Northrop Frye wrote about “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight”!

Even in Progreso, Nangui just went home. It took a call from his coach, and a personal escort of a couple teammates to finally get him to a clinic, where he stayed only long enough for blood tests and about a gallon of ‘suero’ (intravenous drip).

I really thought, if not his life, certainly his career was threatened. I snapped one of the sweetest pix I’ve ever taken, Nangui’s tiny son Ivan, in his mother Martha’s arms, soothing his daddy’s distempered brow. But his natural resilience kicked in; eventually, he was back, “ready” to play.

Meanwhile, the team was in a tailspin, falling into the basement of the standings, including their first home loss in 49 games. But the fans didn’t give up. We went to a game in San Pedro, hottest day of the year (a weekly occurrence in Honduras!), but we loved it! a 3-0 trouncing of Marathon on their home field, and with their own player! Rene Moncada, recently acquired by Honduras-Progreso in Nangui’s absence, responsible for all three goals. A survey in the sports paper El Diez before the game had only 1 of 17 staff writers predicting a Honduras-Progreso win. But apparently the real highlight was a FACEBOOK photo of me in my loose red dewcap; it got more “Likes” than anything I’ve ever posted. I guess they were Likes…

We went to Tegucigalpa to visit the Brigada for Chemo’s annual check-up, but as soon as we arrived, making our way into the back corridors of the hospital, something was wrong. A woman huddled over a little girl lying on a gurney. I thought (I hoped!) a mother was comforting her daughter before—or after—surgery. But the child was not moving, at all. I drew Chemo away. The child was really the same size as Chemo when he got his open-heart surgery. That close! When they brought in a little coffin, that was that. Ron Roll, organizer of the Brigadas, just looked at us. “This is a bad time.” Everyone was in tears, Ron, his wife Alba, the surgeon, nurses, and other volunteers from the States who had come to save these children, but some kids are just too sick; they can’t make it, with or without surgery.

Chemo only said, “Let’s go.” I tried to say something, through my own streaming tears. “Chemo, God is love, we know that, we know that even when such terrible things happen, we know God is good, if your life is saved by the doctors or if you go first to eternal life, well, we can still pray, for her parents, for her family, for the doctors and nurses, for Ron and Alba, never to give up, never to stop caring for the children!”

In a variation on “If you build it, they will come,” we got, in the case of Chemo’s brother Markitos, who had mixed cement for eight months for an enormous store about 3 football fields long, the Larach Brothers Hardware Store in Tegucigalpa, on the day of the Grand Opening, “If you build it, you cannot come.” Every dignitary from the President on down was invited to the gala event, but the actual workers got no invitations. If they had not done their job well, there’d be no store to open! (I remember an anniversary of the Gateway Arch, with the construction workers in the front row.)

Father’s Day in Honduras is celebrated on March 19, the Feast of St. Joseph. The school in Las Vegas did a poignant and even brave celebration, featuring at least 5 skits or songs pleading with fathers to be responsible, especially not to destroy their families with alcohol. Somehow, even second graders had us in tears.

On our visit to Progreso to see Nangui, we invited some of the family to Teatro la Fragua to see “El Asesinato de Jesus,” their signature work—emblematic, you might say—the most performed over their 35 years of existence. It places the death of Jesus in the context of the torturous politics of Honduras, the poor who suffer by the privileged.

Flush with Wi-Fi at our hotel in Progreso, I crossed my fingers and downloaded Apple’s latest Operating System “Yosemite.” Comments I had seen made it sound more like “Armageddon,” but it came through fine, except for one thing. My computer was now too advanced for my little Tigo modem that I used for Internet in Las Vegas. Alternating between despair, and excitement at the prospect of huge swaths of free time, I glanced at Chemo absorbed in his Samsung Galaxy, and I realized, “I need a smartphone!” I got the cheapest one I could find, about $50, and it works fine, though of course it’s way “smarter” than I am!

Loading Yosemite, I was especially anxious about iPhoto, since that’s what I needed most, but it also had the most complaints among the Apple comments. It seemed fine, but as an experiment, I quickly assembled a little photo book of kids’ pictures; after a couple false starts, Apple processed the order and the book is at Teresa’s house right now, if you happen to stop by.  I think I’ll do a couple more like this, before I come up in September instead of one big book as I usually do.

Actually, I might like to come a little sooner. The Honduran national team just qualified for the Gold Cup tourney, so they’ll be playing in such cities as Dallas, Boston, and on July 13 Kansas City! If Nangui makes it back on to the team, you could have a real treat to see him in action!

Thanks for letting me play on YOUR team!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2015

BACK TO SCHOOLED!

While you are counting snow days up there, we are just getting started! The school year officially began February 1. Fascinating to see hundreds of kids in their uniforms lining up outside the gate, boys to the right, girls to the left, as Profe Oracio, who I’ve known since he was in kindergarten himself, checks everyone in, suggesting a haircut here, a shoeshine there, and calling the stragglers to hurry up! 

While we don’t have snow days, we do have big gaps as the year begins before everyone’s back from picking coffee in the mountains. Till at least March, things move about half-speed. But what can you do? 

Chemo’s cousins were some of the late arrivals, but I was so thrilled to see them finally dressed and ready with their little backpacks and notebooks that I dared not criticize or cast blame. Probably only about half of them will actually stick to it for the year; there’s no “Special Education” here for kids who are really handicapped in focusing on study, and it doesn’t help when the adults in your house are illiterate themselves. But for now, I’m giving each one 20 Lempiras, as my encouragement to keep a-goin’! And I try to help with homework, which is sometimes such busywork I have to hold my tongue. (“Write 10 sentences with verbs in the past, present, and future,” for little Marcos, who still can’t tell one letter from another!)

Don’t even ask about Chemo! The chance I dreamed of enrolling him in computer classes vanished when Wilfredo invited me to join a meeting of Caritas in his “office,” and it turned out to be the little building that WAS the computer school, now an open space with about 4 busted machines just sitting there along the wall. Caritas funds projects for the poor, but apparently computer classes ain’t one of them! 

On the other hand, we have every level of education except university: kindergarten, “escuela” (primary school, grades 1-6), “colegio” (our version of high school, grades 7-9), then a 3-year “bachillerato” or “carrera”, when you specialize in some study, like Arts and Letters, Business, etc.; in Las Vegas the only “carrera” available is “Agriculture,” but that’s still a pretty good lineup for a “village”!

Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso is learning some hard lessons of its own. They haven’t won a game in a month; maybe they’re stretched a little thin, since several teammates are playing in three “tournaments” at once. There’s the national team, hoping for a World Cup berth; but that team has already lost twice to Venezuela, in “friendlies,” to be sure, but still Coach Jorge Pinto is not pleased. We all went to the “home” game in San Pedro Sula, but Nangui did not even get in the game, although the crowd, impatient and frustrated, was calling for him. The next game was IN Venezuela, and I just couldn’t get my head around it. Nangui, never farther away from home than Tegucigalpa, suddenly is on a plane to Venezuela. I showed everyone who would listen where Venezuela is, on a map on my wall, but I was probably the most amazed of anyone. And he did get in that game—for the last ten minutes, what’s up with THAT? I decided the coach knows his value and is saving Nangui for a “real” game, like a secret weapon. But even ten minutes was enough to earn Nangui a head-shave, as a kind of initiation by his teammates. 

The third cycle of games is something called the “Copa Presidente.” I never heard of it, and Fermin explained why. “It’s never been done before; it’s a toy for the idiot President we’ve got,” Juan Orlando Hernandez. Basically, it’s contests between the League teams and more local, rag-tag teams, with predictable results when the little teams embarrass  the big teams. Nangui’s team is actually leading the standings with a couple victories, I don’t even know over who--or whom. 

Winning or not, Nangui is a star. The daily sports paper El Diez did a two-page spread on his “private life,” featuring the “baleada” connection along with his wife Martha, and of course the two little twins. His dream, he says, is to buy his mother a new house. 

But it may be a falling star. After the most recent loss, Coach Wilmer resigned. Actually, it was a noble move, to draw the criticism to himself rather than the players. “Three losses in a row, something has to change; instead of cutting 28 [players], just cut one—and that’s me.” 

Chemo became a star himself, when Luis Emildo invited him to join his local cable show in Las Vegas, “Pura Vida.” Chemo’s a natural!

At least as famous as Nangui--among my readers anyway--is Beto, the blind young man in La Catorce. Two weeks beforehand, he had quietly asked me if he should invite folks to his...birthday party! “Absolutely!” I said, and I ordered one of Carlota’s enormous cakes for Sunday, September 15. After Mass, we crowded some kids in Las Vegas into a moto-taxi and headed for La Catorce, stopping at Jacagua to get the cake. Beto is 32, but still a child in his delight of his special day. 

The next week, Chemo and I went to Morazan for the birthday of Fermin’s wife Maria, who turned 47, another idea I can barely get my head around. I’ve known her--and Fermin--since they were teenagers, most of their life and over half of mine. Of course, I was so dense, I didn’t realize the party was to be a surprise. Her birthday was Thursday, and everyone was telling her they’d wait till the weekend to celebrate. We arrived Wednesday, and when her daughter Arlin said to me, “I’m going to the store,” I just looked at her. “Miguel, let’s go to the store--TOGETHER!” Then I got it. And Arlin prepared a feast! Three big pans of lasagna, fat roasted chickens, broccoli with a cheese sauce, for starters. She and her husband Freddy showed up in their pickup loaded with food and drink just when Maria was thinking, “What’s going on?” 

When Nangui’s family invited us to join them on an “excursion” to Tela, the beach that was the only mainland in America that Columbus actually touched (1502, his fourth voyage), I had to say yes, because Chemo had never seen the ocean. He wasn’t sure what to think at first, but each time he took another dip, he went a little farther into the waves. Soon he was begging to take a motorboat ride with his friends; some big guys were taking folks out for about a ten-minute run, surging over the waves and nearly turning the craft over! When they stopped dead at their farthest point away, I thought they were stranded. “We were looking at the sharks,” Chemo explained. Oh, yeah, the sharks! I should have thought of that! 

Stay warm and stay dry!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2015

JE SUIS NANGUI

I felt a twinge of deja vu as we walked past Ramon Rosa park in El Progreso after Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso beat Marathon 3-1. “That’s where it all began, all those years ago.” And then it hit me, I’m with the same family that began it! Wow! Thirty-seven years collapsed into a single moment. 

You see, my first time in Honduras, in 1977, I was getting my shoes shined twice a day by the ‘lustrabotas’ in the park, just to practice my Spanish. Julio, about 10 years old, seemed to be the leader of the little squad. Through him, I met his family, including his sister Santa, who eventually grew up to become the mother of Jorge, nicknamed Nangui, now at 28 years old the star of the Honduras-Progreso soccer team, taking the league by storm in their first year of professional play. 

I guess sort of the way J.K. Rowling says all 7 installments of “Harry Potter” hit her all at once, the whole history flashed before my eyes in an instant, including Julio’s violent death in the streets of El Progreso in 1989, just when his future looked brightest. Overcome, I grasped Santa’s hand. She looked at me, like, What the heck is the matter with you! “I was just thinking.” Then we proceeded to the corner where Nangui’s wife Marta has a stand, about 15 of us family and friends, for baleadas, to celebrate the victory that solidified Honduras-Progreso’s first-place status. 

This was our second game in a week. We went to San Pedro Sula the previous Saturday for the first game of the new season, facing a strong team named “Vida.” 

The evening in San Pedro was not promising. The old stadium looked more like a latrine than a sports facility. A rainy day had left the unkempt field so muddy that after a while you could barely tell which team was which. Huddled in the mist and cold, we were a mere handful of fans, basically just the 40 or so that could fit on a bus from Progreso provided by the team. 

But the team came from behind for a thrilling 3-2 victory. Calling a play, even our head coach Wilmer Cruz slipped in the mud, and was helped up by a Vida player, a nice gesture. And among the small crowd was the most important observer of all, Jorge Pinto, the new head coach of the ‘seleccion,’ the Honduras national team that hopes to compete in the next World Cup, Russia 2018. Sort of like Whitey Herzog, from what I can tell, he likes players that really hustle! So naturally his attention was drawn to Nangui, who, according to La Prensa, is “un escurridizo para los defensores,” because he speeds through defenders like a buzz saw! Pinto came to their next game, too, the one we attended in El Progreso, where the overflow crowd of almost 2000 had to impress him too. The next day, Nangui was on Pinto’s list of about 30 players to try out for the ‘seleccion.’ And after three days of drills, Nangui made the team!

I can’t assume you are a big fan of international soccer, but you might get a chance to see Nangui in action when the ‘seleccion’ plays in the United States in the coming months. I’ll let you know the details as soon as I hear. 

What more can I say? Sorry for gushing like this, but it’s just so phenomenal. From dirt poor to world class. Nangui grew up in a house the very definition of a SHACK. His mom Santa and dad Jorge both swear like sailors, but somehow Nangui remains soft-spoken and a gentleman, engaging the media like a pro. After a game, when he’s gone full-tilt and thrown himself around like rag doll, he cleans up and joins us at his wife Marta’s stand for baleadas. I was about to say, “win or lose,” but Honduras-Progreso has never lost at home! Then he might come back to the house for awhile, while I snap a few pictures. My favorite image of him is, later, just walking down the street into the dark, alone, to re-join Marta to help pack up her stand for the night. 

In a special moment, Honduras-Progreso visited Hogar Suyapa, a beautiful children’s home/orphanage that directed me back in 2007 to a very special person, Judge Wendy Padilla, to arrange my adoption of Chemo. You know what, why don’t you just go ahead and “Like” the team!

https://www.facebook.com/Club.Deportivo.Honduras.De.El.Progreso

In between Nangui’s games, Chemo and I “vacationed” in Morazan for a week with Fermin and Maria and the kids. We try to do this every January, before school starts again in February. Fermin showed me the new light he had just installed in the front room, a fat fluorescent globe replacing a tiny neon tube that had lasted since they moved into the house 20 years ago! It looked somehow...strange. Indeed, the next morning, when we flipped it on, it short-circuited! Fermin spent the whole  day in the crawlspace between the ceiling and the roof sorting things out. I was scared to death he’d electrocute himself, so I started praying a very quiet rosary. Maria, more practical, went to get some help from the local utility, ENEE. Two guys showed up--with tools!--and climbed the nearest pole and cut and twisted and connected wires till power was restored. Fermin emerged covered with 20 years of dirt, dust, and grime from head to foot, smeared with sweat. When I lifted my camera, he said, “No, Miguel! No pictures! We don’t want to remember this!” 

But we did have some experiences worth remembering, including Eduard’s 21st birthday. We splurged at the Supermercado Marquez to get all the fixin’s for a big barbecue, including three kinds of meat: chorizo, chicken, and strips of beef. Maria, with help from her sister Arlin and sister-in-law Concha, made a big batch of chimol (a delicious relish) and other side dishes; and we got everyone’s favorite party cake, “tres leches.” I asked Eduard if he was inviting any friends. “Just one,” he smiled. His girlfriend, Evelin! I had to pay for everything, not because I HAD to, but because I wanted to, for all their goodness to me and Chemo. 

And Chemo and I “had” to go to Tegucigalpa for Mema’s birthday! We took her and Elio to Mirawa for lunch, the best Chinese in the city, along with their son Elio, Jr., and two grandsons. I love seeing Mema’s smile! No one is more grateful for even the smallest gift. The “official” birthday party in the evening started with Mass at the little church by their house, where Padre Ovidio, a lifelong friend, was also overcome with gratitude for Mema’s wonderful life. Then the feast, and the dancing, and the singing. 

Birthdays are so precious, not least because not everybody gets one. Yessica, the girlfriend of Chemo’s younger brother Markitos, lost their baby in a miscarriage, about 3 months gestation. Markitos was not home with her when it happened; he was visiting his and Chemo’s mother Rufina, at the other end of the country in Santa Barbara. But Yessica’s mother was there to help her through the experience. Markitos arrived the next day, and Chemo and I the day after that. Cautiously, I invited them to Pizza Hut, as usual; and it seemed to help restore some hope and some smiles. And with a million and a half “pilgrims” expected to visit the Basilica very close to Yessica and Markitos’ barrio in Tegucigalpa for the biggest feast of the year, Our Lady of Suyapa, they should be able to get some needed income when Yessica’s mother sets up a food booth and Markitos runs odd jobs. 

We almost thought maybe Beto of La Catorce, the blind young man we love and enjoy, would not make it to his next birthday when we heard he was hit by a motorcycle. It was dark (not a good time to be on the road, but Beto explains he was doing a favor for a friend); the motorcycle was “off,” so Beto couldn’t hear it (this I don’t get); and the “driver” was a TEACHER in the La Catorce school and he was DRUNK! (OK, THAT explains it). Fortunately, Beto got only a cut on his forehead (4 stitches) and other scrapes and bruises but nothing too serious. Can you imagine! 

Well, I can imagine YOU have things to do, so let me sign off right now!

But not without thanking you again for your lovingkindness,

Miguel