Estamos Aquí – Post Script

Post Script

And so, these reflections of my week and a half in Honduras have come to an end.  Not with a period, espero que sí, but with a semi-colon.  I feel so grateful to have had this time with such wonderful people.  My greatest concern now is that I will forget…that my ‘real’ life back in the States will overtake these touching days in the tropics, with such wonderful people.  So lacking in material things, yet so rich in life.  Please permit me some self-disclosure and parting thoughts as I conclude these chapters.

I am not a believer.  I spent seven years in a religious Order (the same one as my friend, Miguel, spent ten.)  And I left that life with more questions than answers.  I moved from Belief to Agnosticism, and finally to Atheism.  Oddly, the mid-point—Agnosticism—was comfortably consoling.  There could still be a God and a life beyond this one; I just could not prove or explain it.

But it was not until I threw in the towel and finally said “I do not believe” that I was able to commit to a values system that has guided my life ever since:  No more false hope or self-deception of putting one toe in the water and saying “Well, if there is a God, surely He will make all the suffering of these people go away, eventually.”

There is one life.  And it is here.  And it is now.

I still believe, as I did in my earlier life, that the unreflected upon life is not worth living.  I do have a values system (albeit less complex than when I was in the Order). Here are the three ideals I choose to live by, along with the inspiration for each:

1. (From the Society of Jesus/Jesuits): I believe in people.  I believe in the inherent dignity, worth and importance of every person I meet.  I seek to treat everyone (from the Secretary of State to the six-toed Honduran child to the waitress and hotel maid) with equal dignity, respect and truth.  Oh, I have almost no empathy for mean people, so they get more truth from me than respect.

2. (From my late father, Ray, POW in Korea for 28 months): “Do something…even if it’s wrong.”  I globalize this to mean that I must act.  Do not sit on the sidelines, wringing my hands.  Do what I think is right.  If I make a mistake, make a mid-course correction, and Do Something Else.  Just DO SOMETHING!

3. (From my late mother, Ruthie, Irish-Catholic philosopher and neurotic): “Put the toilet seat down when you are done.”  I globalize this to mean, “Leave things better than how you found them…bathrooms, relationships, conversations, the world.”

I reflect upon my actions on a regular basis.  No, I don’t go to confession.  Nor do I look up at the sky sheepishly when I do reflect.  But if my actions are inconsistent with my values, I am in a state of dissonance in my life.  My believing friends would call this ‘sin’.  And it is up to me alone to re-center myself.  These ten days in Honduras have helped me to do that in a way I could only have hoped for.  Grácias a Dios.

As I close, I have thoughts on two tracks, one for my believing friends, and one for those who, like me, are non-believers.

For my believing friends, my short time among these beautiful, simple souls in Honduras has been a blessing beyond which I could have ever imagined.   How else, but by the hand of God, could so many with so little be so rich in spirit…so giving, so content with what they have in each other, in their families, so welcoming to the occasional strange visitor from far away…with consummate and unshakable hope, and faith?

To my non-believing friends, this blue and green ball upon which we live is about 4.5 billion years old; we Homo Sapiens have walked it for about 200,000 years; we have recorded our history for some 8,000 years.  About 240 years ago, this magnificent country in which we live was formed, championing the primacy of the individual, and equal rights for all.

I joined this timeline some sixty years ago.  I may die tomorrow (indeed, I might have died in Honduras last October 2014). Or maybe I will live another five, ten, or twenty years.  And then…the beat will go on.  More will be born, more will die.

And every day, this planet will be home to whatever life forms manage to muster.  So it will be for all of us:  Our time here is infinitesimally short in the grand scheme—our lives are but a minute segment in the long line that is history.

Regardless of what we do or do not believe, let us not ignore this reality:  We are not alone.

Let us not be:

• Deaf to the voices we may never hear…
• Blind to the faces we may never see…
• Unempathetic to the lives we may never encounter…

…Because they DO exist.

…They are with us.

…Now.

…And they are speaking to us.

…They are saying:  “WE ARE HERE…(Estamos Aqui).”

Peace.  Out.

Mac

Estamos Aquí #36 – We’re not in Paris anymore, Toto

We’re not in Paris anymore, Toto

I didn’t prepare for this trip as I wish I would have.  Ideally, I would have spent a month or so brushing up on my Spanish.  I took a couple of courses in the language during college, but it wasn’t until I spent a summer in Guatemala, immersed, that I really ‘got’ Spanish.  At least, the Central American version of it.

I try to use Spanish wherever I can (here in Las Vegas, Nevada, the opportunities do present themselves).   Still, I feel a bit weak in ‘the tongue’.   My accent is good.  I sound like I know what I’m talking about.  But my vocabulary is limited.  The good news is that many Spanish-speakers spend most of their conversations talking about pretty basic things.   Maybe we Anglophones do as well…I should listen and take note.

I found myself in two separate worlds in Honduras, mostly overwhelmed trying to think, communicate and ‘be’ in another language-culture.

Future tense and other nuances elude me.  Not to mention a problem my 60-year-old brain faces in my native English as well…”Dammit, I know I know the word I’m trying to say…WTF is it??  Really, I know it…llegar, volver…Dammit, Chloe…”

The two worlds were these:  My valiantly trying to communicate as I had been properly taught in college, and the reality of these wonderful people:  They just want to talk.  No matter if I screw up syntax, or mood or tense, or whatever.  They are happy I have tried.  We’re not in Paris anymore, Toto.

Miguel told me I was understood.  And really, communication is more than just the spoken word.  I know I connected with these beautiful people.  Still, I wish I had taken the time to get better at the language they speak.   Perhaps it’s a matter of respect.  I do respect them, more after these brief ten days than before. “La próxima vez (The next time),”  I will prepare better…my love to you all for receiving me as I am…You are all so welcoming, and so accepting.

Yo quiero Ustedes muchísimo, amigos.

Estamos Aquí #35 – Ñangui

Ñangui

Jorge Cardona (Ñangui) is the right-winger for the recently resurrected fútbol side Honduras Progreso.  It was a hot, humid evening on their home pitch upon which they battled their rival, Victoria.  After a goal in the first minute by the other side, Progreso came to life.  They scored an equaliser shortly thereafter, and then two red cards made it a 10 x 10 game at the 35th minute.  Two lightning-strike goals by Progreso centre forward Ángel Tejeda made it 3-1 at halftime.

By then, Victoria’s fate was sealed, and at the final whistle it was Honduras Progreso 3-2 Victoria.

Ñangui played with passion and determination.  And since soccer is a team game, he shared in the glory.  We celebrated by having baleadas at the corner, where his wife Marta owns a food stand.  Ñangui joined us, still in uniform, to the delight of the customers who were still milling about.

But the real match came at lunch earlier in the day.  Ñangui was sure he saw an iguana thirty feet up in the avocado tree.  No, wait, two.  We Gringos only saw leaves and branches.  But Ñangui rallied the kids for the action.  One climbed up the tree, shook the branches furiously, and dislodged one of the iguanas.  It fell to the ground, where a mighty chase ensued:  dogs, kids, and of course Ñangui.

Iguanas are fast, but they were no match for this team.  Ñangui pounced on it with a towel, and the score was 1-0.

The second lizard realized he was a target, and crawled further along the branch, hoping to jump onto the adjoining tree.  But Ñangui gave a machete to a second boy, who passed it along to the top climber.  In seconds, the branch was hacked off, and the swift reptile was no match for the attackers.

At the final whistle, it was Hombres 2-0 Iguanas, and lunch the following day was secured.  Another team sport in which Ñangui played his usual role of leader and playmaker.  In the same day, he earned the title of “Ganador” (winner) and “I-Guanador.”

Estamos Aquí #34 – Education

Education

Almost every day of our travels, no matter the town, there was a parade of uniformed children, queued like ducklings behind their teacher—on the way to class, or to recess.  Each school had its own unique colors, with a patch signifying the tradition that these youngsters now had the honor of joining.  Uniforms foster a feeling of being a part of something bigger than the individual, whether it’s a sports team, a fighting force or an elementary school in the tropics.  You belong.  You represent.

Even in a land of modest means, where household resources are not aplenty, parents make certain that each child leaves for school immaculately dressed and impeccably groomed.  There is an obvious pride instilled early on.  You are representing your school.  But you are representing your family as well.

We arrived at Fermín’s school in Morazán in the middle of the noon recess.  Lunch had been consumed.  And now, the fifth graders were blowing off some steam in the courtyard.  As the bell rung, they filed into the cinderblock classroom single-file.  Unprompted, each greeted the strange visitor with a friendly and curteous “Buenos tardes, señor”.

Fermín has a teaching style that is serious yet highly respectful of his pupils.  They understand what he expects of them.  It became clear that they hold him in high esteem.

The Social Studies class involved playacting a debate in front of the legislature.  The president of the council, a remarkable young man named Cristo Alexander, put forth a proposal for spending public funds to build a clean water utility.  The other members of the class were the legislators, who peppered him with questions and challenged him on prioritization of scarce financial resources.

Cristo had note cards in his hand, but never referred to them.  With supreme self-assurance and a thoughtful, reasoned manner, he deftly made his points and persuaded the council to go along with his proposal.

Cristo got my vote.  My hope for Honduras is that he and many more like him will step up to serve their country in the decades to come.

Estamos Aquí #33 – Chemo

Chemo

WWYD?

I’ll lay out the story and ask it a few times…

You have lived in a Third World country in a remote village for the past few years.  You have made a personal commitment to serve your new neighbors, however they present.  One morning, outside your patio door, you see an adolescent, curled up, lying on the ground.  WWYD?

You learn that he is four years older than his physical stature suggests, and that he has a serious heart condition.  You enquire about his family and are told his parents are not able to care for him.  WWYD?

He will not survive until age twenty without an expensive surgery.  Yet no one in his family is legally or practically available and able to consent.  WWYD?

Meet Chemo.

When Miguel met Chemo—curled up in front of his home that morning—he had no idea where the path would lead.  But it soon became apparent that only Miguel could take the next steps, so that Chemo could take his own for years to come.  So What Would You Do?

You probably know by now that Miguel did the only thing his heart told him he must do.  He decided to adopt Chemo.

Of course, what would be a challenge in the US was exponentially more difficult in Honduras.  But Chemo had many people step into the role of mother and father.  Elena (from Chapter 4), Dr. Karla, Judge Wendy, and of course Miguel.

A group of American surgeons and nurses were scheduled to arrive in the Capital in a couple of weeks.  There Chemo finally received the surgery that would ultimately save, extend and enhance his life.

Chemo is now a healthy, able-bodied young man of 18 years.  He is totally hip, confident—even a little cocky.  He loves life, loves chilling with his peers, and loves cheering on the Honduras Progreso fútbol team with Miguel and his extended family, many of whom I have told you about.

None of which would have happened, though, had Miguel not answered the question ‘WWYD?’ with his heart.

Estamos Aquí #32 – It Takes a Village

It Takes a Village

I have previously referred to the societal structures that bind together the people of Las Vegas, Yoro.  These are never more evident than on Sundays.

The faithful gathered together in the church atop the hill.  Since Padre Chepito was out of town it was a lay-led service.  Several of the teenagers enacted the Gospel story.  Dressed in biblical robes, they were reverential, composed and confident.

A discussion followed between members of the congregation and the leader.  A handful of the adults and elders opined on how best to put the message they had just heard into practice.  Their positions were well-reasoned and stated with conviction.

Folks gathered outside afterward and continued the conversation, eventually morphing it into a meet and greet.

Sundays are also the day that Miguel opens his home up to the town kids.  His living room becomes an entertainment complex.  There is a movie playing on the television (Willy Wonka, I think).  And rounds of soft drinks and bread are brought in from the kitchen to put some sustenance into the bellies of the theater-goers.

One of the guests was a young man named Beto.

Beto is blind.  He is in his thirties but is no different in stature than the other kids in the room.  He enjoys singing, and together we offered our best renditions of De Colores and Los Caminos.

Beto moves at a different pace than the others, so when we all set off after the movie, he stayed behind.  He had to use the bathroom, and the process was quite intricate and time-consuming.  So Miguel gave him his space.

Beto lives in Catorce, a little town five miles up the rutted road from Las Vegas.  He simply stands by the road and waits patiently.  Everyone in Catorce and Las Vegas knows Beto, and the first one to drive by who sees him gives him a lift.

Hillary Clinton famously quoted an old African proverb:  “It takes a village to raise a child.”  In Las Vegas, the village more than raises a child.  It provides transportation home.

Estamos Aquí #31 – Health and Healthcare

Health and Healthcare

Lo and behold, the US Dietary Guidelines and Advisory Committee recently told us what we devotees of Dr. Robert Atkins (and his nutritional progeny) have known for years now:  Dietary fat doesn’t make you fat.  It is carbohydrates—especially the sugary, processed, melt-in-your-mouth, simple version—that are downright bad for your health.

We Americans have had the luxury of picking sides in this Fat War the past twenty-five years.  Atkins, Zone, South Beach, Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers…for whatever reason, we pay them all to tell us what our bodies eventually say without words.  And while obesity certainly is an American problem, we generally have the ability to eat more healthily.  Hondurans have fewer choices for sustenance.  I have commented on the high-carbohydrate diet in the region, as well as the high incidence of health anomalies.

There are hard-working local health professionals, though they are about an hour away in Victoria, Yoro.  Miguel regularly travels there and returns with a medicine cabinet full of antibiotics and other drugs.  One of his roles is to connect ailing children with the treatment they need.

And then there are the doctors and nurses from outside the country.  They volunteer their time and make the rounds throughout the cities and villages.  It was one of these groups that provided the life-saving surgery for Chemo, which I will recount in a future chapter.

There are some ironies that these roving M*A*S*H units create.  As they locate in one village, the health professionals from nearby towns join them to assist and consult.  That creates a void in local care during the time that the non-Hondurans are there.  This can lead to children not receiving timely care, sometimes exacerbating their condition.

The World Bank estimated in 2013 that a child born in Honduras has a life expectancy of 74 years, and a ‘healthy life expectancy’ of 64.  In the US, the numbers are 79 and 69 respectively.  None of this should be surprising.  Yet beyond the statistics live a generally happy and content population.  Evidently neither money nor health buys happiness.

Estamos Aquì #30 – Banana Republic

Banana Republic

Some of these stories are about issues facing Honduras in the 21^st Century.  Nothing in world history happens in a vacuum, though, and there are some uncomfortable truths about how Honduras ended up where it is today:  Especially for those who believe US governments and corporations are models of virtue and all that is right.

Honduras was probably the original ‘Banana Republic’.  When the retail chain which shares that name opened in 1978, it had a safari theme that made the term ‘friendly’, and its clothing ‘chic’ (which The Gap jettisoned after its takeover in 1983.)  But the reference was to a group of countries in Central America that were decidedly not treated in a friendly manner by US interests.

Particular protagonists who deserve calling out are the US Central Intelligence Agency and The United Fruit Company (now Chiquita Brands).  If you are into historical reading, I direct you to the book Bitter Fruit, a comprehensive exposé of the US-backed coup d’état in neighboring Guatemala in 1954.  This was one ‘event’, yet there were echo events in Nicaragua, El Salvador and, of course, Honduras.

Even as recently as 2009, it has been posited that these organizations were involved in the action that removed Manuel Zelaya from his post as President of Honduras (Google:  ‘John Perkins Honduras Coup’ for an informative article published August 7, 2009.)

Zelaya had tried to put forward a substantial increase in the Honduran minimum wage.  What appears undeniable is that Chiquita—and a group of textile manufacturers—severely undermined the president for supporting legislation that would benefit the campesinos in the banana fields and workers in the sweat shops, but cut into corporate profits.  And doing so would also begin a domino effect in other low-wage countries in Latin America.

Some of the above is arguable.  But there is little doubt that the influences of the CIA and US multinationals have historically combined to keep wages low in Central America, and thus a significant percentage of Hondurans in an economy that is, after Haiti, the second-poorest in the Western Hemisphere.

Estamos Aquí #29 – Fermín and Maria

Fermín and Maria

 

Paul McCartney penned a song for the ending medley of the Abbey Road album, called “Carry That Weight”.  The song was reputed to be an expression of the angst of being ‘The Beatles’ after the past six years of intense fame.  All that time, creative energy, interpersonal struggle…there it was, in one minute and thirty seconds of emotive lyric.

We spent two days in Morazán with Fermín and Maria.  And I felt ‘The Weight’.

Both are teachers.  Maria drives to her elementary school each morning (which involves actually fording a river!) in her Charlotte, NC-bought sedan.  Fermín instructs in an elementary school in the morning, and in a secondary school in the afternoon.   They are amazing educators. We spent an hour in Fermín’s classroom (I have no reason to believe Maria’s is any different).  The kids were respectful, thoughtful and very engaged.

More on one of his Social Studies classes (and one especially remarkable pupil) in a later post, but suffice it to say that Fermín has all the goods to have been a Principal, Superintendent, or higher in leadership or administration than he is, after 30+ years of ultra-competence.  Alas, the US has no corner on politics in educational bureaucracies.  No good deeds go unpunished, I suppose.

Fermín carries ‘The Weight’.  Perhaps he is the one man with whom I most empathized during this trip.  He is compassionate, self-assured, yet has burdens to bear.

Most in his family have absorbed his and Maria’s work ethic.  One son has yet to.  He lives on their homestead with his common-law wife and child.  He seems to be content to live off the largess of his parents, our hosts.  Then when Papa Fermín drags himself home from a long day at work, grandbaby is ceremoniously presented for “besos (kisses)”.  Fermín obliges (though he laments on the back patio among the adults later).

Boy, You’ve got to Carry That Weight.

My wish for the entire family…”Golden Slumbers fill your eyes; smiles awake you when you rise.  Sleep, pretty darlings, do not cry…and I will sing a lullaby.”

Estamos Aquí #28 – Environmentalism

Environmentalism

The last chapter was not really meant to be a set-up for this one.  But the ‘loaves and fishes’ story of 2,000 years ago certainly had fewer environmental repercussions than did our birthday celebration.

You may recall the famous dialogue (#42 in the American Film Institute’s list of movie quotes) from the 1967 classic, The Graduate:

Mr. McGuire (Walter Brooke):  “I want to say one word to you.  Just one word.”

Benjamin (Dustin Hoffman, of course):  “Yes, sir.”

McGuire:  “Are you listening?”

Benjamin:  “Yes, I am.”

Mr. McGuire:  “Plastics…will you think about it?”

Following comments are less an indictment of Honduras per se (or the Third World in general), than of developed countries, and our manufacturing and packaging practices.  I urge you to acquire ‘Morgan Spurlock:  Inside Man’ (CNN series), and replay the February 26, 2015 episode.

Plastics are everywhere to be found in this small Honduras town.  Dead, dirty, one-time plastics.

Perhaps it is a First World vanity to think that the earth is ‘in trouble’, and that an Inconvenient Truth is staring us in the face, dooming our species to oblivion.  Undeniably, though—like herpes, and unlike love—plastics are forever.

Environmental topics are assuredly not top of mind in the Third World.  And so, there are empty two- and three-litre plastic bottles nestling themselves in many a rut in many an alley here.

There may be dietary stories to write about this, but I will pass.  There are certainly market-driven business stories to be written (in Honduras:  Coke and Pepsi; in suburban America:  Keurig K-Cups), but I will pass.

We do have some choices as consumers.  For Central Americans though, the choices are limited.  The pulperias in Honduras don’t stock many alternatives to ‘sugarwater in plastic’.

Nor do environmental choices stop with packaging.

I recently returned to one the most photogenic places on earth, Lac Atitlán in Guatemala.  It was sadly enshrouded in smoke from clear-cutting of the surrounding forests.

Why?  So that families could till the soil and provide sustenance for their kids.  My earth?  Their earth?  My future?  Their future?

Answers…Questions…?