March 24, 2013 Fish, Fish and More Fish

In 1992 I saw a piece of property on a mountaintop and knew it was to be mine. I write the following (with the yellow background) about that property in a soon to be published book...

"When I first encountered what was to become my farm, I was out on a Sunday afternoon ride with my friends Tyanne Jurka and Catherine Garza McCardel.  We had taken an afternoon to go to Valle de Angeles and were wandering around the countryside, driving on dreadfully deeply rutted mud/clay roads recently washed out from the forceful Honduran spring rains.  After some quality “shop-til-you drop” time in Valle de Angeles, the handicraft packed tourist trap of Honduras, we decided to drive up the mountain and see what was on top.  I don’t think Tyanne, a former Pennsylvania girl, who continues to live in Honduras and at that time had already lived in Honduras for over ten years, ever had been to the top of the mountain.  We headed out, the oversized van creaking and the running boards scrapping as we crossed the washed out, pothole after pothole, road. At times we drove on the wrong side of the road as we searched for the smoothest places winding up the steep mountain towards the top. The van wildly moved from side to side, as we held on to the grab bars on the ceiling.  It was hard to believe that we were barely crawling, yet the van jerked so wildly.  Twenty minutes later we arrived at the top. We took a right onto a small, smoother, dirt lane and then we saw it. The view!"

"It was breathtaking! It was incredible!  It was pulchritudinous!  It was a totally clear afternoon and we could see for miles and miles.  The Valle de Cantaranas was below, the mountains in the distance, the cabbage fields and corn fields on the sides of the mountains closest to the left.  Each distinct crop looking like a different colored postage stamp, carefully pasted to the side of the pine tree covered mountain. A river snaked its way through the cane fields, fifteen miles below us in the valley.  Not that we were fifteen miles high in altitude, we were at five thousand two hundred feet, but the river was below us, in the valley and fifteen miles away from us.  I asked Tyanne to stop the car and we all stepped out into another world." 

  

"The air, the smell of the air, was so fresh and so crisp, so alive, so full of...  I savored the soft smell of pine trees as I took in deep breaths and suddenly the smell brought back old, very kind memories of my grandparent’s homestead farm in Buckner, Arkansas.  How long had it been since I had smelled pine trees?  Years, I think.  What a wonderful smell.  For a split second, I remembered grandpa Yancy.  I remembered the mornings that he would take me hunting when I was a small child.  Grandpa Wallace set traps and every morning he would go to check on the traps and see what was there.  I remembered the soft, slightly damp smell of pine needles, as our feet crossed over them, while we headed to check out the latest capture.  I remembered how when I was stung by a wasp one day as I was climbing over a split rail fence with him at my side.  I quickly remembered that he took already chewed tobacco out of his mouth and carefully placed the saliva filled glob of “chewin’ ta-back-er” on the sting.  I remembered the instant relief as the moist tobacco touched where I had been stung.  I remembered his love for me.  I remembered as he scooped me up in his arms and told me everything would be alright.  All of this I remembered in a split second.  The memory passed too quickly to define the exact length of time, but the recollection of that the precious thought lingers on in my mind, imprinted like it was yesterday."

"The temperature between Valle de Angeles, were we had been shopping below, and the temperature on top of this lovely mountaintop where I was standing, were worlds apart.  In the late afternoon breeze, I almost needed a sweater, but the temperature didn’t matter.  I was in another world oblivious to everything but the exquisite view surrounding me.  Suddenly I was startled, from somewhere behind me came a man that looked like a harmless older gentleman, but carrying a machete.  I was talking to Tyanne and Catherine when he snuck up on me from behind.  At that moment, I met for the first time one of my future neighbors, the man that I was to latter find out was actually a pedophile."  end of quote from book.

I fought for two years to purchase this property from a land owner who did not want to sell it but finally I wore him down.  I am tenacious when I know I am right and have a purpose.  This property has a purpose.  I have planted hundreds of fruit trees on the property and now the fish pond which I have dreamed about as a ministry to feed the poor is coming into fruition.  

The property currently has almond, lemon, lime, Japanese plum, peach, anona, avocado, pear, mango, Mandarin orange, guava and 6 varieties of banana trees.

Oscar my farm worker showing off some of the fruit producing trees.  

Mandarin oranges fresh and organic.

Hundreds of bananas on hundreds of banana trees fill the farm.

Slowly but surely since I purchased the farm in 1994 it has began to produce more and more.  The farm has had no chemicals used on it since 1994.  So it is an organic farm.  

Now it is time to get the tilapia fish pond finished and up and running.

The land had to be moved around and some hills cropped off and a valley filled in order to make this happen.  The vision started years ago and now is almost complete.  All we need is $2,500 to finish the job. The dam is built but we need cement, rebar, gravel and sand to finish the dam and we need baby fish to stock the pond and food to feed them.  Soon we will be able to share the fish with local orphanages like we have shared the fruit with the poor.  If you would like to help finish this project, please hit the donate button below.  The pond will hold about 10,000 fish and will generate money and food for the ministry.  I will be a fisher of men and a fisher woman...

Raise money online for Build the Dam and Fill the Pond With Fish

February 15, 2013 Another Typical Day In My Life

Today is day three of trying to get some foster children assigned to my missionary friends.  IHNFA called me four days ago and asked for some help finding a good foster home for an 11 month old. 

I could hardly drag myself out of bed this morning, I was up until after 1:30 am working on book work last night, after a long day at IHNFA and I was so tired, but I finally did dragggggggg myself out of bed albeit, 10 minutes before I knew I MUST leave the house in order to get be on time for my scheduled appointment at Denny’s with my gringo friends.

I found 500 lempira ($25) and added it to my purse; I just set it inside my purse, not in my billfold.  After all I was in a hurry, I sent Jose to add gas to my car with a different 500 lempira bill, and while he was gone, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, threw on some clothes all in 10 minutes and walked out the door as he was arriving back at the house. I arrived at Denny’s before everyone else, but still later than agreed upon.  Whew, they started off with a typical late Honduran day.

We (Melissa the missionary and I) had a scheduled appointment at IHNFA (Honduran children’s services) at 9:00 am but when I asked if it was “Honduran time” or “gringo time” I was told “Honduran time”, so we ate at Denny's talked with old friends, met new friends, called and were told they were ready to see us and then headed out to IHNFA at 10:30ish, Honduran speak for 9:00 am.  It was no surprise to me that when we arrived they were not in the office, even though they told us they were waiting for us on the telephone.

The missionary’s husband has spent the last 3 days “buying a car”. So we left him with the man selling the car, an attorney and the attorney’s brother and the Denny’s bill.  I gave him 100 lempira for my part of the breakfast and 20 lempira I laid on the table for a tip.  Melissa and I left and headed out for our day of adventure.

First we met with two of the mothers of two of the children who are “at risk” and need the “temporary shelter” of a foster home.  Mother #1 was raised for 17 years in the IHNFA home and at 18 years old was sent out to live on the streets, with no family and no home and the only place she had ever known as a home was IHNFA Los Casitas. One month later she was pregnant.  Mother #2 also had lived in Los Casitas, but I am not sure for how long. She is still 18 and has her baby also.

Both of the mothers are 18 years young, there are no fathers in the picture.  Mother #2 had a relationship with a common street thief and he was unceremoniously killed not long after the mother found out that she was pregnant.  Both mothers were very loving towards their babies and both wanted what they think is best for their babies, however the best thing is NOT for the children to be living on the streets of the most dangerous country in the world.  We introduced them both to the missionary nurse who is willing to raise the children, on a farm in the country.  At first both were adamant that they wanted their children NOT to go with anyone else to live.  Mother #1 walked out of the room and left. Mother #2 stayed and talked and asked for money. 

But while this all this was going on, Mother #3 came in with a 3 month old beautiful little boy.  Mom #3 is a “crack cocaine” mom who was nursing her baby and “taking good care of him”.  He surely is beautiful, looks healthy and fat, but a crack mom?  If she really is a crack mom, how is he so healthy looking?  She cried because they were going to take the baby away.  It was pitiful.  They ask mom #3 for the baby’s birth certificate but she has never registered him.  So he exists but doesn’t exist on paper.  I have no idea how the social worker and the attorney make these kinds of decisions all day every day.  It is discovered from reports that mom #3 and her husband leave the baby where ever and wander the streets at night drunk and high.  Many neighbors have reported them and thus she was picked up. 

Mother #3 was barely out the door when through the window we hear howling (the kid) and screaming (the mom). The social worker stands up and looks out the window just in time to see Mom #4 with kid #4a and kid #4b.

While the screaming and howling is going on outside the building, we find out that Mom #2 had already given her baby to another woman.  That woman went to the Registry of Persons and that woman lied saying the child was hers and got a birth certificate on the child.  That happens a lot here, more than I care to think about.  Meanwhile that other woman, who is there fighting for the baby and saying how she can take good care of her, the woman whom the Mom #2 had given her baby to, who had illegally gone in and applied for the birth certificate for the little girl, saying she was her mom, walks back into the attorney’s office and asks me for money.  “Please, I do not have money for a bus!”  So she is here fighting for the baby because she can give her a “good home” and take “god care of her” but she doesn’t have $1 for a bus ride across town.  While she is still standing there “convincing” me that I need to give her money, Mom #4 is coming in the door, her son is the screaming kid which we have been hearing outside the window. Mom #4 has in tow, kid #4a her son and kid #4b is a beautiful little girl with wide eyes who never made a sound the whole time she was there. 

Mom #4 was turning her son over to IHNFA because he didn’t want to go to school, wanted to be with his dad who is a “drunk” and was running around with “gang members”.   The attorney by this time has gone outside and physically picked up child #4a in his arms and carried him in like a 2 year old with him screaming and kicking all the way.  Tears flowing, the attorney sat the 9 year old down in a chair and he continued kicking at the desk and wailing.  So now we have hard shoes kicking against metal, mom #4 screaming, kid #4a howling, kid #4b wide eyed and beautiful and the missionary and I, the social worker, the attorney, a male helper and the fake birth certificate, not real mom all in a room the size of a very small postage stamp.  Melissa the missionary and I sat there watching the show.  I looked over at her and she had tears welling up in her eyes.  I am watching the show, thinking, “This kid needs some good discipline and a lot of the Word of God.” 

The social worker looks at me and asks what I think; I respond this is a spiritual thing and a discipline thing.  She nods her head in agreement.  She tells me she is a Christian.  I am thankful. 

The attorney stops mid-stream and asks if I have found a home for a 9 year old boy who does NOT have AIDS.  But his mom and dad are dying of AIDS and his little brother and sister 2 and 3 years old are in an AIDS clinic/home already, they too are dying.  He is hoping to get the boy placed where his mom and dad will know that he is safe and sound with a home to grow up in, before they die.  According to medical people mom’s death is imminent, so there is a huge hurry and of course they want someone who is willing to allow him to visit mom and dad until they die.  And what is left unsaid is that after they die, all the family members who currently do not exist because there is medicine to buy and caskets to buy, will show up to claim the child as soon as mom and dad are in the ground, because he is old enough to work and he is a boy and he can contribute his money to their family.  Does anyone want a 9 year old little boy?

Without any regard for the conversation taking place, the “fake mom” for child #2 is still asking for money but she has been shoved out the door by now yet she continues to pop her head in and out of the door.  The attorney shoos her head and shoulders out of the room, her feet and legs were already outside.  By now there are about 7 other people gathered in the hallway to watch as the show unfolds.  The attorney slams his hand down on the desk; the kid quits crying for a second and then starts it up again. I look at the missionary, she looks at me.  The attorney sends all the others down the hall, but they only partially comply, moving a few feet down the hall and edging their way back towards us to see what is going to happen.  The attorney gets up, crawls over the screaming kid’s legs, who is still kicking the desk, crawls past the other man who is helping to control the kid (lol) and then crawls over my legs and the missionaries legs, passes by mom #4 who is still mad as a wet hen, past beautiful little girl #4b and disappears down the hall, herding all the people standing in the hallway as he goes. 

You might be thinking, “Why doesn’t he just shut the door?”  The reason is that it is 83 degrees, noon and high sun, roof with no insulation under it, one window, a room the size of a postage stamp about 8 feet by 7 feet, replete with 2 desks, 5 chairs, 6 adults and 2 children and head and shoulders of yet another adult popping in and out.  Oh, and I almost forgot body odor and stinky diapers. 

The street mom, mom #2 takes advantage of the attorney being busy, remember she is the one who has the 11 month old, whose father was a street thief who was killed, walks back in and asks me for money, which I declined to give to her.  She walks out again. 

The attorney still is not back.  So we chat with the social worker who says her dad wanted her to be a nurse but she wanted to be a social worker. 

Another lady who came with mom #1 walks in and asks me for money.  She explains that she is a street missionary and lives on donations.  I explain to her that I have not cashed a check today.  This is my normal way out for the 20 times a day which people ask for money, except for the days which I do cash a check and then I just stay home.  She explains that she will have to walk to downtown if I don’t give her money; I explain AGAIN that I have not cashed a check today.  She kisses me goodbye, holds my face in both of her hands, and smiles with every other tooth missing, her which probably have been touching dirty diapers are now holding my face, she kisses me again on the cheek and heads off out the door to catch a private cab which is 3 times as expensive as a bus.  Go figure!  Of course one of the others was excited to tell me about the private taxi; just where I would know that she really didn’t need the money, but I am sure they expected a reward for the information.  Meanwhile several people ask Melissa the missionary for money. 

The attorney walks back into the room and starts caressing kid #4’s head and talking to him and he calms down.  He has been screaming most of this time. The social worker asks him a question and he says that mom is abusive to him.  She (the mom) starts screaming at him and he starts making “go to hell” eyes at her.  When he furrows his eyebrows, I finally get a good look at him to see that his forehead looks like he has been dragged across asphalt or rocks.  Mom #4 continues telling how he refuses to be obedient and he is always in the streets and won’t go to school and he calls her a liar.  They give him a pencil and paper and he starts writing like a 2^nd grader even though he has said he is a 4^th grader.  They asked him his name and he tells them one thing, then mom says he is lying and his name is something else. Who should we believe?  She is asked if she has a birth certificate for him to prove his name, but she has none. 

I look at the missionary and she no longer has tears in her eyes.  Thank God, I was thinking that this whole thing might be too hard on her, but we still had not finished our business.  How could we with all of these interruptions. 

The street mom, Mom #2, who has the 11 month old, whose father was a street thief who was killed, walks back in and asks for money, which I declined to give to her for the 3^rd time. 

It is decided that we need to go talk to the judge at the children’s court to see if we can have a little boy who is 2 years old given over into the foster care of the missionary.  We get up to go.  The hall is once again filled with people, each of which looks us over as we walk out the door.

We go out to the car, but of course someone has parked behind us and we cannot move until they come out of whatever office they are in to move their car. We finally get free to leave and Melissa the missionary looks at me and says, “I don’t pray for you enough.  I need to pray harder for you.”  I laugh.  It is now 1:15 and we head to the courthouse.  On the way, I decide to stop and use a clean bathroom for a minute and then decide to leave my car and take a cab because the Kid’s Court is in a bad neighborhood and you have to park several blocks away. 

I call about seven taxis and all are busy.  Finally I call a friend of one of the taxi drivers whom I know and used to trust, until this afternoon I trusted him anyway.  The guy shows up in a 1918 model taxi with no shocks, no air conditioning and the windows rolled down.  Melissa the missionary and I get in, my butt hits seat springs and they are not comfortable.   I pull my gun out of my purse and place it between my legs for easy access in case I need it.  The taxi driver visibly gulps.  I call the friend who referred him to me and tell him that it really is not correct that he referred me to a taxi with no windows and no air conditioning, it is not safe in Tegucigalpa and he knows that.  He says he knows, but he is his friend and it will never happen again.  I am sure it won’t happen again at least until the next time he can’t do a run and refers him again, two taxi telephone numbers off my list.  The taxi driver drops us off, I give him the 85 lempira plus a 15 lempira tip and he speeds off. 

We go into the courthouse, wait for the papers on the case.  Chat to pass the time and then go up stairs to the waiting room to see the judges.  My phone rings with a problem about two children siblings who were “rescued” by IHNFA and escaped and now have to be re-rescued.  I am told that they want to go to a children’s home where the other two siblings are living.  Since the missionary who the children escaped and ran back to wants them in a safe place, she called me to help with the details.  The waiting room is about 100 degrees, several moms and dads waiting to see the judges.  A case worker from another ministry was with a little girl and her mom with AIDS, and there were many other cases of moms and kids.  Two teens walk in escorted by armed police guards, two different teens walk out escorted by armed police guards.  Melissa the missionary and I sit and sweat.  The place stinks.  I call IHNFA and arrange for the children to be turned over to the children’s home on Thursday.  By now I am bored and hungry, I pull out a piece of candy for myself.  I give some kids in the waiting room some candy.  About an hour later we go in to see the judge.  He agrees to what we need.  We are told to bring in paperwork next week.  He also agrees to the rescue of another kid who really needs rescuing.  We leave, go downstairs and wait for Jose to pick us up in his car with windows and air-conditioning.  I didn’t want to give another unknown taxi driver a heart attack by pulling out my gun and placing it between my legs. 

We then went to the Attorney General’s office where we give them the paper with the order to “rescue” the boy at risk.  It is basically a capture order but since it is for a child it is called a “rescue order”.  They agree that they will rescue him when they can. 

Completely worn out we went to TIGO to pick up Melissa the missionary’s two new telephones.  On Wednesday we spent more than two hours filling out the paperwork and were supposed to go in and just pick them up.  That was a joke!  We spent another two hours redoing the paperwork and getting everything tweaked and then off to eat Chinese.  We still did not get the telephones which were promised for Thursday afternoon.  Now they will be sent by courier sometime next week.  I have 100 lempira which says that it won’t happen… but that is the plan. 

Chinese food was good and since we had not eaten lunch we were starved.  Jose dropped me off at my front door and Melissa the missionary and her husband took off in their newly purchased car.  Before Jose could get the car parked, I was asleep, so I am writing this early morning Saturday but posting it late night Friday… The wonders of blogging! 

Accomplished:

1.   The rescue order written and delivered for a teenage boy who will be picked up by the police.

2.   An agreement for the placement for a 2 year old boy with Melissa the missionary.

3.   The verbal agreement for placement of two children 11 and 13 years old in a private Christian children’s home.

4.   An appointment scheduled for the rescue of two little girls ages 2 and 3, sisters to nine others who have all been placed in foster care and mom is pregnant with number twelve and not one of the children have the same father.

5.   An appointment scheduled for paperwork for another 9 year old sister of theirs to be signed over for abandonment.

Pending:

1.   The placement of a 9 year old boy whose parents and siblings have AIDS.

2.   The placement of a 9 month old girl.

3.   The placement of a 3 month old girl.

4.   The placement of 3 orphaned little sisters whose parents were killed in a car accident.

5.   The receipt of 2 telephones.

6.   Delivery and placement of the teenage boy after he is arrested.

7.   Follow-up and delivery to the children’s home/orphanage of the 11 and 13 year old siblings.

1.   Find the 500 lempira which is missing from my purse.

I need to do a million things tomorrow, but tomorrow is tomorrow.

The Goodness Of God And The Wickedness Of Man

The Goodness of God

Sometime around 1979, I was living in Raytown, Missouri and a newlywed.  I went a few blocks to the corner grocery store and while I was purchasing our food for the week, the Lord spoke to me to buy two heads of lettuce and not one.  I argued with the Lord, but He insisted.  I purchased two heads of lettuce.

I arrived home and about that time my Tupperware lady called and told me that she had just received the order from the party I had held for her the prior week.  I have tried and tried to remember her name, but I don’t remember it, I guess it has been too many years and too much water under the bridge.  Anyway, she called and asked if she could deliver the Tupperware right then, because they were going out of town for vacation to visit the family and she didn’t want to leave the order hanging.

She arrived at my door and as she walked up the steps, I saw her four RED (flaming red) headed boys and her husband in the car all packed and ready to go to visit the folks.  Her husband was in Nazarene seminary at the time to become a pastor.  As soon as I saw them the Lord said to me, “Give them the head of lettuce.”  I began to argue with the Lord as she walked up the front sidewalk with all the Tupperware in hand.  I told the Lord that she would think I was ridiculous if I gave her a head of lettuce.  Anyway, I fumbled around and finally I went to the refrigerator and handed her the head of lettuce, still not understanding why! Just being obedient!

She said, “Thank you!”  Then she said, “Isn’t it interesting how God answers children’s prayers.”  It seems as though that morning she had gone to the grocery store with the kids in tow and bought sandwich supplies to make sandwiches for the road.  When she came to the aisle where she had to buy the tomatoes and the lettuce she had to make a decision.  They were on an extremely tight budget and she could only buy one or the other but not both.  The sandwiches were for the road trip, where they didn’t have to stop at a restaurant and spend a lot of money which they didn’t have. 

She asked her four boys what they preferred, “Lettuce or tomatoes?”  One wanted lettuce and the other 3 wanted tomatoes so the lettuce boy lost out.  Rather than being upset, he said, “I’ll pray and God will send me lettuce.”  He did and God did. 

As she stood inside my door telling me the story, she and I both marveled at the goodness of God.

God does care about each of us!

Since that time, I try NOT to second guess when I hear that still small voice of the Lord telling me to do this or that.  This is one of the reasons that I love being a missionary in Honduras.  I can listen to the Lord and do things to help others every day!

The Wickedness of Man

Daylight gave way to darkness as I talked to neighbor after neighbor and heard how the MI-04 police car along with a police motorcycle had headed into Colonia[1] Habitat this morning at 6 AM.  This had started as a beautiful sunny morning, now it was 6 PM April 14, 2012 before the dew had dried off of the grass this morning, Boli and Peewee were dead.  Long before the other police cars and motorcycles arrived, the police from MI-04 had chased Boli down and killed him.  While he lie, dead in the grass covering a barely used path to another colonia, the police threw a very alive, but injured Peewee over the back of the motorcycle seat and drove him a click[2] further down the path which runs close to the Penitentiaria Nacional[3] and finished him off, shooting him in the mouth and blowing his brains out of the back of his head.  All this done where they could later say he was running, stopped and then committed suicide.  As the Police Patrol followed behind, they drove through the weeds and when they saw they were close to the chicken farm and almost to the other road, they stopped the motorcycle and killed him.

I breathed in the unique aroma of chicken poop as I stood on the road in front of the chicken farm.  When I had pulled into Colonia Habitat, I was a very suspicious looking white woman with blond hair and blue eyes very out of place.  I had called Ana when I first received the call that the boys were dead and several more missing, injured and arrested.  In Honduras everyone is open game when the police have a hunger for blood.  This idea is so foreign to my United States and Arkansas viewpoint of the world, but after so many years in Honduras, I find myself cringing when visiting on furloughs, when I see police cars driving down the road.  It is a fight or flight response, which is not easy to describe unless you have been in a precarious position where your life floated somewhere between life and death.

My paradigms have shifted.  I used to date a police officer, Detective Allen Quattlebaum in Little Rock, Arkansas where I grew up; he was a wonderful caring individual and was a real Baptist gentleman, except for the fact that he always raced to claim his chair first when we went out to eat; back of the room, with the lengthiest space between us and the front door, his back to the wall, this was always his preferred spot.  I also dated a DEA agent named Mark for a while, I remember his last name but should I use it? After all he was DEA, but maybe after thirty plus years, it doesn’t matter.  I, by and large, had a great respect for police and then I moved to Honduras. 

Public opinion is almost unanimous; police in Honduras are not to be trusted.  Gossip runs rampant about many of the deplorable things which the police do, I used to think it was just ugly tales or false accusations invented to strike horror in the heart of a naïve gringa[4], but now I have learned that the truth is the police here are not to be trusted.  They steal, they kill for money and for entertainment, they accept bribes, they demand payoffs, they collude with criminals, they run kidnapping organizations and they steal cars and run them across country lines into Nicaragua using the farm of a disgraced military coronel who has had a warrant out for his arrest for at least a dozen years and yet remains free.  “Uniformados picaros”[5] are the people who help the drug traffickers run their drugs and distribute their drugs throughout Central America and into the United States. 

Shaking my head at the disparity between what should be good and what should be evil, I once again watched as the beautiful Honduran sun cascaded through the clouds at sunset, looking out over the Valley of Amarateca to the northwest. Slouching and tired from the sadness of the soul and spirit draining day and from not having a place to rest my recently fractured humerous[6], I stood there slumped over on the back of the SUV listening to a sound of a croaking frog and the eighteenth witness telling us that the police had brutally and heartlessly thrown an injured Peewee, with a bullet through his side on their motorcycle and drove him across rough irregular terrain only to dump him and kill him, setting it up to look like a suicide. 

Twenty years ago, I would have questioned this version of how things unfolded this morning, but now after having counted out five patrol cars and five motorcycles and two unmarked white Nissan pickups without car plates and a car from the coroner’s office, I am convinced things are NOT as they seem and most assuredly not what will be reported in tomorrow’s newspaper.  The first patrol car to leave with a motorcycle mounted in the back, stopped and demanded to know what we were doing there.  I was hunched down, hiding behind the tinted windows of my SUV with my back to them but they demanded to know what we were doing, parked on a public street, not bothering anyone.  Ana my partner in some unknown “deleto”[7] got out of the car and announced, I am with the “Fiscal de Derechos Humanos”[8] She was met with an incredulous stare immediately trailed by “ojos de cascabel”[9] and then the police patrol MI-04 slowly rolled away. 

I think my first run in with a corrupt policeman was in Nigeria West Africa.  I was doing missionary work in a small town called Ukanafun in Akwa Ibom state.  Everyone knew me, except this one policeman from a different tribe.  I was visiting Moses Umoh, the local tribal chief’s son and a pastor.  I was building a church and school for them and teaching at pastor’s seminars for them.  This policeman asked for my passport.  I was about six block from Moses’ home walking with Moses and had just been in the mayor’s office talking with him about the possibilities of a water project, when this policeman came up and asked for my passport, Moses told him he would go home and get it so I was to go inside the policeman’s office and wait until he came back. 

The problem was when I walked into the policeman’s office; he started pulling at me and then almost ripped my blouse off of me.  He was interested in something very different than seeing my passport.  He didn’t know what had happened when I slapped him and pulled away and ran for cover in the mayor’s office bursting in on his next appointment and taking cover behind the mayor’s desk chair where he was sitting.  The policeman came in after me, but by the time he caught up with me the mayor had already seen the tears in my eyes and heard me screaming and terrified.  Since the mayor knew me and knew I was a guest of the tribal chief’s son and a Christian, the policeman was immediately tried and sentenced to death by firing squad.  Not to leave you hanging, I pleaded mercy for him; he was spared and is now a pastor… Anyway this was my first run in with a corrupt policeman and I was naïve enough to think it was a onetime event.  Had I stayed in the USA it probably would have been, but that was not to be.  God called me to be in Honduras.

My two friends were not little angels, but they didn’t deserve to be assassinated.  I guess the saddest part of it all is that when I had shared Jesus with them, neither was “listo”[10] to receive Jesus into their hearts at that time.  I only hope, like the thieves at the cross, they had a split second to ask forgiveness before they died.

Tonight when my friend who works for the Fiscal de Derechos Humanos[11] was doing her inspections, we overheard a policeman stating “comienza la carniceria" [12]  The former, was a threat spoken just loud enough for us to hear and vocalized with the sole intent of trying to frighten us.  As we left, about a block away, there were two men on a motorcycle, which is illegal, and without a tag, which is illegal, and with an automatic rifle in their hands, which is illegal and although I am sure they must have been police, there was nothing identifying them as such.  I had never seen a gun like the one they were carrying.  The stock was squared off both top and bottom and it was very modern looking with holes drilled into it.  The muzzle was somewhat long.  The closest thing I can find to it on the internet is an UZI Sporter, a very deadly but stylish gun.  

I picked up speed and flew through the market area, jumping potholes and maneuvering corners as quickly as possible.  I arrived home late having not eaten lunch or dinner, with my cell phone battery dead from over use and my heart heavy, wondering if Peewee and Boli had enjoyed their last meal, kissed their mom goodbye that one last time or kissed their baby or their wife.  I also wondered if the words of salvation which I had sown in their hearts had come to them to remind them to repent as they breathed their last breath. 

"The earth also was corrupt before God, and the earth was filled with violence. So God looked upon the earth, and indeed it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted their way on the earth" (Gen 6:11-12).

---

[1] A residential area is called a colonia or a barrio

[2] kilometer

[3] National Penitentiary

[4] Gringo is a slang Spanish and Portuguese word used in Spanish-speaking and Portuguese-speaking countries in Latin America, to denote foreigners, often from the United States  and sometimes used as a disparaging term for a foreigner in Latin America, especially an American or English person

[5] People in uniform who say or do whatever, even lying about and hurting others in order to get what they want.

[6] humerous- the arm bone located between the elbow and the shoulder

[7] Legal infraction

[8] Attorney General’s office, Human Rights division

[9] Rattlesnake eyes

[10] Ready

[11] One who works for Attorney General’s office, Human Rights division

[12] The equivalent to “the blood bath begins”

The 2nd Biggest, Longest, Run Around Of My Life

Tonight, I have a headache from tension....  I used to have lots of headaches, however it is rare since I moved to Honduras that I get one.  But tonight is one of those rare occasions.  Before you read this you will need to read the definitions, to understand what is going on.  And you must also remember the LONG LINES every time you go to get your driver's license or your car plate renewed on the last day of the month... then you will begin to have an idea of what I went through today.

Definitions:

Gobernacion - where you get and keep you immigration and residency documents updated if you live in Honduras

Franquisias - the people who supposedly keep track of anything financial pertaining to residents

Constancia - a document stating whatever it is you need stated, signed by someone who supposedly has the authority to sign it

Downtown Tegucigalpa - narrow streets, taxis parked or stopping where ever, buses backing up to jockey around corners, people hitting you with their shoulders as they push past you on the narrow sidewalks, cars parked on curbs, terrible traffic, car exhaust 

DEI - Internal Revenue Service

ADUANAS - Honduran customs service

Mordidas - bribes paid to government employees who won't do the work they are paid to do unless someone pays them something which they don't deserve but they want because you are a rich gringo, whether you have a dime in your pocket or not

Gobernacion sent me to Franquisias for a Constancia, I went yesterday and Franquisias said I needed to also bring in a copy of my residency card which I did not have with me.... but today when I went back to downtown Tegucigalpa with the other papers, they said they are not responsible to give me the paper I need, so Franquisias sent me to DEI, but DEI said they don't do what I need so they called ADUANAS, who hung up on them 2 times and finally they sent me to Franquisias AGAIN, but with a note stating that DEI does not do the constancia which I needed.  Now in Franquisias for the 3rd time in 2 days, where the people said, "they don't do the paperwork I need without a letter from Gobernation", who cannot give me the note I need, "until I get the note from Franquisia", so they tried to send me to Gobernacion again so I told them I want it "IN WRITING" which they refused to give me, but I insisted and when they saw that I was not going to give up, now 3 hours after my original encounter with them, they suddenly decided maybe they could do it after all but I needed more paperwork that I didn't have with me... although yesterday they told me what to bring to them, before they said today that they didn't do what they said yesterday they would be happy to do, if I just brought the one missing paper in order for them to do it... So now they need one more paper, which involves paying parking again... crawling through traffic again... getting the paper... crawling through traffic to return...

I did, by the way, have with me the government issued card (which they asked for yesterday) with the same information on it that they said they needed on the other piece of paper which they were asking for today, which they did not ask me to bring yesterday... so I told them to put it in writing that this was the last piece of paper that they needed to do the paper and they refused... "there is no need to have it in writing", they promised to take care of me, "just bring in the last paper"....

By this time over 3 hours and 2 days and 3 trips later, I lost my cool, and who can imagine why?  I told them I don't pay "mordidas" (bribes)... To which they looked offended and said, "But we didn't ask for a mordida!" But it was obvious to me that that is what they wanted, since Gobernacion, DEI, Aduanas, my attorney and the paper I have from Gobernacion, as well as they said yesterday that "they do it", ALL say that "they" are the ones who write the Constancia. So what I am supposed to think?  Hondurans have a saying, "The monkey dances for the one who pays him."

SO I sent my attorney in this afternoon and they told him they would "take the paperwork", but I was "mad" when I talked to them, and they really "don't do" what I am asking them to do, but I have in my hand a paper from Gobernacion saying that this is one of the notes I need from Franquisia.....  

The longest run-around of my life took place about 15 years ago, when I went to Puerto Cortez, Honduras to take out of customs 14,000 pair of used eyeglasses which I was donating to the Lions Clubs in Tegucigalpa to give to poor people in their eye clinics.  The man who had to sign the papers insisted that I give him $400 with NO receipt to take the glasses out of Customs and I refused for 2 days.  Finally I told the guard who was assigned to me to bring me a can of gasoline and a box of matches....  When he turned to go get them the man asked what I was going to do... The guard answered, "I think she is going to burn the glasses where you can't steal them."  To which I responded, "And when the ashes are there I am going to call the newspapers where they can take photos and make a report." To which he responded, "Take your stupid eyeglasses and get out of here and I never want to see you again."  I left with my eyeglasses and didn't pay his "MORDIDA".  

So if you still wonder why I have a tension headache... You need to join me in Honduras to get some necessary paperwork done sometime...  Do not pray for me for patience... "Tribulation works patience" or so the Bible says and I don't want anymore tribulation!!!  And almost 4 hours of patience, you must admit is a lot for anyone....

April 22, 2010 Wheelchair Giveaway In Tegucigalpa

Mario Flores (left) patient family member (2nd from left) Teresa Searcy (center) 

Renan Enestrosa (2nd from right) patient family member (right)

Angelitas Natural Fruit Popsicles and A Day of Graphic Design

Today was a very different day for me. Instead of giving away wheelchairs or having an eye team, I was sitting at a computer with a graphics design person. Jose (my Honduran almost kid) has decided to go into the popsicle "paleta" business. I know you are thinking, "An attorney that sells popsicles?" But it really is not as crazy as it seems. Last summer I FORCED him to read "Rich Dad, Poor Dad" and after the 2nd chapter, he was hooked. He has been rolling the concept of small businesses around in his head for a while.

He went to a seminar earlier this year and some old, rich, wise attorneys told him that you make money as an attorney, but you make more from the sideline businesses that you invest in as a result of your contacts. He came home all excited about the seminar and ....

Every time he sees a business, he talks about it and how he might be able to make some money at it. He has a favorite place to eat ice cream and fruit popsicles and somehow the idea of small popsicle stands came up, grew and now is almost a reality.

This week there were huge sales on appliances. So Jose bought 2 freezers, one was 50% off and the other was 35% off. He spoke with some friends and received permission to put the freezers inside their strategically placed businesses, located in the HOTTEST climate areas in Honduras. He has hired a couple to make the popsicles for him. The people to sell the All Natural Fruit Popsicles are ready and next week he will open his first two shops.

Today I had the privilege of designing the artwork for Jose's new little business. The artwork at the top of the page is for the front of the freezer. The other artwork is for hanging double sided signs from the ceiling.

I know, I know, Tequila is NOT all fruit, but most of the other 50 flavors are all fruit and all natural. Piña Colada, Rum Raisin and Tequila are the exceptions.