any people on the Mosquito Coast assume Iz must be running a scam, that he has a secret plan to get rich. Why else would anyone come to a mucky malarial zone to save the lives of a bunch of often surly Indians for no pay? Even Juan Samuel, loyal to a fault, sometimes wonders. "Bob," he says with total affection, "he's like a little...crazy...you know."
Iz pays no attention to such talk. Those who question his motives "do not understand the nature of true obsession, with all its attendant blind spots," he says. The important thing is to continue moving the ball down the field.
We traveled to Cauquira, a verdant Miskito fishing village across a mangrove-lined lagoon from the funky burg of Puerto Lempira, on the Honduran side of the Río Coco. Eight years ago, Iz and his oldest son, Jesse, then 14, brought a decompression chamber down here. As part of the Izdepski home-schooling project, all the boys get their turn in La Miskitia. Bob says it gives them "something to shoot for, to understand that there's a world out there bigger than themselves."
The Cauquira chamber had been one of SOS's greatest successes, treating more than 700 divers. However, to Iz's great chagrin, things had gone awry. The chamber building, marked "Clínica de Buzos," was padlocked. The doctor hired by FUDENA, a private Honduran aid agency entrusted by Iz to run the facility, had disappeared. The chamber's green oxygen tanks were empty. This meant that a boat captain seeking help for one of his bent divers would be forced to bring his own oxygen. Chances of this happening were "exactly nil," Iz said. Now the buzos -- the ones who would get any help at all -- would have to be taken to Roatán, a two-day journey away. The delay was "like a death sentence," Iz said, banging on the dive tank that served as the bell for Cauquira's Pentecostal church.
Within minutes, the buzos began to appear. From out of their mahogany huts, from the boat docks along the lagoon, they came up the dusty road, a disquieting procession of medio hombres, about 20 of them, some leaning on handmade canes and broomsticks, others pushing themselves along the bumpy path in jury-rigged wheelchairs without tires. They gathered inside the church, which had no walls. It was simply an open shed, a roof over 20 rows of benches arrayed before a plain, Masonite-covered pulpit. One by one, the divers told Iz their name, their injury, and the year it happened, these facts serving as the totality of their identity. Rones Welyans, hurt in 1991, could not walk. Neither could Harry Flores Mitchell, crippled in 1996. Fredal Albanez Kittom lost the feeling in his hands in 1994. In 1995, Atto Simon Kilton's ears were damaged; he had become deaf.
With Juan Samuel translating, the buzomen more or less confirmed the story of the chamber shutdown: The doctor, Waldina Matamoros, was gone, the divers left to fend for themselves. Several injured men had gone back to their villages, presumably to die or be cared for by the sukias (shamanic doctors) and the brujos, sorcerers known to place a poultice of toilet paper and gasoline on a buzo's back and set it aflame, in hopes of jump-starting a frozen nervous system.
Iz listened with gathering anger. He'd personally communicated with José Ramos Martínez of FUDENA to make sure things were run correctly. The man seemed honorable. He had given his word. Teeth gritted, Iz was trying to get Martínez's phone number in Tegucigalpa, the capital, when, like an apparition of Middle American certitude plunked down amid third world despair, half a dozen white people in brand-name camping gear and nifty hiking boots appeared in front of the church.
They turned out to be representatives of a Rotary Club in northern Idaho. Do-gooders themselves, they had journeyed to the Mosquito Coast looking for worthy causes upon which to bestow a series of "micro-grants" -- highly targeted aid packages that often prove more beneficial than the mega-loans big donors funnel through sticky-fingered government bureaucracies. As chance would have it, the Rotarians were accompanied by Julio César Villalta, who ingratiatingly described himself as a very good friend and colleague of José Ramos Martínez. A FUDENA man himself, Villalta had brought the Rotary Club people to Cauquira to demonstrate how efficiently his group was managing the chamber.
"Oh, is that so?" Iz remarked, inviting the Idahoans to meet the crippled divers as he explained the "extremely regrettable" circumstances that had led to the chamber's untimely shutdown. FUDENA had dropped the ball, Iz said. Properly shocked, the Rotarians, quickly seconded by the suddenly abashed Villalta, said they would report the problems to Martínez as soon as they returned to Tegucigalpa.
"I'm sure we'll get some action on that," one of the Rotary grant people said.
"Yeah," Iz said, "I'm sure we will now."
Just to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks, Iz insisted that Villalta give Martínez a ring. Villalta called up on his satellite phone. There was a good deal of shouting in the ensuing conversation, during which FUDENA promised to get the chamber working again.
"How about if I just do it myself right now and send you the bill?" Iz shouted into the phone. "Good, I knew you'd see it my way." He spent the rest of the day restoring the chamber to working order and attempting to arrange the delivery of new supplies of oxygen.
Later on, riding across the lagoon back to Puerto Lempira, Iz was serene. Sure it had been a long day, but a successful one. The synchronicity of the Rotarians' arrival he considered a sign. The forces of Good were at work, however mysteriously. The chamber would soon be back online. Some people who might otherwise be crippled would continue to walk. Some who might have died would live a while longer, if only until their next dive.
Bumping across the mangrove-brown water, Iz said his mission in La Miskitia might well end soon. He'd heard rumors of a sizable cache of oil and/or natural gas in the continental shelf off the coast. That would bring energy company executives to Managua and Tegucigalpa to hash out profit-sharing agreements. Lobster diving was fine, but oil and gas were the Grail. There was little doubt what would happen next. It was only a matter of time before the platforms were built, which would truly be the end of the buzo life.
About that, Bob Izdepski had mixed feelings. If the plans came to fruition, the Miskitos would get a share of the wealth. Maybe not their fair share, but something. Lawyers and indigenous-rights people would see to that. Natural gas was exactly the sort of issue that brought out the NGO types, not some poor crippled Indians in dive masks. Once that happened, Iz figured, there wouldn't be any room for someone like him. Not that he'd be out of business. There were plenty of buzo nightmares around the globe. Lobster divers off the coast of Bahía in Brazil had similar problems. He'd been interested in the place ever since he saw Orson Welles's movie It's All True, which was shot down there. So maybe that would be his next stop.
You never knew what was going to happen in this world, Iz said, standing at the bow of our bouncing skiff, arms crossed, like an ever-vigilant George Washington. That's why, when you had the chance, you should try to do something good. It might not be much when compared with the salvation of the universe, but it might make a difference. Every man should try to make a difference, Iz said.
