It was my last night in Comayagua, and I was chatting with two Missionary friars. Says one, "We have to go pick up some goods from our friend Sam the Slinger. He's just back from Nicaragua. Want to come, Liz?" I jumped into the friar-jeep with them, completely forgetting to ask for leave, and we headed off, driving deep into the heart of the eerie darkness of an enormous, poverty-stricken city: the black of night splashed with city lights, strange faces in the corners of streets, the oozing yellow of dying lights glinting off coils and coils of razor wires, streets filled with the flitting ghosts and shadows of the days' people, vehicles, and animals, all melting back to the safety of home for the night.
"Yep," says Friar 1, "The USA is too small for Sam the Slinger."
We pull up to a tall building surrounded by walls and wire. Out saunters Sam the Slinger. He looks like some type of special forces soldier. We climb up narrow stone stairways and into an apartment in which maps are unrolled. Then Sam the Slinger unslings his goods: Hammocks!