My first awakening in Honduras was under the cacophony of an anarchist orchestra made up of hundreds of tropical birds. They didn’t have a megaphone like the one that for one year, five times a day, the imam of Çukurcuma’s Mosque in Istanbul had used to remind me from very close distance that the Almighty God was calling me, but the decibels were the same. I had arrived the night before, after a seemingly endless series of takeoffs, landings, more takeoffs, more landings, and plenty of downtime in airports all looking alike. In the last one, at Fort Lauderdale, a fat, sweaty and slickly-haired guy asked me if I were heading to Honduras too. Then, when I told him (under his request) that I was Italian, he got serious and told me that the vast majority
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