Ecuador's San Miguel de Los Bancos has one paved street with mucky red dirt tracks leading off towards the mountains all around. Most of its 5,000 population live in wooden shacks along those tracks, rather than in the village itself. They are poor mestizos, descendants of mixed Indian and European blood.
Most earn a living by taming the perpetual growth of the warm humid region with machetes. They are employed to do so by wealthy landowners who live in Quito, Ecuador's capital, about 50 miles to the east, and other cities in the country. They are paid less than subsistence, one reason why every building along the street in Los Bancos is a business.
In the 10 minutes it takes to walk the length of the village, you pass basic grocery shops, butcher shops with raw red meat hanging in the open air, barbers, dressmakers, cafes, and one electrical shop with two television screens before which a line of small boys might still be playing computer games. Few shops have any windows. There is one hotel, where a room for the night costs $5.
Until 1995, that part of the road to Quito nearest Los Bancos was a dirt track. Now it is paved. It is the only paved road running through Los Bancos and connects Quito to the Pacific coast.
The journey by bus from Quito is a steady 2 1/2-hour descent from the western lowlands of the Andes, through mountain forests. Quito, at 9,000 feet above sea level, is the world's second-highest capital city. (Colombia's La Paz is the highest at 11,000 feet). Swirling corkscrew roads with drops of hundreds of feet lead to Los Bancos, which is at about 5,000 feet.
"Ah, Padre Eduardo," said the man at the door of the only presbytery in Los Bancos, recognising who the "Father Casey" he was being asked about might be. The village has one church and an ancient, battered evangelical hall. The man at the presbytery, next door to the church, is a deacon from Spain's Basque country. He said Padre Eduardo had left and would not be back for about two hours. He agreed to pass on an envelope containing a letter of introduction, with its attached request for an interview.
Two hours in a wet Los Bancos is a long time. Sad-looking chickens picked at the red dirt, while soaked dogs slept in the middle of the street, and some children on a balcony played with a balloon. At the hotel, sleep was a welcome companion. Three hours later it was dark at the presbytery.
There was light in the church but its door was locked. A white-haired figure, wearing glasses, emerged. He was taller and thinner than expected, wearing dark casual clothes and carrying an empty glass jug. But the rapid gait, with its short step, the shuffle, and slight stoop forward, were unmistakable.
"Dr Casey . . .," I called and walked towards him. He was cool, civil, courteous. A child was dying in the church and he was going to the presbytery to get water to baptise it. Water in the village had been cut off in a row between rival political factions, but had been turned on a short time before. Bronchial infections are a common cause of death among children and adults in this humid region.
The presbytery sitting-room, off an open-plan kitchen, was sparse. He filled the jug with water from a kitchen tap and returned to his duties in the church. A large empty fireplace dominated the sitting-room. Beside it bits of broken wood, some with nails sticking out, were piled in a large box in the corner.
There were two armchairs, a couch, a table with a Spanish language newspaper on it, a television, and a wooden spiral staircase leading to the bedrooms. Open shelves marked the division between the sitting-room and kitchen, and contained some paperback books.
Three men stay at the presbytery, along with Dr Casey. There's a young Czech priest and a middle-aged Ecuadorean priest, neither of whom speaks any English. And there's the Spanish deacon, who has moderate English. Later it would become noticeable that he spoke to Dr Casey in English only. Sixty-six is a bit late in life to begin learning a new language, as Dr Casey was when he started learning Spanish, and his is still not good. That can be a problem in a house, and village, where only one other person can speak English, and that poorly.
About 15 minutes after he left to perform the baptism, he returned, cool and tense. He was adamant. He was clear. He had made a rule some years ago not to do any more interviews, and he could not breach it. It was best that way, not to drag everything up again.
He regretted what this meant. Coming so far for nothing, and all that, but there was nothing he could do. He was sorry.
It was not entirely a surprise, but worth the effort. Whatever chance there was that he might do an interview when he met someone face-to-face, it was a foregone conclusion he would not agree to a written request from thousands of miles away. It was thought probable he might be under direction not to do so. But it was not to be, and that was that.
It was agreed that everything thereafter would be off the record, and a very pleasant couple of hours ensued. He is marvellous company. He loves to talk, has a fascination with people, and a great sense of humour. His animation when talking about Ireland was intense and very moving. Little else was talked about.
In his heart he has never left the country, and in particular his beloved Galway. He also talked about his work in Los Bancos, about Ecuador, and its people.
He said 7.30 a.m Mass the next day, walking up and down the aisle greeting everyone beforehand, towering above them all.
Extending his hand he went "Buenos dias", then laughed. "Habit," he said.
It is a bright and cheery church, with lots of light and colour. Very different to the usual highly ornate, dim style favoured by the South Americans. Since he transformed it in 1995, attendances have soared. There was a large congregation, mixed between young and old, men and women, as would be found in any Irish country parish on a Sunday morning. They sang to the tunes of The Sound of Silence, and John Brown's Body. Without prompting, individuals spontaneously recited the prayers of the faithful from the body of the church.
His sermon, in Spanish, was about the victory of the Cross. He read it from notes. (It takes him from Monday to Sunday to get the Spanish right.) "The Cross is hope, the Cross is love, the Cross is victory," [my translation] he told them, repeating the rhythmic phrases, for emphasis, with great enthusiasm and dramatic gestures.
During the sign of peace handshake he walked down the aisle, shaking hands with everyone, including his visitor.
Breakfast in the presbytery included bread, hard-boiled eggs, tea and a local blackberry flavoured yoghurt-like drink. He said how much he missed marmalade. The two other priests and the deacon sat down at the table too. Libia, a local girl, and a tiny, elderly Indian woman, Cecilia, served the tea and eggs as they were ready.
Cecilia is fond of Dr Casey, and was welcoming and warm to his Irish visitor. She enthused in gleeful Spanish. The word "gusto" featured a lot. Seeming somewhat embarrassed, Dr Casey translated that she was pleased for him that he had a visitor. From her reaction, it seemed clear that Dr Casey has few visitors.
Afterwards, the priests and deacon left for outlying areas of their parish, where Masses had to be said. Dr Casey had to do likewise. He walked to the low wall at the front of the church, relating some other Irish story. We shook hands. I said I hoped I would see him again. His voice cracked, and tears appeared in his eyes. "Thank you for the respect," he said, and turned quickly towards the presbytery.
Time to invite Dr Casey to return home: page 14