Wednesday, November 24, 2010

A Typical Atypical Day

A Typical Atypical Day
Today has been a typical atypical day. Joel and I went to bed the night before at 10:00, only to re-awaken about 2:30. We have a lot of things on our minds about our mission in Carmen Pampa, and of course, we spent a couple of hours talking. Joel took the initiative to cut up a pineapple, which, for once, was not over-ripe.

After awakening again at 8:00, I prepared my class and went down the hill to teach. I had my i-touch and speakers ready for student listening. I was also anticipating my students' book reports: we are reading children's books, like Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile, Mercer Mayer and Lillian Hoban books (illustrator of Bedtime for Frances). I was excited because one of my students was very interested in the witty writing of the Lyle, Lyle Crocodile book. All year, he has demonstrated a moderate interest, but when confronted with interesting twists on words, he had lit up with enthusiasm. So I walked into my classroom, anticipating another good class--Joel going up to the second floor to the language lab with his class and our fellow instructor Chris closing the door to his class room for second-year students. But where was my class? I looked at an empty room.

All semester there have been problems with class cancellation: the big celebration of the school's anniversary, called the intercarreras, the faculty retreat in the following week (which created a three-week hiatus between classes for my students in education), and numerous other events that pre-empted class: a birthday party for the head of the Eco-Tourism department, the dedication of a new building (which the student body and all faculty were obliged to attend), a lecture on bats (we had visiting scientists here at Carmen Pampa who were studying the numerous bats here), as well as compulsory campus cleanup days, and the election of Mr. and Ms. UAC (Unidad Academica Campesina--Carmen Pampa). I had recovered from the initial shock of class cancellations (once, 4 out of 7 classes cancelled), and our students, coming onto the end of the 20-week semester, were attending class in earnest, putting their academic work at the top of their list of priorities.After writing a note on the board, "All students will be counted absent today," followed by the date and my signature, I left the classroom after twenty minutes.

Walking back to the volunteer house, I saw two of our of guests sitting outside the church--our German volunteer, all of nineteen years old, had three guests for the week, a friend from high school, her mother, and the friend's Bolivian boyfriend. It struck me that I had the keys to the locked church that they were sitting outside of. So I offered to open the church to show them the Franciscan Church--the statue of Francis, the small fountain of water, which I couldn't turn on, the aguayo backdrop behind the hand-carved crucifix, and of course, the trip up to the bell tower, where a panoramic view could be enjoyed by all. No, it didn't stand up to the churches and spires of Germany, but it was in its own way erene and inspiring.

Then, I showed the small group our children's library, which is more like a childen's playhouse than a library. Now, it is very spic and span, after I washed the windows, walls, and curtains, and scrubbed down the table, chairs, and bench. Puzzles, games, crayons, and coloring books were stacked neatly on the small blue shelves against the wall. Later that day, Joel would be showing the movie Toy Story 3 on the homemade screen, while the children eat the popcorn that he made in the wee hours with our deluxe popcorn popper, along with the Tampico (a version of Tang in a bottle) he would buy for them, sitting on the large straw mats on the newly-created cement floor (thank you, José Tintaya!). The children would sit on the brightly colored mats that we had purchased two weeks ago in La Paz. I am told that sometimes there are 22 children in this space.

After serving as a tour guide for the first time, I gave our guests hugs as they departed by mini-van to Coroico, from which they would then travel to La Paz. The mother herself would be going on to Germany, while the daughter and her boyfriend would return to Cochabamba. I was glad that my day had not been wasted, that I had indeed occupied the role of a docent (from Merriam -Webster's 1 : a college or university teacher or lecturer 2 : a person who leads guided tours especially through a museum or art gallery).

Having asked Joel to take over my office hour for me (which I later found, was impossible because the office was locked), I packed up my mochila (backpack) and started up the hill. I was accompanied by Don Oscar, the head of community service on the lower campus [Manning], who told me that he actually lived in the house beside the coffee plantation (cafetal), along with his wife and three children, two of whom went to the elementary school that the Xavier brothers had founded in Carmen Pampa, the oldest of whom attending a high school in a nearby town.Bidding him good-bye at the cafetal, I continued to trudge up the hill at my own pace, walking by the state-of-the-art, cutting edge recycling center.

Suddenly at the head of the trail, I saw my class. I heard a gentle, "Oh NO . . . " emit from the female students. There was the other docente, the head of our eco-tourism department, leading my students from the upper campus (Leahy), where Joel and I live, down the path to the lower campus. It had been a field trip for the students! How nice! And the other docente had simply forgotten to inform me. Alas, there had been no transportation available or the students would have been back on the lower campus by 11:00 a.m., in time for class. After some teasing and a lot of reassurance that I wasn't angry, the tired crew proceeded down the hill.

I went on to my apartment. That morning, even before preparing my class, I had done what I typically do when I am a little depressed: I cleaned my apartment (which, by the way, is spotless as I type). I had deep-cleaned the bathroom, which resists cleanliness, mostly due to the shower that somehow leaks over the stall (the shower stall is the locale for washing all of our clothes) and the dust that collects in our apartment that is tracked into the bathroom onto the water throughout the space. As I came into the apartment, I attacked the dishes in the sink, took a shower (always has to be done after a walk up the hill), started another "load" of clothes in the shower stall, and decided to roast some raw peanuts for snacking.

I received a Skype call from Emer, which I certainly would have missed on a typical day. Her new family is visiting for Thanksgiving, her husband's parents and brother, which brought to mind the obvious: our family was apart for the first time ever on Thanksgiving. It was good that she was responsible for the Thanksgiving dinner for the new in-laws, as one experience could cancel out the other one. On Skype, I was able to visit with our cat, Elliott, who has been in our family for seven years.Carmen Pampa's Thanksgiving would be celebrated on Saturday. Joel is responsible for the sweet potatoes, and I am making the fudge pies and apple cider. A comparison of my menu with Emer's as well as the menu for my own family in Nashville (I got to talk with my dad's wife, Mary, so I am connecting with family today in the event that the internet breaks tomorrow--the family that will gather tomorrow in Nashville is my dad, his wife, Mary, my younger brother and his intended, Wendy, and my sister's family) revealed that Thanksgiving meals should somehow be comprised of a green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, devilled eggs, and fudge pies, along with the usual turkey and dressing.

At Carmen Pampa, we will be celebrating Thanksgiving with 27 people all told, priests, sisters, the core group of volunteers/missioners/gringo staff, and some visitors from the U.S. embassy in La Paz. Unlike the North Americans who will be eating in wintry dining rooms, possibly with candlelight, we will be dining in the flower-lined garden between the Convent and the volunteer house, with two tarps to keep the sun out of our eyes. I am told that our guests will bring six bottles of wine each.

Tonight there will be no Mass, since the priests and sisters are having a diocesan-wide convocation. But Wednesday night Masses are iffy these days, and I know that last week after I set up the Mass, I was told by the main office that there would not be a Mass. I took everything down and locked up the church, only to find that one of the priests had driven from Coroico at the last minute to have Mass. When he arrived, just about ten minutes after I had closed up the church on the upper campus, I sheepishly waved at him from the tienda where I was eating my fried chicken and french fries. NOT MY FAULT, I wanted to say. I really like this particular priest.

There are so many opportunities for mis-communication. The president of the college had not felt well, so he went home, after telling the office that there would be no Mass. Later, the other priest was told that Fr. Freddy was sick, and jumped into his car to have Mass. The replacement priest remarked on how clean the church was, with fresh flowers, but no people. The same thing happens on the lower campus, where I am told to have the church down there ready for Mass, since there is a fifty-fifty chance that there will be a Mass. If my Spanish were as good as Sr. Jean's, and I pray that one day it will be much better than it is now, I will do what she would do if she were not on a two-month vacation: I would have a Communion service. And maybe someday I will give what Catholics call a "reflection" (so called if a female or other non-ordained person gives a sermon/homily) in Spanish. Having preached in Protestant churches, but not in the Catholic Church, I am able to do some things in my own language that I cannot do in Spanish.

I have now arranged to communicate by email with the priests on Wednedays and Thursdays. So things get better as I learn the Bolivian ropes. Our cell phone tower was working for two days, but a thief stole the cable, costing over fifteen thousand dollars, and so we are once again back to ground zero: a cell phone in every pocket and a brand-new tower on the hill, but no cellular communication.

As I have written my blog, I have been waiting for the faculty bus to take all of us administrators down to the lower campus for the faculty meeting. This is a rare opportunity for me to go to the meeting, since the Mass is definitely not going to happen. But the bus has not appeared (I later found out that it was in the shop in Coroico).Tonight, because the Mass is definitely cancelled, Joel and I are able to attend the English club meeting: the students studying English are able to watch movies in English, play cards or games, and have an immersion night in English. I am waiting to find out if the social hour is actually going to take place.

What does work? The campus ministry meetings always happen every Tuesday night; the Wednesday night Masses were celebrated like clockwork until about three weeks ago, with beautiful flowers and joyous music; Sunday Mass always "happens;" English program meetings and community meetings convene without fail, and the students have been coming to class faithfully since Joel and I had to miss two weeks of classes due to the blockade. I noted also that one of the most beautiful garden paths that I have ever seen, in North American, Europe, and South America, had been created less than a half mile below our living quarters, and that tourists from other towns in Bolivia had come to enjoy both its beauty and the vista it offers of the Andes Mountains.

I can't help but think that as my Spanish improves, I will be more "in the know" about what happens and what doesn't happen. In the United States, I was one of those people who always came to meetings about ten minutes late. Maybe I was a kind of rebel; here my rebellion takes the form of being on time. **I look forward to seeing what kind of person emerges from this mission experience in the coming two years.

**I still have the capacity to be late . . . .

Friday, October 15, 2010

Hellenism or Hebraism?

We are vacationing in La Paz by compulsion because of the blockade to the yungas (hot tropical valleys) that is keeping us from taking a mini van or bus from La Paz to our home in Carmen Pampa. The road block hardly seems resolvable by negotiation because the cocaleros (coca growers) are not only demanding that they be allowed to grow larger quantities of coca but are seeking the resignation of the vice-minister of the department of coca. Why would the cocaleros want this person removed? In my mind, he is someone who is not one of them and does not cooperate with their objectives and needs. Does a president remove someone from office simply because a group of protesters asks for that removal? Even though Evo Morales was the president of the coca growers union, I don’t think that he would undo his decision to place this person in the vice-ministerial role. Morales removes people from office if they are found to be corrupt, but not because a protest group seeks their removal. But we shall see.

Hence, I don’t think that we will have safe passage to the yungas for a while. We have an extended stay in La Paz, the city where Joel and I come once a month to get our checks cashed, so to speak, and buy those commodities, like cheese, wheat flour, or even items for the apartment, that are unavailable in Coroico, the tourist town just six kilometers (3 miles or so) from Carmen Pampa. I also have an internist here who sees me regularly.

The town seems European to me, and the apartment houses and homes remind me both of those in Cochabamba, and of those villas in the Alps, particularly in Bavaria. Oxygen is sparse, so we can’t easily climb the hills here that remind me of San Francisco—they are so steep—and Joel and I have to remind one another that we must stop to catch our breath. The coffee houses, the favorite one being Alexander Coffee, the parks, and the cleanliness of the city appeal to us. Artist shops (artesanias) abound, and the cathedrals offer us a sense of the holy as well as the artistic. We are going to the national museum today, as well as to the anthropological museum, which will tell us more about other indigenous groups in Bolivia. We want to take in the art, history, and current events of La Paz, and thus, Bolivia. The Spanish words are hard for me to remember, so I rely on Joel to write things down, feeling that I should be making my own list.

The question of what kind of person I have become has struck me hard. I don’t want to sightsee. I do want to learn about the culture and history of the country that I am calling my home for three years. Have I become a person entirely dedicated to performing my duty? What happened to the person who used to want to travel to other places, where I could visit cathedrals, castles, and the homes of departed artists, where I could re-imagine scenes from British or European novels taking place before me, or envision the ruins come to life with people from long ago?

Matthew Arnold, in his essay Culture and Anarchy castigated his nineteenth-century British audience for become so enmeshed in trying to fulfill their responsibilities, carried away by the “fire of duty,” that they were guilty of crushing the explorative minds of their artists, scientists, and innovative thinkers—those people whose genius could carry their nation to greatness. He wrote about the strictness of duty as that which could either quench or balance the expansiveness of consciousness. People needed to make room for the genius of those whose vision rose above morality. Don’t get me wrong: Arnold was a poet, an inspector of schools, a teacher whose methods many times over-rode his own reach for new ideas, and a literary and social critic. He was quintessentially Victorian in his energy, desire to reform the world, and stringent ethics. But he, like John Stuart Mill, not Jon Stewart, saw the need to create a society in which the geniuses of art, economics, science, and philosophy would feel enough at home to flourish and push people to encounter their visionary ideas and art.

Am I too much of a missioner, so driven by the zeal of duty, that I cannot open my eyes to the cultural horizons here in La Paz? Why am I so driven to return to my post, where my students are being taught by substitute teachers and I am not there to accompany the niňos in the children’s library or help with campus ministry?

Part of my response to these questions is that I am actually not fulfilling my duties in Carmen Pampa, but am here because of the bloqueo or blockade. Although people here in the house where I am staying, the Maryknoll Casa, have advised me to descansar, or rest, I want to return to my work.

But I will catch up on my writing, this blog, emails, thank-you letters, and my own journal writing. As I do this, I understand that while I am working, I am also encouraging my Hellenistic side to explore ideas around me, to contemplate this society and my own life. We missioners met in Cochabamba for a retreat just a few days ago in the sense that we ate together, talked a lot, and had a prayer service. In my view, at this point in mission, we are feeling the difficulties of being on mission. All of us have been sick, some more devastatingly than others, others have been overworked, well, all of us have been, and none of us have had enough “down time,” to use Clare’s words. Clare has inspired me because of her efforts to create balance in her life, despite continual illnesses for the past three months. She goes to exercise classes, always takes time for friends, and keeps up her personal journal, all with intentionality. And as all five of us sat down at the table in Clare and Nora’s apartment, where the missioners before us, Richard and Kristen, lived, and we read the Franciscan office together, passing the book around the table, I felt a surge of spiritual vitality that had been missing in my life. We were still in community, having come from the Casa Salvador in Washington, D.C., on Quincy Street, just a few houses down from the Franciscan Monastery. We were all “feeling it,” feeling the problems and dislocation of being on mission in another country. We wanted to do our best here, to find our niches, to walk with our friends in Bolivia in these difficult times. Being with them all somehow felt like being at home, and I did not want to leave, despite the fact that we all had work to do.

So Joel and I have returned to La Paz, and in a state of limbo, are trying to unravel all our thoughts about being on mission. By definition, being on mission is Hellenistic because we are expanding our consciousness. This is a euphemism because all of our ideas about how life should be are challenged. We need only to keep our minds open to experience new ways of doing, being, and seeing. As missioners, we are also enlivened by the zeal to do good. But what I think we also need is the space for contemplation, prayer, writing, and thinking. We desire so ardently to be available to the people that sometimes we are not available to ourselves or to God.

So, we are privileged to visit the national art museum today. The efforts to render the beauty of the world in art cannot be disregarded while we are captive in this city. Our sense of reality will be challenged and shaped by our encounters with new ideas, history (new to us), and art. A part of this realization that we must continually encounter beauty and ideas within our world is our belief that we have to grow larger in order to live in the worlds that we have come to. The Hellenistic view of the ever-expanding consciousness is indeed Franciscan. Francis may have said that there was no need to build a bookshelf because then he would have to find books to put on it, but he would have sanctioned Clare and Nora’s venture into the concha to purchase a bookshelf for those many books lying around their apartment. Francis was non-materialistic, but he was not against the ideas found in books, or the way that books nurture our spirits.

So there is a time to read books, write letters to friends (for if we don’t talk with them, how will we know who we are, who they are, and how we have grown?), go to museums as well as bookstores, art galleries, and cathedrals, both to pray and to just take in the beauty, and time to just look into the landscape and compare the mountains in La Paz to those in the yungas and Cochabamba. We are Hellenistic and Hebraistic because we want to love this world, appreciate it, and make it a more just, hospitable place for human beings, made in God’s image. And we must also write, for how will we know what we think if we don’t write it down? Here, on mission, in limbo in La Paz, one can be both Hellenistic and Hebraistic. One can find a kind of balance.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Not Coca, But Basil

"It's Hard to Dehydrate Food in the Yungas, among other Things"



In Carmen Pampa, at our apartment at the UAC (Unidad Academica Campesina), most food preparation and cooking take longer than we are used to. Here is one shot of our kitchen: in the foreground are the basil leaves that are so abundant here at the college. We decided to dry the leaves so that we could store them for another time, since we can't possibly find enough recipes for the basil that we get from Rosemary, the person in charge of the organic garden across the road from our house.






Note also the water filters, two of them, in the background. We can purify five two-liter bottles of drinkable water in record time with our stainless steel water filter, where we pour the water after we have boiled it for twenty minutes (due to the altitude). To the right, you see the invaluable jar of peanut butter (brought in by visitors from the United States), as well as the other staples that belong in a typical cupboard.

We have accustomed ourselves to soaking the fruit and vegetables in a solution called DG-6, a kind of bleach that kills bacteria and parasites,. Everything takes much longer here, from purifying water, to preparing fruits and vegetables, to washing clothes by hand.

The morning commute, however, takes the same amount of time as it did when I commuted to work when living in a community outside the environs of Nashville, Tennessee. As I walk down the hill from the upper campus, Campus Leahy, to the lower one, Campus Manning, to teach my 11:00 English class, I feel that my new lifestyle is much improved over my former one, when I endured the traffic jams on Interstate 440 on the way to teach class.

Here, I slip down the mountainside (what one instructor calls a "controlled fall") in a mere twenty minutes, taking the shortcuts that the students have created, even to the extent of creating a hillside of steps cut from the ground itself, easy to go down but daunting to climb back.





















At this point, the steepest part of the commute is over.






















I pass the tea plantation before coming to the coffee plantation. The coffee plantation is next to the "cafetal," which is the structure where the coffee beans are dried and refined. It is an elaborately designed structure, with a large roof to protect the coffee beans as they dry. At night when we walk up the hill, the lights there are still on and people continue working there. Coffee production at Carmen Pampa is a small operation, with just enough coffee to sell to the locals (like Joel and me), but the coffee is the best that I have ever tasted.



After crossing through the other managed areas of the hillside, I cut through the pueblo of Carmen Pampa itself, weaving my way between the homes of the people living there.






















Here, when I first aimed my camera at some of the ducks on the steps, the rest of the ducks scurried up to join them, as if they wanted to be included in the picture too.


I pass the cows also as I walk down to the lower campus. Finally, I pass the hog shed, where the hogs are always snorting. I feel a twinge of guilt as I walk past then, knowing that I am a huge fan of Carmen Pampa ham, the best that I have ever tasted (just like the coffee!). The ham is a cross between Tennessee country ham and Virginia ham in the United States. Joel and I buy our eggs, ham, chicken, and coffee from the farmers close by, as well as benefiting from the continual harvest of vegetables from the organic gardens here.


The recycling center itself is cutting edge, from my perspective. In effect, we have the production, processing, and recycling of our food here before our eyes. In another blog, I will give all the details of our recycling center, along with pictures. This center, like all other aspects of food production and re-use of waste is fundamental to the research projects and resulting theses of the students who study here. Joel and I are the beneficiaries of this educational process.


The schedule for us here is challenging, when one factors in the climb back up the hill to perform other duties, among them, pastoral. The problem for me is not so much that we are scheduled to do many kinds of work, like continuing to facilitate the children's library that Jean and Lee Lechtenberg established, teaching two classes, working with campus ministry, and preparing Mass and having Liturgy of the Hours every morning at 6:30 on our upper campus, but that the commute up and down the hill to attend to these responsibilities is so exhausting. As ever when one is on mission, all activities take longer to do and many activities may be shifted around on the calendar. One may prepare a class only to find that the students have been re-routed that day for a campus clean-up or a lecture that has materialized at the last moment--one that students actually should attend because opportunities for exposure to this information are limited and must be grasped when available.



Last night at the Maryknoll House in La Paz, where Joel and I stay when we come to the city, I was reading a Spiritual Directory for missioners (that I randomly found somewhere close to the chapel) and noted that two of the key qualities for missioners were accessibility and adaptability. My response to this is in the affirmative. My job here is to be accessible when and where I am wanted, and my other duty is to adapt to the circumstances of those times when I am accessed by those who may need what I have to offer.



With that lengthy sentence, I will close my blog. This weekend in La Paz, where we come to buy necessary goods for our apartment in the yungas, we have the companionship of a few friends from Carmen Pampa who came here also, as well as the conversation of a priest who has lived in Bolivia for 36 years, almost as long as our mentor Fr. Iggie Harding. Fr. Mike Gilgannon lives in the Maryknoll House and works in the department of La Paz, as a priest, educator, writer, and general administrator of programs. It is good to have the differences offered by the city in La Paz to offset our experiences in the place that we call home, Carmen Pampa. It is also good to hear the words of advice from a seasoned priest who has been in Bolivia for so long. From him, I discover that my reactions to the differences in culture are quite typical for a citizen from the U.S., and I also hear that Bolivia has been evolving over the years to a more efficient nation. I also hear of his optimism about the Morales government as well as his optimistic stories about his work in establishing youth groups, both college and high school, and new parishes to accommodate the migratory groups who are moving down into the city from the campo (countryside). I take away from the Maryknoll House his courage and optimism so that I may have a little more spring in my step (Oh those aching knees!!) as I climb back up the hillside after working in the campus below.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

"How beautiful are the feet of missioners on the mountains"

“Que hermosos los pies de los misioneros en las montaňas”


When we graduated from our five-month course at the Maryknoll Language Institute, we students were asked to create our own liturgy and put together a talent show. I had signed up for the liturgy committee, so that was my focus. Our motto this year was “How beautiful the feet of the missionaries on the mountains,” taken from Isaiah 52:7:


“Cuán hermosos son sobre los montes los pies del que trae buenas nuevas, anuncia la paz, teniendo una buena noticia, que anuncia salvación, que dice a Sión: ‘Tu Dios es Rey!’”


How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, announcing peace, bringing good news, who announce salvation, who say to Zion, ‘Your God is King!”

It had not been easy to write the liturgy because the customary symbol for graduation was the camino, the road that the missioners take as they travel to serve God’s people. The professors at Maryknoll were ready to plug in the same graduation slogan, but our class wanted to take advantage of the symbolic terrain of the mountains that surrounded us in Cochabamba, as well as the mountains that would challenge us in other areas of Latin America, and Bolivia in particular. For Joel and me, this would be the Andes at our mission site at Carmen Pampa, and the nearest city of size, the plateau of La Paz, the highest capital city in the world. As a rule, the mountains beckoned to us in all their beauty, but the high altitude challenged our bodies’ ability to adapt to the higher altitudes. We needed stronger lungs and more red blood corpuscles to survive at those heights. Climbing mountains, one must plant one’s feet firmly as one ascends.

The liturgy, once begun, took on a life of its own, becoming the work of many hands. The sisters from Japan and Korea created mountains from choice fabric draped artistically on the walls of the grand sala, transforming the plain white walls into an evocative mountain landscape. My conversation partner of five months, Minh, had cut letters from magazines to articulate the slogan alongside the mountain mural. The letters from the multi-colored magazine print flashed their luminous message as the students processed into the graduation, one by one leaving their backpacks, or mochilas at the base of the mountains depicted on the sala wall. Our Franciscan missioner Clare, leading the ceremony, spoke briefly of the choices that each missioner/ brother / sister / priest had to make when figuratively packing his or her backpack to come on mission, what to leave behind, and what to bring.

The professors had selected one hymn that fit the students’ theme:

EL SEÑOR ELIGIÓ
El Señor eligió a sus discipulos
Los mandó de dos en dos.
(The Lord selected his disciples and sent them out two by two)

CORO:
Es hermoso ver bajar de la montaña
Los pies del Mensajero de la paz
(How beautiful to see at the foot of the mountains the feet of the messengers of peace)

How appropriate this theme was for us: primarily, it is the poor who live on the mountains, in El Alto, where two Methodist students would be going; in the yungas, where Joel and I would be going; and even the hills that extended beyond the South Zone of Cochabamba, the poverty-stricken section of Cochabamba, where two of our Franciscans would be serving. What good news would we bring, except that God’s kingdom is coming, that we have come to promote peace and justice, and that we would come as those who serve the people? In all respects, our climb on the mountains would be strenuous.

Our Franciscan missioner Nora headed up the talent show. In addition to helping to write the script for the skit, performing in many dances, she was the M.C., entertaining the audience between the acts with the patter of jokes in Spanish, dressed in whatever costume she happened to be wearing at the time, so omnipresent she seemed to be. We heard Tony, our Irish Christian brother, present a program on the Irish potato famine, and then sing an Irish ballad commemorating it. Becky, returning from her mission in El Alto, sang a beautiful solo, accompanied by Jose Luis, whose guitar and voice accompanied her melody. One Brazilian priest and two Asian sisters sang in turn in their own languages different verses of a haunting song. In addition to skits, student dancing, and one student’s (Carl’s) trumpet solos, we watched as the Maryknoll priests, staff, and professors performed one Bolivian dance in full costume for us. Finally, we watched a professional dance troupe, and then listened to Jose Luis’s own band whose repertoire exceeded our expectations.

The festivities went on until the late afternoon. We had more grilled meat, potatoes, rice, and fresh vegetables than we could eat, along with desserts and cold drinks. As we sat on the edge of what usually was the volleyball court, under to ample white tent, we watched Bolivian dancing and listened to the music of the band. Then the mood changed as members of the audience began to dance. Gradually, as the dancing continued, I myself gradually began to wind down. I had not slept much the night before, having written my farewell speech, the despedida, that all of us were required to give, in the wee hours of the morning. I watched as the students, one by one, told their professors and friends goodbye, walking away from the world that that had enfolded us so completely since January when we had first stepped out of the airplane in our new country, experiencing our first challenge of altitude sickness from the new heights (12,000 feet above sea level) to which our calling had led us. We had acclimated to the challenge of altitude; now we would strive to acclimate ourselves to the life of mission to which we were called.



***********
I am including here pictures of the mountains that I have seen since coming to my mission site in Carmen Pampa, the Unidad Académica Campesina (UAC-Carmen Pampa), part of the Catholic University of Bolivia, where Joel and I will be helping to teach English, work in campus ministry, and do any other work that is assigned to us. We live on the upper campus, called the Leahy campus, where the students majoring in agronomy, education, and pre-university (those courses taken before the students begin their majors) live. The lower campus, a mile and a half down the mountainside, houses those students whose majors are veterinary science, eco-tourism, and nursing. On the lower campus is the volunteer house, which is the community living space for volunteers, most of whom come from the United States. Sara Mechtenberg, communications liason, lives there as well, and Hugh Smeltekop, Vice-Director General, lives in an apartment nearby. Sister Jean, a member of the order of the Missionary Franciscan Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, lives in the Convent next door to the volunteer house. Joel and I will occasionally walk down to eat a meal, or just visit.

Coroico, the town nearest to us, where we buy our food and staples. It is a popular tourist town for hiking and gaining access to "the road of death," "the most dangerous road in the world," where many bicyclists test their mettle against a perilous road along the edge of the mountains.



Here are two views of the lower campus, Campus Manning, as Joel and I walk down the road to visit the lower campus. In the second picture, note the tree in the foreground, which is an ambibo. It is filled with ants that live within it and "protect" the tree. One dare not bother this tree! In the picture, one can see the church tower and surrounding buildings.




When Joel and I took a mini-bus to La Paz, we got a chance to snap this shot of the canopy of clouds that obscured the very deep mountain valleys. Our mini bus stopped because a crew was repairing a rock slide on the side of the mountain.


For perspective purposes, here I am on the side of the road in front of the morning fog or rain clouds that had settled over the bottom of the mountain valley.








Here is a view from one of the upper roads around La Plaz as we wound up the Altiplano.


Not a mountain view, but a view of the congregation during Mass at the church, Christo Rey, Christ the King. As we walked up the aisle for Communion, the choir sang "EL SEÑOR ELIGIÓ," with the words, "How beautiful to see at the foot of the mountains the feet of the messengers of peace."

Friday, May 21, 2010



The Language Barrier as Bloqueo (blockade)
May 5, 2010



I am more comfortable attending a Mass in English than I am attending a Mass in Espaňol. But since I am living in Latin America, I usually attend Masses in Spanish. Some worship experiences, however, have been meaningful for me, despite the language barrier. For example, in the second week of Lent, Joel and I joined our neighbors as they participated in the Stations of the Cross. In a circumscribed section of our neighborhood, fifteen homes had erected shrines representing each station of the Cross, culminating in the fifteenth station, that of the Resurrection. As Joel and I walked from one shrine to another with our host couple, Lily and Henry, we knew that the physical act of walking from one shrine to another was enriching our Lenten experience. So on we walked in the darkness, from one lighted shrine and then another-- kneeling, singing with the seminarians whose guitars and voices floated through the crisp air, listening to the Scripture and praying with the neighbors, and finally, getting a blessing from the holy water that the priest had blessed at our own house. This experience needed no translation from Spanish into English.



In the church itself, when one stands, sits, and kneels in one place for a long period of time, it is helpful for the mind to have something to latch onto. The Easter Vigil that I attended weeks ago was a long one, and in Spanish, of course. Without a program to follow and no liturgical guide, I was lost in a sea of Spanish, occasionally clinging to the words that I knew. The Vigil was beautiful, with candlelight, music, and much of the liturgy in song. To my own surprise, though, I began to feel like a child, forced to sit through a service that I was not a part of and did not understand. I felt suffocated and wanted to flee from the church during the long Mass.
The part of Mass that I miss the most is the homily. I need to know what the minister is saying, the way the Living Word is being channeled through the homilist. My experience of Mass is emotional (the music and the message), intellectual (the liturgy and homily), and spiritual (particularly in the Eucharist itself, but throughout the service). I needed to hear the words of the homily in English, but as a person in an immersion program, I felt that my desire for a homily in English was dodging my main reason for being in school, to learn Espaňol. Still, I longed for the intellectual experience of hearing my favorite priests’ messages before the Eucharist: Fr. Steve at Holy Rosary in Nashville, TN, whose homilies formed the foundation of my knowledge of the Catholic faith; Fr. Pat, the Catholic chaplain at Furman University in Greenville, SC, whose homilies seemed to address whatever problem I was having at the time; and Fr. Joe Nangle, the Franciscan priest whose homilies at Casa San Salvador always included the new missioners’ reflections on what he had said and what we thought about the readings for the Mass. (We were a close group of friends during those Masses.) When I left these celebrations, I had received the body and blood of Jesus as well as God’s message to me, both of which sustained me as I went back into the world of stress and deadlines.



Here at Maryknoll Language Institute, there are many priests who are studying Spanish, beginners and veterans. Some come from the United States. Because of the demand for pastoral ministry among the growing Hispanic population in our country, North American priests need to be prepared for conversational Spanish, and Maryknoll is a good school for both cultural and language immersion. Priests from the U.S. also study here because they, like us missioners, are going to work here in Latin America. What better way for the English-speaking priests to prepare for celebrating Masses in Spanish than for them to have Mass for the rest of the students? Thus these Masses are generally said in Spanish, which is part and parcel of the language immersion process.



For a couple of weeks, however, when the congregation consisted only of English speakers, we were lucky enough to have a Maryknoll priest say Mass for us, and he celebrated the entire Mass in English! How wonderful it was for me to connect sound and sense in worship! What’s more, after the homily, all of us discussed both his homily and our own responses to the liturgy. It reminded me of the Masses at the Franciscan mission house, with Joe Nangle.



Now, at Maryknoll (and I want to add that these Masses are arranged for by the language students themselves), we celebrate Mass in Spanish, but the current celebrant, a young priest from Georgia, gives his homilies in Spanish, followed by translation in English. Another priest from Boston, who has just begun to celebrate Mass, follows his example, but gives his homilies in English, with apologies, of course. Fortunately, the small group there has been English-speaking.
With time, practice, and lots of Spanish classes, I am getting closer to comprehension of the Mass. Like most Catholics, I know the liturgy of the Eucharist, and as I added some simple Spanish words to my vocabulary, like pan for bread, and tocar for take, along with pronouns and prepositions, I could follow the words of the Eucharist. Gradually, I came to learn the Lord’s Prayer, the Gloria, and the congregational responses in Espaňol. On Thursday mornings in our Spanish classes, we read the entire liturgy of the Word aloud, in order to improve our pronunciation. As I read the words, I now have minimal difficulty translating them into viable English. Still, the written word is far easier for me than the oral one.



And so last Friday, the first Friday in May, I was walking back from the Immigration Office, where I have spent so many days trying to complete my visa for the coming year, as well as getting my carnet, my identification card for Bolivia. As I passed the church at Cala Cala, St. Ann’s, I noticed that the doors of the church were open—they are usually locked with a heavy iron gate barricading the entrance. It came into my mind that this was First Friday. As I gingerly peeked into the small chapel at the back of the church, I saw that it was almost filled with older women, praying the Rosary. On the altar was the Monstrance, flanked by flowers. I was definitely the youngest woman present, and no men were there. The Rosary was repeated in Spanish, and the women were singing hymns together, in harmony, truly a beautiful sound. I found the program, sat down with them, and prayed the Rosary with them. Yes, I had learned how to say the Rosary in Spanish. In this moment of time, I was one of them.



There is no happy ending to this story yet. But as I spend more time in this country, these times of affinity and understanding will multiply. Tomorrow, I will go to Mass at St. Ann’s, where I go each Sunday, and the homily will be in Spanish. I will comprehend the readings from Scripture because I have studied them in Spanish, the rites because I am accustomed to them, and maybe a little more of the homily than I did the week before. This is all that I can ask for.
***************
Here are two pictures of the Maryknoll Chapel: a view of the front and one of the side chapel.






May 21, Part II



“Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” Matt 18:3



Sometimes it seems that my ability to communicate in Espaňol is determined by the desire of the other person to communicate. When I am in the position of a consumer, that is when I am in a taxi, at the supermarket , or in a store, the driver or salesperson seems to have a lot of patience when I convey to him or her what I need. The guard in our neighborhood, our Bolivian family, and of course, our instructors at the language school listen carefully to me when I express my thoughts and needs.



What can be difficult is listening to presentations in another language. Joel and I went to the International Conference for Climate Change here in Bolivia last month, and found it difficult to follow the panel discussions and talks there. For a week, we went from one talk to another at the Univale (University of the Valley), a large, modern university in the neighboring town of Tiquipaya. I could follow the general thrust of the ideas, but was at a loss as to why the audience cheered when it did. Eventually, we found the headsets that enabled us to hear the presentations in English. What a difference! And even now, this week, when I attended a long talk on children’s rights at the Franciscan Social Center, sponsored by Franciscans International, I checked with other missioners to make sure that I had my facts straight. I have had to write emails in Espaňol, as well as attend dinners and lunches where the only language spoken was Espaňol. I made an announcement to the Institute about making plans for our graduation—in Espaňol. This was indeed my first time to make a public announcement in my new language. To my surprise, the people gathered around me applauded. Why? They knew that I had crossed a threshold.



I think that now I can put my biggest challenge, and worst experience, back in February, in perspective. This experience has to do with my efforts to extend my visa and get my identification card (carnet) for my three-year residence here. With very little Espaňol, I went to the first police station to have my fingerprints made as well as two photographs, one serious, and one smiling. I supposed at the time that both photographs could serve the authorities well, especially if I were a “wanted” person. This was just the beginning of many afternoons and mornings of attempting to get a carnet. All five of us missioners went to have blood tests, to be sure that we did not have HIV or tuberculosis. The understanding here was that any mistake made by either ourselves or the official was our problem to correct, whether we had to get another test because our results had been lost or our name had been typed incorrectly.



Our second-to-last stop was the police station by the lake. I went there four times to get my papers. I did not make friends with the officer who was in charge of my papers, and I felt that this was due to my inability to speak effectively. The directions and commands were put to me in a harsh way, in another language. When I stood there, not knowing what to do, I was basically told to leave the crowded room. I felt the tone of the command, but only eventually did I realize that I no longer had any business being there. I was upset about the way that I had been treated, and frustrated because I could not understand what had happened. Still, I had to return three more times to get my paperwork done, and had to make a special effort to convince the people there that I was married, not single. Did I have my marriage license with me, they asked. All seemed hopeless—but someone just handed me my papers with the correction on the back (yes, my marriage did exist). I was free at last to go on to the immigration office, the last way station in our efforts to work legally as volunteers in Bolivia.



The important point here is that everyone is alone when he or she goes to the various stations for a visa. The immigration office is the last stop, and I have been there three times and will go once more to get my carnet. After moving from one room to another in the building, I got to the point where I was to fill out a large form in Espaňol. I doggedly began filling it out, noting that I had mistakenly told someone in the previous office that I was 67 years old, not 57. Ouch! I was as eager to correct this error as I was to make sure that it was official that I was a married woman. In a timid voice, I asked one of the officials if I could correct this. It won’t matter, he said, but then asked me if I would like to speak in English. His words were gentle, “Don’t worry about this. I will help you to fill out the form.” He was pleasant, smiling, and generous with his time. For the first time during my efforts to get my visa and carnet, someone was speaking English with me as I tried to complete this important and significant task.



All of us missioners encountered this kind young man who helped us to complete our final application forms. But because I was the most needy, I was the most grateful. I made a mental note to be a better United States citizen when I returned home and noticed someone from another country who seemed unsure or afraid. I understood from my own experience the need for drivers licenses to be given in one’s own language (I have flunked the drivers license test in my own language . . . .), even when someone is basically fluent in the new language.
Yesterday when I was walking to school, I passed a blind woman on the sidewalk, carrying her child in one arm and tapping her walking stick with the other. I was concerned about her crossing the busy intersection ahead. Where was my Spanish now? What could I do? Directly behind me was a guard from Maryknoll. He spoke Spanish fluently but between the two of us, we could think of nothing to do. We could not walk her home or to her workplace. Would better Spanish help me at this time? Later in the day, Joel and I encountered a four-year-old on the street whose brothers and sisters had run away and left him alone. We saw him crying and Joel called out to him in Spanish. He was too upset to answer, but when we saw his brothers and sister, we told them that he had gone around the corner. They flew after him.



The demands for us to know the language here are great, and we keep trying. I was discouraged yesterday from my performance in my classes. I took this sense of discouragement home with me, and as I wrote my blog last night, I decided that a cup of hot chocolate would cheer me up. I went downstairs to the kitchen, where Lily, our host mom, was soaking her arm in a large bowl of hot mantequilla tea. Her grandson, Sebastian, had tattooed his grandmother’s arm—totally—with the magic markers that Joel and I had given him for his saint’s day. She was laughing as she performed this unusual ritual. We talked about the problems that we were having with our families, not new topics for us. I told her that I needed hot chocolate to make myself feel better about my Spanish. She looked at me intently and told me every day I improved a little more. She meant it.



When we first came here, Dan Moriarty, a Maryknoll lay missioner, told us that speaking Spanish was a way of taking on poverty. As Joel has put it, we choose to be marginalized when we chose to come here to speak in a foreign language. As an English professor and editor, I have always appreciated the power of the written and spoken word. I was well armed in my communication skills. Now, I am a beginner in this language, and sometimes need the help of others to communicate. I am the marginalized one, despite my education and experience. But as Lily told me, each day I get better, and so just as a child learns to talk and read in his or her own language, I too will mature in this new medium of communication. Poco a poco . . . .

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Called to go where one is needed but not wanted . . .

Missioners are called to “go where they are not wanted but needed, and stay until they are not needed but wanted.”

This quote comes from James Anthony Walsh, the founder of the Maryknoll Missionaries. I first heard it from the lay missioner Teresa of the Society of African Missionaries, at Ossining, New York, where the Maryknoll’s Bethany House is located and where we Franciscans were trained for one week. Recently, I heard this again from a Maryknoll priest, Ken (Padre Juancho in Spanish), who is working in a mission site where he feels that he may not be wanted, but needed.

Two weeks ago, I had dinner with Ken and his friends. The occasion was a surprise birthday party for Ken. The dinner was hosted by a longtime friend of his, a physician who has opened her home to one of our fellow students at the Maryknoll Institute. Some of us students were invited to help him celebrate. As it had happened, three of us had visited Padre Ken at his home mission site the Sunday before. As ten of us gathered around the large dining room table to eat spaghetti and a large cake, I wondered at the vast difference between our immediate surroundings, a spacious, well-appointed condominium in North Cochabamba, where the prosperous middle class lives, and the place that Ken calls his home.

Ken lives near K’ara K’ara, the city dump of Cochabamba. The dump is indeed a place where priests are not wanted, at least at this time. There is political controversy about this dump, and although it has been closed three times for its dangerous toxic waste and its unregulated disposal of this waste, it is nevertheless still open. Why? At this point, it seems that the city of Cochabamba needs this dumping ground: when we missioners arrived on January 6 of this year, we noticed in passing that the dumpsters in the city were overflowing with garbage. We found out when we visited Padre Ken on March 14, on a Sunday, that there had been a strike, and for that reason there was no garbage pickup. There is a real need for a dumping ground for the waste of Cochabamba, and there is money to be made by keeping the dump open. Money is made when the town or pueblo of K’ara K’ra fines the mayor of the city for dumping the town’s garbage in its pueblo.



The town can make a lot of money with these fines, but the barrios (or neighborhood districts) closest to the dump get the money, which is held in something like an escrow account until a suitable project worthy of this jointly held money is presented to the mayor or city officials. The issue becomes a delicate one because not everyone agrees about which barrios should receive the money and who will be in charge of how it will be spent. So, to put it mildly, there is a lot of disagreement within the pueblo, and the last priest who lived in K’ara K’ara was asked to leave the town because of his involvement in the town's problems. Ken himself is circumspect about the situation: he has come into the community, living above the dump itself, where we had a bird’s eye view of the pools of toxic waste that actually looked like picturesque ponds from our vantage point above the barrio. Poverty, the determined struggle of humanity to survive, and the ravaging of nature often look pretty from afar. I have seen many strikingly gorgeous sunsets in smog-ridden cities.

We citizens of the United States are very interested in recycling. Here, there is no need to organize a recycling campaign or make it a part of municipal works. The people here rummage through the dump for recyclables, and I would predict that few items that can be sold are overlooked. I was reminded of scenes of garbage dumps from Slumdog Millionaire (and who would have guessed? Sisters from Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity have a prominent convent nearby. They must feel at home in performing charitable works among the poor in K’ara K’ara).

The problem is, of course, that the toxicity of the dump poses a terrible danger to the health of those in search of marketable goods. The hazardous waste from hospitals had been placed in a special area surrounded by a protective fence; somehow the fence disappeared. The economic need of the people takes precedence over their own health. In milder form, just living close to the dump poses many health problems for the residents there. One recalls the residual effects of Love Canal, where 21,000 tons of waste were buried beneath 36 blocks of a neighborhood in Niagra Falls, New York; the residents eventually developed cancer and their children were born with congenital defects. Many poor people live in this pueblo because it is so inexpensive. Developers have created small dwellings here, and sold it to families who either don’t know that they may be in danger or have been driven to accept whatever dwelling they can afford.

Our Sunday morning with Ken was pleasant, with much talk about his struggle to initiate catechetic classes and celebrate Mass in a district that has other pressing concerns. He pointed out that the people in the barrios do organize on Sundays for community improvements. At the time when we walked up to his quarters on the hill, we saw a soccer (futbol) game being played by the truck drivers who had the day off.


In Ken’s quarters, we had tea and an assortment of cookies, bread, pates, and snack bars while we were there. As we talked, a three-year-old named Oliver came into the room with us. He had stayed at the doorway, playing with his toy dump truck and bulldozer, his play imitating reality, before I could coax him into our company. The little boy smacked one of the two dogs that were lying in front of the doorway a couple of times, the dog obligingly moved, and Oliver came to sit on my lap. Most children are attractive, but Oliver had dimples, large, lovely brown eyes, and liked affection. As I held him, Nora gently lifted his shirt, with his permission, and we saw a complex temporary tattoo on his tummy, matched by one on his back, and one on his arm. I became aware that his clothes were filthy, but that made me feel even more protective towards this little boy.

Oliver is not an orphan, but his father has died, and his mother is an alcoholic. The mother ran off and left the responsibility to her sister-in-law. Her daughter cares for Oliver.Ken explained to us that abandoned children are taken into families and cared for as one of their own. Oliver is such a case. The older sister who lives in the family where Ken resides cares for the little boy. I have one picture of him, playing in the dirt behind the shed in the yard.

I noticed that after Oliver left our room, his sister changed his shirt. When we left the property, I said a few words to her in Spanish, and she didn’t reply. At first, I blamed her lack of response on my poor Spanish, but later, I reflected that she might speak Quechua.

While we sat there in Ken’s humble room, which actually had molding around the ceiling, along with finished walls, I noticed that Ken was nonetheless connected more than I would want to be with the natural world. A pigeon house just outside his room allowed the pigeons to perch on his windowsill and keep an eye on us. The friendly, but dirty, dogs wandered in and out of the room, and the dishes were washed outside, with the usual cold water that people here use for washing, and dried in a tub placed on a rock. The bathroom facilities were also outside, but the outhouse was private and the toilet flushed extremely well. These were Ken’s digs, where he lives in order to be present, available, for the people in this poverty-stricken barrio seriously close to the toxic waste of the dump. I am including here the view from Ken's big back yard.
After enjoying morning tea, we hiked over to the Maryknollers’ picnic, held at Padre Poncho’s church, where I had some of the best barbeque that I had ever tasted, along with an add-a-dish lunch that reminded me of church picnics in Tennessee. It was the best food that I had had since coming here, and I wondered if Padre Poncho’s origins in Kentucky had anything to do with the perfection of the barbeque. We met Maryknoll priests, missioners (and their families, some of them having young children), and the sisters who had been in Bolivia for at least 45 years. We Franciscan lay missioners were welcomed into the Maryknoll family, and all of us are family unto one another here. We learned about each one of them as they introduced themselves. We too made our introductory speeches. After lunch, there was an organizational meeting of a male and female scout troop by one of the Maryknoll sisters, and for some of us who had missed church that morning, an intimate and moving Mass with Padre Ken, our guide, mentor, and host for the day. Here is a picture of Nora (a Franciscan), Minh (a Maryknoll missioner), Padre Ken, and his two dogs.
At this early stage of my introduction to Bolivia, I am glad that I am not exposed to such outings on a daily basis, although I expect a daily exposure to such poverty and hot-button issues. But the day seeped into my sub-conscious, where so many of these experiences are residing since my arrival here. The beautiful boy, Oliver, came into my mind as I prayed. A prayer for Ken’s well-being and sustenance from God also came to mind (Ken says that God has been very present to him during his 22-month residence at K’ara K’ara). But I pray that he will not lose heart in his poco a poco work there, where it is evident to me that the villagers there know him and like him. A priest sometimes takes quite a psychological beating in these hinterlands. Finally, how are these desperately poor residents at K’ara K’ara to be helped when their immediate need for food, clothing, shelter, and money overshadow their long-term well-being?

I found it necessary to arrange a short dinner with Fr. Ignatio Harding, our mentor (“Iggy”) just to get some stability in my sense of the Franciscan mission here. The Maryknoll fathers and sisters have been immensely supportive spiritual leaders, but I needed to hear from St. Francis, so I turned to a Franciscan priest.
To sum up Iggie’s words, we Franciscans are called to walk with the poor. This occurs on many levels. Some people are called, and actually desire, to be among the poor, living among them, even taking on their poverty. I thought of St. Damian living among the lepers and taking on their illness at the end of his life. Others are called to come nearer to the poor, to be there among them but not take on their poverty. Still on the next level, some are called to have a heart and mind for the poor, to be able to imagine their needs and to feel stricken in the heart when any injustice against God’s poor has been perpetrated.
When Padre Ken read my blog, he agreed, and let me know that he was well aware of those people who brought about change in this world, people who live in comfortable houses but who work through political and social systems to change legislation, as well as people whose prayers are heard by the God who hears the cry of the poor.
I knew that before coming here, I tried to have a heart for the poor, trying to be aware of their needs, as well as the needs of orphans, the suffering of people in violent situations, in war, and the needs of the aged, infirm, diseased, and dying. But I am here to live close to the poor, to be with them in spirit and in daily life. But no, I am not able to live near K’ara K’ara, and knowing my own limits, I continue to pray for and be a friend to Padre Juancho (Ken).

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

A Late Post: Carnaval in Cochabamba

A blog begun on February 16, 2010, the end of Carnaval in Cochabamba

It is 11:00 p.m. on Tuesday, February 16, 2010, in Cochabamba, Bolivia, and in another hour, the Carnival season will end. In my quarters on the second floor of our home in North Cochabamba, I hear the sounds of laughter and shouting, cars passing, and the occasional rapid boom-boom-boom of a pack of Chinese firecrackers just set off. On the Fourth of July in Tennessee, dogs jump their fences when fireworks explode. We always brought our sensitive Dalmatians inside the house to calm their nerves. When Henry, our host dad here, sets off a pack of firecrackers just outside the house, very close to where the family gathers for food and drink, the dogs don’t even flinch as the firecrackers explode.

Joel and I had scheduled this weekend to travel to the college where we are hoping to work in Carmen Pampa. This trip was to have taken six hours by bus on a Friday night just to get to La Paz—we had bought buscama tickets, meaning that we had booked large seats on the bus that reclined into almost comfortable beds. We bought four tickets on Thursday night, for Clare, Nora, Joel, and me, so that we would be read to leave on Friday night. Unfortunately, Joel was set back by a recurrence of an amoeba attack, and was literally unable to get out of bed all day on Friday. Some Tinitazol pills for parasites, the oral rehydration packets, and the blanco (white) diet were the course of treatment prescribed by our doctor host, Henry. By the afternoon, Joel was able to walk around, but the long trip to Carmen Pampa was out of the question. Clare and Nora were still able to go, but Joel and I would have to wait another time. We went on to plan B.

We were invited to spend Monday and Tuesday with our host family and their extended families, a round of Carnaval parties that would introduce us to the festivities of the season. Ever since we arrived, the city has been celebrating, but as the last four days approach, with a weekend and two days off for most working people, the energy, music, and numbers of globos (water balloons thrown at innocent passersby) rise. Best to remain inside those last two days, unless one wants to get drenched by the water balloons and water pistols hurled at us by people lurking on the street corners and on the backs of trucks that pass by.

We went to one birthday party, a cumpleanos for a cousin, on Monday. The children were out in the sunshine as the adults pumped up a large swimming pool for the children. It was dutifully filled, and then the soaking began. Henry and Lily, our host dad and mom, acted like children as they pointed the water hose at anyone who ventured into the yard. Buckets of water were poured on guests as they arrived, sometimes buckets filled at the freezing-cold water spigot. I remained dry longer than anyone. We had gone to Mass that day, a memorial for the grandfather whose birthday was that day, and I was in a skirt and blouse, unlike the others in shorts and tee-shirts. Lily and Henry heartlessly soaked their own children and the friends they had brought with them. The youngest generation, ranging from three to six years old, were continually shooting their water guns and receiving a baptismal soaking from a full bucket of water. As fiesta music played in the background, Andean, contemporary, or Latina dance music, the meat was barbecued, the salsa made, and the side dishes were brought out onto the tables. As all of us tried to get dry before our meal, and tried to stay dry afterwards, a nearly impossible task, we watched as new arrivals were either pushed into the pool or doused with a bucket of water. No one was left with any dignity at this party.

Joel and I walked home—a few blocks—and noticed that no one threw water balloons at us. Why should they? We were already soaked as we trudged home.
The next day, today, is Fat Tuesday, by North American standards. Here, the Lenten season is different from the one at home. We followed the customs of our host family. Joel and I were invited to help decorate the outside of the house for Carnaval. We strung rolls of ribbon on the outside of the house, weaving it in and out of the decorative but protective metal guards over the windows. We threaded the ribbons around the small trees and plants in the garden, like garlands wound around Christmas trees. We blew up balloons and tied them all over the house, inside and out. We started a charcoal fire and placed a pre-packaged collection of ritual objects on top of the flames. This was a koa, the things burned as a way of honoring Mother Earth, or Pachamama, as the indigenous people call it. Finally, we opened a bottle of sweet wine, which tasted like sherry, poured out glasses for everyone, and then poured libations throughout the house, at all four corners. Traditionally, I am told, chicha, the popular fermented drink made of maize, is used, but not this time.
For good measure, I took my glass of sherry up to our own quarters and poured it at all four corners of our large room. It was not holy water, but I felt almost as if I were blessing my own living space, along with that of my host family. I thought of all the traditions observed in my own home at Christmas time, the family rites of leaving out Christmas cookies for Santa Claus, although the children were grown, hanging up stockings, or simply the ritual of selecting and decorating the Christmas tree.

After observing traditions, we all got into the family car and drove two blocks to Lily’s brother’s house, where we were to eat dinner. But no, dinner would not be ready for two more hours. What to do? Joel and I, not knowing what was happening but trusting in our family’s judgment, went along for the ride to places unknown outside Cochabamba.

First, we paid a surprise visit to a nephew, his wife, and two small children. There, we participated in their rites of Carnaval as well. Another koa is burned. I learned more about the symbolic meaning of the objects that were burned. The white objects burned (such as play money) represent the house, money, car, work, books, that is, the things of material worth to the family. Other ritual objects burned were white flowers or petals (for peace), cinnamon (for harmony), sugar (for happiness), and coca (for union and community). The koa ritual expresses thanks for food, the garden, flowers, grass, water, work, and health. Just as some people eat black-eyed peas for good luck at the beginning of the New Year, this practice is a way of asking for prosperity in the coming year: good work, food, money, peace, harmony in the house, happiness, and tranquility.

I thought that the Tuesday festivities before Ash Wednesday, Miercoles de Cenizas, would bring the carnaval season to a close, but I was yet to see the city’s parade of dancers or bailarinos. This procession of dancers, representing many organizations of the city, would dance from 9:00 in the morning until 11:00 at night. The next weekend we would purchase seats in one of the many bleachers set up on the parade route around the city. The exuberance, energy, and costumes of the dancers held my attention as each group danced by, with its musicians walking behind, blowing trumpets and beating drums. However, my favorite moment of the entire day was the one hour when Joel and I left the fiesta to drink some coffee at the Brasilian café, a quiet, darkened place where we could talk, safe for the moment from the globos.





So my experience of Carnaval extended beyond Ash Wednesday, and I found myself between two cultures, one that was exuberantly celebrating life with food, dance, and drink, and one that was focusing on examination of the inner self, fasting, almsgiving, and prayer. As we left the parades that evening, I felt some balance of the two worlds as I watched Henry give three street children the leftover ham and cheese sandwiches from our repast earlier. In the midst of these bright festivities, alms.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Settling into a Routine

We have settled down to a routine here in Cochabamba, most of which involves attending language classes. A typical day involves getting up around six o’clock, studying a little, taking some time for reflection, getting dressed, and then heading down to the kitchen, where our desayuno, or breakfast, is already prepared. If we are not running late, we always sit down to eat the fruit, with yogurt and a sprinkling of a topping that we have been told is good for us. Cheese and bread are next, along with the coffee that we have been drinking since we woke up. After that, we bolt out of the house and walk to the MLI, taking care to avoid strange dogs, since we have been sufficiently warned about the predominance of rabies here. Most of the dogs, we know, and some of them bark at us because they know that is their role, protecting their casas. We walk past the homes in the neighborhood, all behind walls and fences. The gardens (jardins) are enticingly verdant with an abundance of flowers that we have seen only in pictures. The cobblestone roads, which we sometimes have to use when it rains, because the sidewalks are slick, take us to the main road, Avenue Circumvalacion, where we have to carefully cross the road at the red light, ignored by some drivers. Along the way, we notice that there are many restaurants, with beautiful gardens inside, interspersed among the homes. We hear that there is live music in one of these restaurants on Friday nights, and that the food is very good. We also pass photocopy stores, one bicycle store, and an Internet café. Our total distance to school is one half of a mile exactly.

If we are on a morning class schedule, we have two classes before our 9:35 break, when all students have coffee, tea, and bread during which time various announcements are made. Sometimes, a Wednesday lecture is announced—there is always a lecture on Wednesday afternoons after classes, when students learn about Latin American history, politics, and culture—or a new student is introduced. I am accustomed to being the oldest person in most situations, but at the Maryknoll Language Institute, I feel that I am surrounded by my peers, since it is never too late to learn a new language, take on a new direction in one’s life work, and be a missioner in Latin America. We return to our classes, full of bread, coffee, and tea. My fellow classmate and I have learned about the Cedron tree at the school entrance, which furnishes the leaves for a fragrant citrus tea, and we sometimes pick some leaves for a different tea experience. The last two classes of the morning somehow seem harder than the first two.

Classes end at 11:30, and I am always at loose ends. Do I socialize with everyone, or make my way to the student room, where many people are answering emails, visiting Facebook, or talking with family and friends, using Skype? I usually socialize and then rush to read emails before returning home for lunch. Lunch is a huge meal, called almuerzo (which the dictionary defines as a mid-morning snack, and one thinks of the Hobbits’ second breakfast). But no—it is the huge meal of the day, and one may anticipate spaghetti and meat sauce, steak and vegetables, chicken soup with large pieces of chicken in the soup pot, seasoned pork, minute steaks or fried chicken, or Cochabamban dishes, such as pique macho, a colorful stew made of chopped meat, various peppers, onions, French fries, and chopped hot dogs, among other ingredients or sillpancho, which is layers of rice, friend potatoes, and a thin piece of meat, topped with an egg. Lunch always comes with a variety of vegetables, potatoes or rice or both, pickled carrots, onions, carrots, peppers, and green beans. Someone always manages to prepare a fruit juice, made from lemons, water melon, or papayas.

Joel and I will inevitably head back to the Institute after our meal for more work on the Internet. Wednesdays are afternoon lecture days, followed by a social hour, where students may enjoy peanuts, chips, cheese and crackers, popcorn, all the goodies that are so plentiful in the States, and very appreciated here. Thursdays, our Franciscan missioners have an hour and a half meeting, with a check-in and a prayer service, which we take turns preparing. We light the candle that our mentor Fr. Ignacio Harding (Iggie) gave us. Clare presented a reflection on Henry Nouwen’s book Gracias, his journal on his days in Bolivia. My service was a reflection on the liturgical year and the ways that worshippers participate in Mass. How will we respond to celebrating the different feast days and seasons in a country where we don’t know the language? I asked my fellow missioners. After our time for reflection, there is a volleyball game, and I was foolhardy enough to join in last week. Some people went out for dinner, coffee, and ice cream afterwards.

Language school students may or may not get together on the weekends. Friday nights are popular times to explore the restaurants in the city. Last night, a group of students, Joel included, went to a restaurant called Casablanca, a restaurant not on the Institute’s “eating guide,” but all of us are venturing out to new places, where we feel the food is safe for our gringo consumption. I did not go last night. Feeling some low energy and very queasy in the stomach, I stayed at home and tried to learn more verbs, nouns, and phrases in Espanol. It was soothing to have the living quarters to myself. Andean music floated through my open window, and I recalled the band that played for the four groups of missioners who trained together for a week at Ossining, New York, where the Maryknoll school, Bethany, is located. Only one of the Maryknoll missioners is here at the language school, Mingh, and I am the lucky one who gets to take classes with her. As I review my Espanol, I listen to the music. This neighborhood, or barrio, is close, and one doesn’t mind hearing the music from bands nearby as people enjoy their weekend fiestas. I have even become accustomed to the inhuman voice of the fruit vendor calling out the names of fruits he has to sell over the loudspeaker as his truck travels through the neighborhood. Over the loudspeaker, the unearthly sound sends a chill up my spin, but the other day when I saw him selling his fruit, his very human appearance belied his sinister call to buy fruit. The parrot next door is a common recurrent sound. In the States, we are so intent upon our own rights to solitude and quiet, but here, it feels good to know that other people are buying fruit and enjoying their Friday nights with friends.

Tomorrow, Joel will go to buy soccer tickets with our host, Henry. One may feel guilty about enjoying the pastimes of the middle class, so similar to our own at home, but let’s face it, we all love soccer, and the family enjoys making us feel at home in our new country. Henry and Lily have even said that they may visit us when Joel and I go to Carmen Pampa to work (their daughter lives in La Paz); be that as it may, we feel very lucky to be able to converse with them even a little bit. We spent one evening this week just looking at weird animals on the internet, comparing the creatures that inhabit our respective countries: possums, bats, raccoons, snakes indigenous to each continent, some creatures that I have never seen before.

I want to include some pictures here of Cochabamba. The second Saturday when we were here, the Maryknoll Language Institute arranged for us a full tour of Cochabamba, which took us to visit the gigantic Christ statue on the hill over the city, many plazas in the city, and finally to a beautiful restaurant inside a kind of park, where we had a bountiful lunch alfresco or afuera with the other students. After almuerzo, I looked to my right to see Joel swimming laps in the pool just yards away from our dinner table. The park, or resort, was well landscaped, with soft St. Augustine grass underfoot. Exotic flowers lined the sidewalks, and parrots and parakeets peered at us from their capacious cages. Joel and Nora (fellow missioner) took some close-up pictures of the flowers. The setting was tranquil and beckoning. All of us were humble, grateful, in our moment of happiness and peace, knowing that we were privileged to have such beauty and food on this gorgeous day on the hills above the city so full of poor people.

Other pictures were taken by Joel on the Sunday when we met with Iggie at the Franciscan Social Center. We were invited by Iggie to visit the Center, and somehow managed to arrive on the day when all Bolivian schools, churches, and markets were closed, the day when the country celebrated the nation’s acceptance of its new constitution. The five missioners came to the Center, met with Fr. Edwin Quispe, whose parish in Cochabamba is flourishing, and watched the video he had made of his parish’s many activities. We went to Richard and Kristen’s apartment, where they lived when they worked in Cochabamba, and went through all of the boxes that they had left behind, full of CDs, DVDs, books, coat hangers, Spanish-English note cards (which I took) on handy rings, a cell phone that Clare is now using, pillows, bedding, a ziplock of Ibuprofen, and many other useful items. Seeing us look through these boxes of things that would be of use to us as missioners in the coming years, Iggie wished us Feliz Navidad. We found it imperative to have a picture taken of us in the main room where other missioners had gathered before our time, and then spent some time talking about our future assignments and learning more about the country we are becoming a part of.

The center was closed, but Iggie took us to the different sections where social services were offered. Clinics ranged from dental, to medical, to psychological. There was a meeting place for Alcoholics Anonymous, for alcoholism is a big problem here, a Comedor Popular, which is a kitchen serving lunch to many children and adults on Saturday at noon. Very interesting to me was the children’s burn center. Here children who have been burned and are on the road to rehabilitation are cared for as they wait for further treatment and surgery. Without proper care of the burn wounds, the burn victims regress and have to have repeat surgeries. But here, under the expert care given in the center, the children can be treated with dignity and respect while they are on the road to recovery. On the road to recovery? I asked. The best part is that these burns that have ravaged and disfigured the children can be treated, and I was told that after treatment, the children look as if they have never been burned.

I am caught up in learning the language, getting to know our host family, trying to get around in a city where no one speaks English, and keeping in touch with the people I love back home. After that, it is journaling, reading, personal reflection, and developing relationships with other people here, Bolivian, North American, or other. I have received some nice hugs from the grandson, Sebastian, and even got to play with some puppies at a home where we dropped off his mother and him for a play date. But I am continually aware of the many hungry stray dogs in this city, and even more aware of the underfed children and their impoverished parents. As I enjoy the good in life, I am always aware that somewhere others are going without. Even today, as our host family treated us to ice cream and empanadas at a city café, we were interrupted by a family of four, a mother and three children who held out their hands for money. I watched in silence as Henry got up from his ice cream and bought four empanadas for them. Lilly told us, they might get some food with the money but it will probably be taken from them by the father to buy alcohol. What kind of help helps? We missioners have learned to think carefully about this question. It was a good example for Joel and me, as we watched Henry buy food for the uninvited guests. All of us, then, were able to enjoy the beautiful day in good company, without hunger.