Bolivian Census 2012

I have just been counted by the young representative assigned to cover the neighborhood of Magisterio in the south zone for the first Bolivian Census in 11 years. He asked me questions about the following:

• construction materials of the walls, floors and roof and basic power/sanitation services of the house we rent;
• the number of people living on the property;
• how long we have lived here;
• the kind of work we do.

After he completed his survey, I asked for a photo to mark the occasion. He stood beneath the pacai tree.

After completing the survey for our house he passed outside the exterior wall and on to the doors of our neighbors. The process will take all day, during which time no one but a small number of approved people can operate motor vehicles.  No shops can open. A few dogs are barking. The neighborhood is quiet.

About a week back . . .

In Santa Vera Cruz I share some time with people who are terminally ill and living at a hospice operated by the Missionary Sisters of Calcutta. R, one of the residents, asked if I could show a particular movie there, Codigos de Guerra (Windtalkers).  I found a copy and scheduled a show time.

At the hospice six residents and a few others wheeled or walked in to watch as the little pharmacy transformed first into a theater and then into the horrors of hand-to-hand military combat between Japanese and American soldiers on Saipan in World War II. Soon the narrative centered on internal suffering from struggling with close relationships that survive when the people you shared them with have been destroyed. A part of that daily struggle becomes whether it is possible to allow oneself to get close to anyone or anything⎯regardless of whether it seems worth our while. In that, we may find ourselves aggressively practicing a philosophy of avoidance, or maybe just more generally wondering what part we might play if we found ourselves in the Samaritan story. Or in the future would any of us live in any way other than as a memory?

The movie affected each of us.  One or two dozed. Several left, maybe looking for early lunch, maybe too upset by all of that very real seeming exploding and hacking and burning. I found myself back in a bar in Bloomington, Indiana, in 1975, splitting a pitcher of beer with B, a Navajo code talker during World War II. B was working with the Linguistics Department at the university. He was also drinking a lot. That was when his battle memories rose up and his stories started flying like bullets. They seemed real enough to wound him again, and part of him even seemed to want that. I hadn't thought of B in several decades, and there he was, eyes burning with memories that wouldn't go away. The trail led on to memories of other veterans that made it home from that conflict⎯JY of the Pacific theater and TH at Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge. I met them when they were older, with their eyes sometimes burning, sometimes like lead.

R was rapt through it all, quiet, but intense, losing focus on the movie only when pain dissolved his expression.

The movie ended. The lights flipped on, restoring the black plastic-draped windows of the little pharmacy, the chairs and wheelchairs crowded together, the medicine cabinet. R thanked me for showing the movie.  Someone wheeled him away, and the others went away as well. I disassembled the equipment for showing the movie, winding up the electrical cords, packing speakers and projector and tripod into my backpack.  As I locked down the wheels of a gurney so I could use it as a ladder to take down the plastic curtain, I heard intermittent wails of pain. They went on as I lowered the curtains and folded them away.  Eventually they subsided, and the following silence was rich.  I hoisted the pack up onto my back and with a wince settled it into place. A nurse came in.

"Who was wailing?" I asked.

"R. Not so good."

I nodded. "Will he be okay?"

The nurse looked at me in the way that my question deserved, then said, "Sure. Can you stay for lunch? You're invited."

I had a class to teach at Carcel Abra in less than an hour. I was glad. "Can't.  I'll be back on Tuesday."

We nodded and went on.

Farewell Gregorio Iriarte

Gregorio Iriarte's faith in education to transform the political state does not depart with him and still may advance peaceful international relations in Bolivia during the decolonized age.

http://m.lostiempos.com/diario/actualidad/local/20121013/homenajes-marcan-la-partida-del-padre-iriarte-luchador-de_188682_400984.html

http://m.lostiempos.com/diario/actualidad/nacional/20121013/evo-ataca-a-eeuu-y-genera-polémica_188691_401002.html

Passing-the-baton moments...

As Lynn and I complete the final months of our tour of service here in Bolivia, we see new missioners coming (Franciscans like Kitzi and Michael, Maryknollers, and others), and we hope that they find good relations both with their mission organizations, with the service sites where they choose to volunteer, and with the communities where they live.  I know this doesn't always happen, but part of being on mission seems to be a willingness to work with less than perfect situations. I suppose we are all on mission, and in that sense I take seriously the adage on posters in the churches here, toda mi vida es mision. We also find ourselves saying goodbye to those missioners who must leave—I have yet to encounter anyone saying, "boy am I glad to get out of here"—and in doing so we see the time for our own farewells approaching.

A common metaphor for all of this to-ing and fro-ing is passing the baton.¹ It implies an orderly transition in which the present momentarily unites the past and the future as that all important objective—whether a stick, or a water project, or the education of a group of young children—carries on. There may be more of these moments lately, or maybe I am just more conscious of them:

• F, an advanced English student at the carcel, teaching English to the basic-level students at the carcel. He was doing a good job, providing just enough direction in Castellano to lead them in to English pronunciation, giving examples, but not losing sight of the components he was teaching, greetings and farewells. During this class a new young inmate poked his head through the doorway to see what was going on.  He watched and listened, then started to leave. F called him back and asked if he wanted to learn some English.  He nodded and took a seat in the back row.  F encouraged him to move forward so he could see the whiteboard. He did, and soon he had a borrowed text, a pencil, and a sheet of notepaper. I hoped this would make some of his time there easier.  
• A and her husband E: leaving the Eco-tourism program at UAC-CP before she could finish because she had become pregnant, reminding me of JC and L, who similarly restructured their plans about 35 years before.
• Visiting the Maryknoll Language Institute with A and E just to walk through the quiet gardens and see the photos of the people who taught Lynn and me and to say hello to a few of the current students there, missioners from the US and various European countries, working to acquire that critical ability to communicate.
• Munching on a sandwich at Globos on the Prado as the 5-year-old campesino steps in to your gaze and begs for food, his plastic food bowl exactly the same as the one we have for Kitty, our domesticated stray cat.
• The Cochabamba woman who worked cleaning houses in Arlington, VA, until she was forced to return to Cochabamba with her three children.
• M and B, a young couple from Cochabamba that just returned to Arlington, VA, struggling to find work and some way to become legal residents this time.

I'm reminded of a line from today's reading from the Book of Job: The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD!"
__________

¹ I remember receiving and passing the baton during relay races: my teammate rounding the turn, referees adjusting lane assignments by place in preparation for the handoff, both teammates looking for a blink of eye contact amid the strain and stride of that leg's final paces, the stretch of two arms, one forward with the hand clenched around the stick, one back with the hand outstretched, palm up, legs already striding as the tiring runner plunges into the zone.  Despite the pain of racing, it's a blessing when the mission is as simple as getting the stick around the track as quickly as possible.

Dust Storms

For me, last week was rough. Every gust of wind seems to raise a dust cloud, and already with a cold, I was an easy victim for laryngitis, flu symptoms, and so forth. I was not able to teach my part of our classes so Lynn talked more than usual. However, early in the week I met with two representatives of pastoral care for penitentiaries at the Archbishop's Office. I am still trying to complete certificates of participation for the inmates in our English courses at Abra. With the certificates, Lynn and I hope they qualify for some reduction of their sentences. I also asked about the inmate with HIV who was refused treatment at a local hospital.  From our discussion I understood the following about the inmate's dilemma:

·      Doctors are obligated to treat patients, including those that are HIV-positive;

·      The inmate was initially treated and advised that he should first wait to see if his broken bone would set satisfactorily after being repositioned and splinted;

·      He returned to the hospital the following day and requested the operation to set the bone using metal screws and a plate;

·      Pending this operation, he was admitted to the hospital and placed in a ward for [HIV?]-infected patients;

·      In Bolivia it is the patient's responsibility to purchase in advance the materials that will be used in the operation, and apparently the patient was aware of this;

·      At the scheduled time for the operation the patient did not have the necessary materials ready, for which the operation did not proceed.

·      The doctor did not refuse to treat the patient because the patient was HIV-positive.

I have no reason to doubt this version of events, in which case the Abra protesters' support for their fellow inmate misrepresented the doctor's reasons for acting as he did. In one newspaper account Celima Torricoa, the Government Secretary for Human Development, said that the incident would be investigated thoroughly. From those findings I hope to verify that the doctor did not refuse to provide treatment and the inmate was not refused treatment because he happened to be HIV-positive.

I regret having left a false impression for a week but the combination of my illness and our having lost internet access during all of that time (just restored an hour ago) made it difficult until now to post an update. 

Tranquility

Sometimes when I go to Abra to teach my English language classes at the carcel I stop at the tienda across the road for a drink of water and to chat. Usually the tienda is open and someone is around.  Today it was S, the owner of the tienda. This was also laundry day. S sat on a rock in the shade as she doubled down on a pair of denims. Her shoulders and triceps sent the sudsy water hissing over the edge of the tub between her legs.¹  Probably the jeans were her husband's.  He sometimes works inside the carcel, making repairs, chatting in the commissary with some of the men. S and I exchanged greetings, remarked on the increasing mid-afternoon heat as spring advanced.  This heat felt comfortable to me--like I was absorbing needed energy rather than losing it. However, it was intense, and a brief time in the direct sun makes me feel like I'm about to ignite.  The locals say Bolivia is directly beneath a hole in the ozone layer at this time of year, and it certainly feels hot enough for me to believe it.  I glanced around the surrounding yard and saw dogs and puppies, a cat chasing a butterfly, baby chicks peeping one after the other as a rooster chased after a fleeing hen, and ducks sucking muddy water from a puddle, raising their bills skyward with each bill-full as though guzzling champagne.

Although Lynn and I see more dark clouds travelling east to west these days, September is still in the dry season.² When the winds buffet the orangey-red dust whirls up to mark the movement. The dust settles over everything--the cactus blades, the flowering scrub brush. This blending-with-the-terrain quality contrasts with the way the people (well, not all people, and I count myself in this latter group) can walk along impervious to dust and perspiration.  E--S's 5-year-old granddaughter--was that way, looking prim and clean, a princess of the yard. We wished each other good afternoon, and she asked where I was going. I always enjoy her questions because she seems both friendly and demanding, and I owed her a reply because I was after all trespassing in her yard.

It would have been a pleasant afternoon just to talk with S and E--a welcome contrast to the women and children I meet begging on the streets in the city--but I had a class to teach, and I planned also to ask if the men inside were interested in playing a soccer match against the student friars I teach at the convent in the city. It could be an interesting experience for both groups.

So I passed through the checkpoint at the outer gate, having my belongings inspected, receiving a pat-down search and then the stamp of approval.  That was always the longest delay in entering.  The inner gate was always easy to pass.  However, as I passed through the gate at the chain link fence something seemed different.

Rather than the usual few men lounging and chatting just inside the final gate, men began pouring through the doorway of the first main building, the one that houses the wood-burning crafts shop, the call center, the education office, and the library. They scattered through the yard surrounding the inner gate, and just as quickly as they found places to stand, more poured out of the building to crowd around the others, some running up the stairwell to take positions along the bannisters or ascending to the flat rooftop to line the low wall facing the main outer wall.  Soon I was surrounded by a good portion of the 500 plus inmates, all with serious looks on their faces.

From a few of them I heard "Hola, Profe," which made me feel better, and R tried to sell me one of his over-priced chocolate treats on a stick, as he always does³, so I didn't feel entirely weird. Today I had more appetite for news than chocolate, so I asked J, one of our students, what was happening. Then it happened.

One shirtless inmate jumped up on a rock,  faced us, and started shouting. All the other men started shouting back in unison, and the whole yard was thundering with righteous indignation. I had the general idea, but J leaned close enough to shout in my ear, "protesta."

And the man on the rock shouted, "Que queremos?"
And the men throughout the yard shouted, "Salud!"
And the man on the rock shouted, "Cuando lo queremos?"
And the men throughout the yard shouted, "Ahora!"

Solidarity seemed better than just standing by, so soon I was shouting "Salud!" and "Ahora!" on cue and in unison with the others. The chanting continued for about fifteen minutes or more.  Suddenly the main gate swung open, and the commandant stepped through. Off to one side I noticed that a cameraman from one of the local television stations was taking video of the protest. I wondered what was going to happen next. As the commandant passed through the wire fence, I saw that he was smiling.  He entered alone and began chatting with the men. It looked as though everything was going to be all right.  He seemed to be assuring everyone that their complaint had been heard and that it would also be presented on television and in the newspaper.

And, of course, at just this moment the gate opened, the waves of men parted, and Lynn entered like Venus on the half shell, mouthing from across the way so I could read her lips, "What-the-hell?"⁴

Soon the men in the yard began to drift away, back to their activities.  I passed through the building and up the stairs to the library. Soon the students began to arrive. Amid talk of count and non-count nouns I also learned from the men that they had protested because an incident the previous day. During a soccer match one of the men had fractured a tibia. When he was taken to a local hospital for treatment, the emergency physician on duty refused to care for him. This seemed outrageous, and I thought of the blues singer Bessie Smith who bled to death after a Memphis hospital refused to treat her because she was black. How great could the prejudice against the inmates be?

Later during the class we reminded the men that the friars were interested in a soccer match.  All that was needed was a date that would work for both groups. We finished the class and Lynn and I went our own way.

When I read the story about the protest in the newspaper the following day I learned that the doctor had refused to care for the man with the fractured leg bone because the man was or was suspected of being HIV-positive.

I empathize with both the doctor and the protesting inmates. From my work at the Santa Vera Cruz hospice I see the wasting effects of AIDS in otherwise healthy young men.  No one would want to risk contracting that. I do not know the extent of precautions taken by Bolivian hospitals to protect doctors and staff against HIV, but I will ask. Maybe some of the doctors feel that currently their best defense is to refuse treatment.  I do not know the extent of HIV infection among the prison population, but I will ask. I imagine that under the circumstances some of the young friars might also hesitate to play a full-tilt soccer match against the inmates. The Bolivian government also has a roll⁵ to play in mandating both treatment policy and guidelines for precautions--both at prisons and hospitals--to reduce risk.
                                                                
__________
¹S washed with such a rhythm that had she been at the oars of a skiff we would have crossed the valley in no time.
²The climate offers two options--mud or dust.
³Some say this is how he supports his drug habit, but I still sometimes buy one.
⁴Beats-me! I replied. We always do our lip reading in English. I tried to convince her that this was a surprise celebration for her arrival, but she wasn't having it.
⁵Well, okay, I meant role to play, but it was late when I wrote this, and I was getting cross signals for croissants.

Retreat

Archbishop Tito celebrates Mass at Hospicio Santa Vera Cruz.
Members of the Missionary Sisters of Calcutta attended
including Mother Superior Jocele (2nd from left) and
Mother General Mary Prema (left).

Sharing the peace of Christ with a handshake

This past Friday the 13th Lynn and I attended a Mass and festival at the Hospicio in Santa Vera Cruz. The Mass convened in the chapel within the Hospicio. Archbishop of Cochabamba Tito Solari celebrated.  Numerous groups attended: patients who live at the hospice, members of the surrounding community of Santa Vera Cruz (including children preparing for first communion), Franciscan (including Michael Reddel) and Maryknoll lay missioners who volunteer and/or live nearby, and active and retired members of several Catholic religious orders. These events were also attended by Sister Mary Prema Pierick, M.C. (on the left in the first photo). Sister Mary is the current (2012) Superior General of the Missionaries of Charity of Calcutta, India, the religious institute founded by Mother Teresa of Calcutta.

The Mass and celebration demonstrated the need for and appreciation of the Hospice in the area.  Many Bolivian families continue the tradition of caring for their own sick and dying. However, the cost of doing so makes this difficult for some families and impossible for others.  As it has in so many categories here in Bolivia, the Church and other volunteer organizations have filled the gap for the much needed social safety net.  Some terminally ill patients cannot pay for end of life care, and others may face abandonment by their families because of the social stigma of having contracted SIDA.

Celebrating community with a dance and song following Mass.

The Calcutta Sisters also provide catechesis training for children and adolescents of the community who wish to become members of the Church. As first communion approaches, teachers from the Archbishop's office in Cochabamba (including Lynn, who worked with the catechesis teachers in Barrio Don Bosco) visit the various communities to share information about the life of Jesus, the beliefs of the Church, and ritual and faith within the Catholic community in Latin America.

The celebration was entirely positive. However, to me it was sad to see the Hospice patients in the midst of all the color and activity. Obviously, when the celebration ended they would still be as they were, struggling with their infirmities and contemplating death. It was good that the celebration probably helped them transcend for a time--one perspective--but better that they could see, hear, and feel the support of those who accepted them and who believed in forgiveness and eternal life.

Mother General gives blessed medals to two local break dancers
who earlier demonstrated spinning in rhythm boca abajo.

A day later Lynn and I began a three-day retreat at Convento Tarata, about an hour away from Cochabamba.  It was our way of celebrating our wedding anniversary.  We talked and talked and thought about many things past, present, and in the future.  We walked in the gardens, sat on the home-made chairs, strolled the broad silent halls of the cloister, gazed down at the beautiful central courtyard. Our conversation may have seemed rambling--family, friends, work, Bolivia, United States, faith, community, direction and lack of it, prayer, continuing and starting over and wondering. One thing is certain, we do not feel that we are living in a perfect world, but we are very grateful that we still have our time together.

Anniversary

Today Lynn and I are celebrating our thirty-sixth wedding anniversary!

Proceed with Caution

The current conflict between the police and the government in Bolivia is making headlines around the world. That some police are striking—and rioting as was the case in La Paz on Friday—may be viewed by opponents of the Morales' government as proof that civil unrest may be on the verge of toppling the standing government, as occurred in 2003. As a guest and bystander I can only say that strikes, blockades, and protests seem to be a part of everyday life here although more frequent in the last few months. During that time I have not felt that my personal safety was at risk except for once. That was about a month ago when I passed through a barricade across the highway toward my teaching site at the men's prison in a nearby town.  The barricade had been erected by students from San Simon University who were protesting in support of Bolivian health care workers who opposed the government's increase in their mandatory number of work hours. Within  about five minute I was surrounded by rapidly retreating student protestors. About the time that I spotted the shoulder-to-shoulder line of police advancing rapidly I also was engulfed in tear gas. I joined the retreat and had no class that day.


I retell this story because it emphasizes my own need to proceed with caution.  Protests are common enough here that I can mistakenly presume I am safe because I do not have a stake in the conflict. The previous incident occurred when the Cochabamba police were acting in support of the government's law that blockades end by 1 pm.  In the current situation, when the police themselves protest the blockades will probably last until they decide to end them or the government decides that it will risk ending them with military support.  In either case, discretion really does seem the better part of valor. I will hold class when there are no lines to cross.

In Cochabamba today there was no violence in the protests in the city center.  In Plaza Principal I listened to a large group of campesinos/as reminding the crowd of the many good things that the Morales' government has done for the poor in Bolivia.  A block away on Heroinas Avenue (one of the main streets in the city center) between Espana and Baptista, traffic was detoured and hand-lettered signs around and in front of the police station proclaimed the demands being made by the police: a living wage (about $300.00 per month), the right to retire with full benefits, and the right to protest if they have grievances (which legally they currently do not have). The protest was peaceful. Small groups of police and/or civilians talked.  Two out-of-uniform policemen spoke to me. They were not threatening.  They simply wanted to state their demands and to emphasize the legitimacy of them. Along with a number of others there, I took a few photos (below), and only one person objected, at which point I stopped taking photos.  I hope the Bolivians can resolve their differences peacefully and that I can discern when it is safe for me and other bystanders to pass through.

Morning Walk

This morning I walked with Blondie the cocker spaniel and also with my cane. Unfortunately I have to learn that small things can become challenges, like doing some toe raises to strengthen my calf muscles and discovering the next day (this actually happened last week) that I have probably given myself the third case of plantar fasciitis (left foot) in my lifetime and the first instance that did not occur while I was running.  So Blondie and I slowly made the circuit of the small park a half block up the street from us and just in front of the school named for Evo Morales' birthday.

School is in session for a few more weeks before the winter break. As usual, each morning women set up various carts and tarps to sell food and school supplies. At the crosswalk I waited until the student traffic guards gave me the nod to cross the street.  I was glad to see this because one of the consequences of paving the barrio streets is vehicles traveling at higher speed. The traffic guards were a community response to this, a good one, I think, because many of these students are in the primary grades and probably do not think that much about watching for speeding vehicles.  It is also good to see parents and grandparents walking hand-in-hand with children on the way to school. The traffic guards greeted us, and one asked if we had heard from the Cuthberts, the family of Maryknoll missioners who lived in the barrio for 6 years and returned to the US in January 2011.  I said we had not heard from them but would tell them hello if we did.  This was a comfortable encounter.  I felt like we were accepted as part of the barrio. 

Blondie was finding much to inspect as we circled homeward—calling cards from the street dogs (they are all wearing collars of yellow plastic tape, proof of recent vaccination against rabies) and lots of plastic litter. The sun topped the ridge an hour ago, and the pavement not blocked by the school building was warm. Walking away from the school, we crossed the street and came to the opposite corner.  This corner looked clean and new from all the changes: paving the street, replacing the outside adobe wall with brick and cement, planting several flowering bushes and then surrounding them with branches cut from thorn bushes to keep the street dogs from over-watering them.


Against the wall a large rock sat on the sidewalk.  It had been one of many before the construction began. Now it seemed out of place.  I wondered why it was still there. Then I remembered: a tiny old Quechua woman usually sits on it in the morning, warming herself in the sunshine, silent to me except for a good morning as I pass.  I had not seen her for the last two or three mornings and wondered if she were ill, or maybe away visiting family or friends,  or maybe sleeping in. The air was still cool, but the sunlight was warm.  I stood with my eyes closed. The sun was on my face. I had a day to get on with, but this moment opened up and welcomed me in.  I thought about sitting on the rock, but that would have been trespassing.  This was still her rock. It was enough to appreciate why she might sit there, watching a generation of children pass by, getting warm in the sun.                                                   

Father's Day

The sign behind me says "Do not touch the monkeys -
They can bite!" but my little friend can't read.

Yesterday was Father's Day in the United States. For the last three years I have acknowledged the Bolivian counterpart, celebrated on March 19. However, I also have intense Father's Day memories, both of my father and my children, on each third Sunday of June.  So it was yesterday when I remembered how much patience my father showed toward me.  I also thought about how far away Lynn and I are from our children and about how lucky I have been to be a father, learning through them more and more about life.   Yesterday I reflected on the close relationships our daughter and son had with each other, with their dogs and cats, with us.  I remembered that in college our son chose a campus job of working in a child care facility.  He remarked that they--the two- and three-year-olds he cared for--were great to be around but a little hard to relate to.  Lynn and I understood that and also that being a parent will make you want to do everything you can to understand them, set things right for them (or show them how)--even if it's an unexpected phone call with news that you would rather not hear.

Lynn and I once visited that facility where our son worked. We arrived at nap time, and it was a treat to see the children slumbering with their blankets and stuffed toys and the music of waves and whales. We knew that wasn't all their lives were about. We knew that those who had such a tranquil place for naps were fortunate. As a contrasting experience, here in Bolivia we know the difficulty of being among a large number of abandoned or orphaned toddlers, all eager for attention. I wondered what will become of them and the many more to come after them. I hoped they would not end up living and working on the street. 


I don't know, but I think the problem of abandoned or neglected children is not as great (not as great a percentage of the population) in the United States as it is here. However, we have our own problem set to contend with, that being that children disadvantaged from the outset may have little opportunity to rise from poverty throughout their lives. Obviously these children represent a lot of potential talent and leadership that may be lost because not enough attention and direction was given to them during their early years.  In the US we are fortunate to have a variety of programs that can benefit the care and education of disadvantaged children and parents, but for the programs themselves to survive budget tightening they must demonstrate effectiveness in preparing children to accept/qualify for any opportunities that may come their way. 


Yesterday, with these thoughts in mind, I read the first chapter (the free download chapter) of an interesting study published by the Brookings Institution Press: Investing in Children: Work, Education, and Social Policy in Two Rich Countries, by Ariel Kalil, Ron Haskins, and Jenny Chesters. The two rich countries are Australia and the United States. From what I could determine from the first chapter I think the study attempts to evaluate program strengths honestly for the purpose of influencing policy decisions affecting the futures of individuals in this population group.  Just as wellness education and wellness care seek to reduce rising healthcare and insurance costs centered on preventable maladies related to lifestyle choice, effective investment in childcare for the disadvantaged should offer more future citizens an option other than legacy poverty and comparatively greater expansion of the social safety net. The study Investing in Children seeks to determine what areas of investment have been effective.

Paving Guayacon Avenue

The south side of Guayacon, a broad avenue just to the south of Barrio Magisterio where Lynn and I live, gets a first coat of asphalt.  This is a welcome addition because the businesses bordering the south side of the street have been interrupted because of the construction.  The new paving will bring additional traffic and customers to the area.  The eventual plan is for Guayacon to pass through the mountain to the east by way of a tunnel.  This will divert truck traffic that currently passes along the highway that runs through the northern part of the city. This should improve the flow of traffic in and around Cochabamba.

Solemn Vows

Last night five Franciscan OFM brothers professed solemn vows at San Francisco Church on 25 de Mayo in Cochabamba. Hereafter, some may also become doctors, teachers or priests. The total process takes about 9 years to complete. Although the service was celebrated at night and in the middle of the week, the church was filled from front to back as well as the vestibule, the entranceway, the porch outside and the sidewalk by the street. The lay people joined in the recitation of prayers and hymns to celebrate the life commitment of the five young Bolivian men: Juan Carlos Narvaez, Leónidas Román, Wilder Barrientos; Wilber Sejas y Calixto Vallejos. Among those assisting in the Mass were most of the student friars that Lynn and I teach on Tuesdays and Fridays. (The photo is a frame grab from a short video taken using a Flip video camera from the back of the church. It does not capture the detail of the altar and the interior of the church, the second oldest in Cochabamba.) 

Closing Businesses for Non-payment of Taxes

When customers leave a business police may ask if they received a receipt, indicating whether tax was paid, which benefits the government and, perhaps, society. If customers cannot produce a receipt, the police may enter the business and close it for a period of three days as a penalty for not charging the tax.  Some negative chatter says that mostly small businesses in high traffic public places are targeted and that large businesses or corporations may pay no taxes at all. This photo was taken outside a coffee shop just off the Plaza Principal where Lynn and I meet with several other people for a weekly English conversation group.

Rurrenabaque and Madidi and Copacabana, Oh My!

It's Friday night in Qhochipampa,¹ and I feel so good I almost moseyed down to 6 de Agosto for a shot-ito of burro's milk...give my old lungs a new lease on something or other. The traffic on Heroinas has slowed since 6 pm, but it's still thick enough that the motoboys jockey for position at the intersections. Looking both ways twice, I walk on.  Not for me—it's time for a rest. I'm between class and meeting Lynn after the first feature (the Argentinian film El Secreto de Sus Ojos) of Filmanía, season three.² I'm taking a break at Cafe Paris on Plaza Principal. Yes, the double espresso is working just fine. I'm looking back. I see...I see... not only a forest of words but, there, flickering and chittering about in the underbrush, a rare idea or two.

A few weeks ago Tucker Daniel, Lynn and I took a trip to Rurrenabaque, Madidi, and Copacabana. All aspects of the trip went well. We were grateful about the expertise of the guides, both in navigating us up river into Madidi National Park and in conducting our day and night hikes on the trails around the lodge and in the canoes on the lake. At Chalalán a mix of mostly European travelers as varied as the wildlife hooting in the surrounding ecosphere gathered day or night at the main hall before disappearing into the dense forest to see the abundantly differentiated plants and animals flourishing in this preserve. Of those groups we saw return to the lodge, the individual faces beneath perspiration streaks and fumes of bug repellent always seemed to express quiet, pleased amazement that such natural beauty really exists, a world apart from their own routines, necessities, obligations and aspirations. Our own faces shared the amazement.

[Time passes....Different cups of coffee come and go....Two days later and just now after a dash (well, with joint pain, more at shuffle, but with much focus and flailing of arms as though my intent were a toss-up: jog or fly, or, conflatedly, flog) to round up and hustle out the garbage³ to the passing truck before the ding of its bell fades around the corner (the truck arrived early today, but it did arrive!), I can jot a bit more.]

Our Chalalán guide walked us through a brimming catalogue of Madidi wildlife. A native of the Tacana-Quechua community there and an experienced guide, he broadened our understanding of the complex, interrelated balance of the plant and animal life surrounding us. He told us about the uses of the plants for food, for health, for hunting, for building dwellings that seem to spring up organically from the surrounding forest, just as the Incas formed a stone city in the shelter of the mountains at Machu Picchu.⁴ Slowly we all experienced a tremendous sense of peace as we stood still to gaze at random shafts of mid-morning sunlight touching the forest floor, or to isolate the sound of a bird call from the wind in the tree branches high in the canopy.

Is finding paradise—let alone holding on to it—ever easy? Our journey into Madidi lasted only a few days. It had none of the life-threatening experience of President Theodore Roosevelt's brave but apparently reckless trip to the Brazilian Amazon region a century earlier.⁵ Lynn, Tucker, and I were there just to experience the environment, respect it, and to appreciate the way the Tacana-Quechua community worked together to create an environmentally low-impact tourism business that benefitted the people.  We understood from our guide that through taking the risk to build Chalalán and sharing the labor to reward the visitors, the community had a new school and a small hospital. We also understood that the survival of the Madidi environment was once again being threatened by the current government's renewal of plans to build the Bala dam, a project that would generate hydroelectric power to sell to Brazil at the expense of submerging most of Madidi National Park. I preferred to think that Chalalán, its people, and this region would stay above water on their own power, without even the intercessions of a Santo Daime, just pristine natural beauty.

So, if a trip to Bolivia sparkles on your horizon, don't just pop in to extract the lithium and be on your way. Saunter by the old albergue at Chalalán, and ask for Norm.  He'll show you a great time. He'll make you want to come back. He'll make you want to keep it so there's a place to come back to. Ah yes, and Copacabana? That's a better site for a big lake, and they've already got one:

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¹ Yowsa-yowsa-yowsa-cowabunga-yeehaw-woohoo! And may we all avoid becoming parodies of ourselves.
² A film study/discussion group held at Pastoral Juvenil, where Catholic students who attend San Simon University live and work. San Simon is state supported, so religious ministry cannot take place on campus. The Pastoral Juvenil building is about five blocks away from campus. L, a young friend from our own Barrio Magisterio (there are three in Cochabamba), is doing well in her first semester there.
³ Those acquainted with the "Thou shalt not flush the papel hyginico" rule here can appreciate the necessity and wisdom of timely disposal.
⁴ Thanks to E and T for accompanying Lynn and me to that wonder of the world, and worth several blog posts.
⁵ See Candice Millard's River of Doubt, a good read, sin duda.

Returning from the hospice, going to Plaza Principal

(I intended to post this entry two weeks ago.)
Yesterday, I saw a man and woman repairing a truck tire, putting it back on the rim. Though they seemed about the same age, they may or may not have been married. Still, for the way they were working together this had to be more than a casual relationship. To return the tire to the rim, the man used a large crowbar or makeshift tire lever to force the bead back over the rim. When his full strength was bearing down on the lever she, positioned on the opposite side, pounded the sidewall of the tire with a sledge hammer. She was grinning with each swing--I could tell because the grin remained after delivering each blow--and the tire was acquiescing to their guidance. Each time she delivered a forceful whop the man shouted encouragement. Soon the tire was re-rimmed, and he and she leaned on their tools and fetched big breaths in the intense midday sun. If they had not enjoyed their work, they seemed glad that it was done.

I travelled on toward the Plaza Principal at the center of town, noting the new signs for ingress and parking regulations posted near the silent statue of General Barrientos as vehicles--trucks, minibuses, taxis, buses, motorbikes, bicycles, and pushcarts--all jockeyed for position in the usual moiling midday crush at the traffic circle at Avenida Barrientos and 6 de Agosto.

Here, traffic was at least moving, but I wondered what new blockade or protest march awaited me at Avenida Heroinas at the city center.

Before I reached Herionas I had my answer: a group of angry-faced campesinos crowded each of the intersections leading into Plaza Principal. Most were clutching the handles of axes and adzes--turned away from their intended use--as though the protesters intended to clobber anyone who tried to drive a vehicle through their human barricade. Riot police were at the ready, but despite the regularity of protests at the plaza, it was always filled with so many uninterested or uninvolved passersby that it seemed an unlikely target for tear gas.

 On my way to the meeting of our afternoon English conversation group at Espresso, a small coffee bar behind the Cathedral, I asked several people if they knew who the protesters represented. They all replied that these were students from San Simon University, striking in solidarity with the doctors and other healthcare professionals to protest the government'a plan to impose on them a mandatory 8-hour workday in addition to their private clinic work and university teaching. Somehow these guys with the axe handles didn't look like the university type, not even the technical school type. Some lay sprawled in the street, their tools turned cudgels close at hand, others crouched on the newly color-coded curbs (indicating whether parking vehicles there were legal, this regulatory advance indicating another form of growing pain for Bolivia's urban centers), and still others stood in the middle of the street, chanting and forming an impassable throng.

I later learned from some of the students (J-J, F, and M) at Carcel Abra that these club-toting protesters represented the coca growers who, allied to President Evo Morales, were marching-blockading-protesting against the anti-government stance of the other three aforementioned groups, the doctors, other healthcare professionals, and students.

If dissent signifies a healthy democracy, then Bolivia is thriving. However, I am reminded of October 2010 when Lynn and I were stranded in La Paz for more than a week because the coca growers of the North Yungas (where we lived) blockaded the main road to protest the cultivation limit being imposed on them by the government. One consequence of this was that truckloads of other produce such as fruits and vegetables, which, like coca, were grown primarily for domestic consumption, rotted because the trucks transporting them could not pass through the blockades in time to reach markets.

Toward the end of the meeting of the English conversation group I received a telephone call that A, the man from Mali who is being detained at Abra, had his hearing that morning. Based on a plea bargain, his crime was reduced from narcotics trafficking (25-year sentence) to narcotics transporting (8-year sentence).

This news could be good or bad. I know that A, still insisting that he is innocent, was disappointed to receive even an 8-year sentence. Of course, with good behavior, such as attending classes, he can reduce further his prison time even further. At the hearing, as proof of his current good behavior he presented a certificate verifying his participation in my class. I had signed the certificate. It felt good that I had been able to help him. However, later today I was told that to receive the certificate he had to pay an official at the prison 50 bolivianos. This disturbs me because my effort to donate teaching time and his effort to work legitimately to reduce his sentence seem to be entangled in a process to extract profit from prison labor. Fifty bolivianos is not a lot of money, but the men at Abra are not able to earn much money from their work there, and the sale of certificates must lessen the motivation for either teaching or taking classes. I'm sure that if I ask for an explanation I will receive one.

Tonight Lynn and I attended an ecumenical service at a Methodist church in Cochabamba. This was my first visit to the church.  I was tired and would've preferred to go home and relax. When we arrived we knew only two other people there, two Franciscans. Appropriately, unity was the focus of the service, and while I thought this would be preaching to the choir, after my experiences on the day before, I thought that wouldn't be so bad.  Here's an excerpt from the Oracion Comunitaria used at the service:

That every human heart
Be attentive to the frontiers of divisions,
That suspicions be cleared,
That hatred and sin cease,
That we may heal the wounds of disunity,
And that we may live in justice and peace. . . .

Continuing Education

The English class at the Santa Vera Cruz hospice is challenging for me to teach because the students do not always attend.  The class is small--usually only 5 at most--so any absences alter the interaction and also make the overall progression uneven. This is just one of the realities to be accepted. Sometimes students must be away in order to visit the hospital for testing. This is the case with the AIDS patients.¹ Sometimes their level of pain makes it hard for them, and admittedly unrealistic, to focus on communication through any  language other than their own wincing.² Sometimes their medications make it hard for them to focus, so the effectiveness of my own teaching efforts is relative to the challenges of the moment,³ which include my own limitations. When I consider all of these potential obstacles I am happy when I can just walk in and teach the class.

However, circumstances sometimes arise when I'm glad that a student does not attend. This was the case last week when R2⁴ was not there when I arrived at the hospice to discuss the film War Horse. When I did not see him in class I presumed that he either was too ill to attend (he has told me that his doctors estimate his time to live as less than a year) or that he was at the hospital for tests. Neither was the case, which I found out when I had left the property and met him as two of the staff were returning with him to the hospice.  Despite his condition, he wanted to add his name and voice to the protest of the discapacitados (handicapped), a group that feels its members are not receiving fair consideration by the Bolivian government.

I thought about this as I went back down the road toward the intersection where I would enter the main highway north toward Cochabamba to return home. I was impressed that R2 wanted to join with other political activists and defend the right of the discapacitados to adequate care and acceptance by mainstream society. It was good to see him lean partway out of the car window and wave to flag me down.

As I approached the intersection, passing from the dirt road to the road paved with rocks, I saw the disassembled sections of several carnival rides--a ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and a spinning cup and saucer ride.  These rides were not made of a very heavy-gauge metal, nor were they newly painted.  They obviously had been assembled and disassembled many times as part of a traveling carnival. The rides had been disassembled this time after the completion of the celebration at Santa Vera Cruz in the past week to pray for health and increase for everything from livestock and crops to families and personal health.  This was a celebration rooted in traditions predating the arrival of the Spanish a few centuries back. Three children from the barrio were laughing as they strained to turn the base of the merry-go-round for just one more ride.

In a moment I was passing through carnival memories from my own childhood and from the childhoods of Emer and Norbert. It was hard to think of how many things had changed since the passing of all of the events that formed those memories, and it did seem ludicrous to think that the children might actually make the merry-go-round spin just by their own effort, but who could blame them for wanting to make it go just one more time?

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¹ The regularity of this may have been strained by the current conflict between the Bolivian government and the country's doctors and healthcare workers. The doctors and other healthcare workers, as well as those supporting them, such as the country's university students, have been protesting the government's efforts to ensure that the doctors provide an 8-hour-day's worth of their services to the public, this in addition to their hours of teaching as well as meeting the requirements of their own private clinics. I had a personal taste of the conflict last week when, attempting to pass through blockade lines across the highway to the men's prison to the east, I was first engulfed by a throng of fleeing students and then, after glimpsing a line of shield-and-truncheon-armed police advancing double time and shoulder to shoulder toward me, by a wave of tear gas that left me and most of the students gasping, wincing, and retreating to the side streets for untainted air. I suppose I had been taken in by the frequency with which I have been allowed to cross these barricades in the past and by my ludicrous confidence that the new ordinance requiring all blockades to be opened by 1 pm (my prison class meets at 2 pm) would be cheerfully and punctually honored by all protesting groups.
² At those times it always seems remarkable that they might be in class at all.
³ Of course, there are occasional unexpected challenges such as my arriving early only to find that E, the gatekeeper, is away and so I cannot enter to begin the class. Like many buildings here in Bolivia the hospice is enclosed within a wall that extends around the entire property, and the acreage of the property places the hospice beyond my shouting range. I do not have a telephone number to call the administrators of the hospice, the Calcutta Sisters, so when the gatekeeper is away my best option is to travel the quarter mile or so to the lower gate where usually someone within will hear when I press the door buzzer and will let me in. This is made more difficult in any season because the road to the lower gate is unpaved.  In the dry season the dirt turns to loose reddish dust about a half of a foot deep, especially challenging for me to navigate on foot because of the steep hill and the fact that my knees keep me from responding quickly if I stumble.  The same hazards exist in the rainy season but with the additional difficulty of having to progress cautiously even though each step adds more mud to the increasing weight of each shoe.  In the wet season it really is best if E is at the front gate.
⁴No, his last name is not D2. I refer to him as R2 (and I use that only to write about him here) because I have four students whose first names sound very similar to me, all begin with the letter R, and because R2 was the second R to join the class. Thus, R2.

A new class

On April 10 Lynn and I began teaching an English language class to a group of Franciscan friars here in Cochabamba.  The number of friars attending will be between 10 and 13.  The class meets on Tuesday afternoon and Friday night.  All of the friars had some English instruction during high school, and one of them has recently taken English classes at a local language academy. I understand that if they wish to study a language they are encouraged to learn Spanish, English, and French (I need to verify that). Besides being a friendly bunch of guys, they're interested in learning, and I'll try to maintain that. At the end of the first class I asked them to pose for this photo so I could begin associating names with faces:

The Franciscan convent where the class takes place dates from the 16th century and was renovated in the 1980s.

Lunch

Fifteen days into the season of hope and renewal, I think back to the Easter Sunday Lynn and I spent at Carcel Abra. We arrived there later than we intended, near the end of Mass, but were welcomed in to the security checkpoint, the main gate, the entrance into the prison, through the main building and on past the Evangelical church¹ to the Catholic church (there are two church buildings inside). I'm accustomed to the routine of leaving behind prohibited items, the frisking, and the stamping of my arm to mark that I have passed the two security gates, but it still leaves me feeling a little nervous and awkward. That faded as we approached the church and various people who knew us called out and waved. We waved back but didn't stop to talk because we were so late, and joined the celebration at the point of consecration of the host. This wasn't what we had planned. As we passed all too quickly back out of the church we were greeted by I, one of our students from the advanced English class. He and A, another of our students, handed each of us an Easter egg decorated with magic markers. Mine was decorated with red magic marker.  Lynn's was decorated with blue magic marker. We thanked them and apologized for being so late. They thanked us for being there at all and, after checking with their group leader, invited us to stay for lunch.

I can't say that lunch at Abra was the hot ticket for Easter feasting in Cochabamba, but it certainly helped Lynn and me to center ourselves on that day. We had imagined that after Mass we would look for a restaurant where we wouldn't think too much about how far away we are from friends and family.  As it turned out we had a very pleasant several hours to talk to our students there among the inmates, to meet others and to learn more about how they spend their time. We sat on benches and old folding chairs, all placed on the rocky ground of a slope near the end of the prison yard farthest from the main gate but within close watch by a guard in a nearby corner tower. The sky was clear. The air was dry. The sun was hot. To shield us from this, the men had tied some of their blankets to the chain-link fence and extended them over our chairs and benches with sticks.  There were not enough seats for everyone, but Lynn and I were given seats of honor beneath the sun shade, and they wouldn't allow us to give them up to anyone else.

Sometimes when the wind gusted down the slope it fanned the blankets so the supporting sticks fell, allowing the blankets to collapse against the fence. Depending on who was in the midst of chewing, cutting (plastic knives) or gulping, and who was standing by or closer to the free edge of the collapsed awning, we variously restored the sticks so all had shade.  As the cooks--the men themselves, a visiting cholita, and that nice Korean lady that comes to teach violin lessons--prepared our meal, we all talked about where we were from and what we were doing. Lynn and I answered questions about why we had come to Bolivia and what we hoped to accomplish while we are here.  They thanked us for coming so far from our homes and country and for spending time with them.  I sensed that they meant it.  Most of them had no friends or family visiting them, and I know how lonely it can feel to be alone during a time of celebration.

Our conversations drifted and mingled with the savory smoke from the parrilla, a good offering of thanks I hoped, rising up from the valley floor of dust, rocks, and scrub brush into the stark mid-afternoon sunlight rimmed by mountains. We ate what was very special fare for prison food: cheese rice, a salad of potatoes, peas and carrots, and beef steaks and chorizo hot off the parrilla. (V poked the chorizos with a stick to see if they were ready.) I did not feel that this food was too good for these people--Lynn and me included. We were feasting together and not judging each other, something like that moment in the movie War Horse when two men from opposing sides risk crossing their lines into no man's land to liberate a beautiful creation senselessly mired in filth and pain.

When lunch was over the visiting priest, also Korean, said a prayer of thanks that we were all able to share this peaceful meal together.  Lynn and I said goodbye to everyone and that we were looking forward to classes with them in the coming week.

On the way back toward the gate, we toured the garden where the men can grow some of their own vegetables as well as the shops where they assemble soccer balls and make small furnishings of wood (wine racks, picture frames, etc.,) in order to earn some extra money for food and other needs. We felt very good as we left, and we were glad that we had been invited to share their special meal.

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¹ Felix, pastor of the Evangelical church, passes Easter greetings to former missioner Michael Johnson.

Hush, little baby . . .

When Lynn and I walk in the city center here in Cochabamba we frequently pass beggars. A few may be walking and holding a hand out to catch your attention, maybe holding an old medical bill that they say they need help to pay.  Others, frequently women, sit on the sidewalk and beg with their possessions and often their infants or small children gathered close around them as well.  At first it seems charming that the babies--though usually wrapped too tightly for comfort--are sleeping.  However, not long ago Lynn pointed out how unusual it was that so many of the babies were asleep and remarked that maybe they were drugged. ¹


A week later Lynn brought this up again during an adult English conversation group. One of the participants said she believed that some of the children were drugged by letting them inhale the vapor of glue. We often see glue sniffers here, usually boys from about age ten to mid teens, passed out on the sidewalk, or reeling along in a semiconscious state. Despite the bleakness of this approach to a depressing life, it shows some small measure of choice that perhaps can be corrected before permanent damage occurs. With the sleeping infants, the destructive choice is made for them by their care givers. Tightly wrapped and quiet, they  promote sympathy for the poor mother with mouths to feed.


My first inclination was anger that infants would be victimized by their mothers, but then I wondered how much must have happened in the lives of these women that some of them at least were willing to risk their babies' health by rendering them more suitable as props in what must be a competitive business to maximize plight as a selling point. The competition here is acute because along some blocks we may see three to four such family units encamped at intervals along the sidewalk. And this method of attracting attention can only add to the long-term difficulties each mother will face if her children grow with less than normal faculties. 


I would like to say that suddenly--despite the risk of addiction--the Victorian use of quietness doesn't seem so bad, but I don't really feel that way.  Instead,  the women seem like desperate prisoners on the sidewalk, in need of any kind of education that will enable them to support themselves and their children in some less destructive way.² And where are the fathers?

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¹We knew about the practice in Victorian England of using quietness to make children and babies sleep while mothers had to work.  This reminded me of a recent passage from Isaiah 49:14-15: 

"Can a mother forget her infant, be without tenderness for the child of her womb? Even should she forget,

I will never forget you."
²Of course, we see healthy relationships, like a young mother and her two-year-old son on a road on my way to Abra. He apparently had gotten his feet dirty. She sat him on a rock and was washing his feet with handfuls of water she dipped from a bucket. And as she ran her fingers over his toes he was laughing, and then she was too.

Potholes

Two weeks ago I was on my way to teach at Carcel Abra. The rain was falling steadily but not hard. As usual here the temperature dropped before the rain began so the air felt like what I remember from a cold spring in the United States.  The trip east was a little more challenging than usual, with standing water in the curves as the rainwater quickly exceeded the capacity of the drains--when there were drains--or the capacity of the surrounding terrain to absorb any more water. Rooster tails of spray shot out as vehicles spun along.

At Sacaba the detour for the highway east was still in place. The paving crew had to stop during the rain.  This sent me and my transit buddies over a section of road paved with rock and with numerous potholes and what on these roads serves the same purpose as a speed bump--a trough or indentation. At least the rain kept down the otherwise thick dust in the road (especially when unusually heavy traffic rumbles over it, dropping visibility to about a car's length), but the traffic was just as thick and unmanaged as we all dashed forward in land rush free-for-all style on both lanes and in both directions to get back to the main road.  This was at times like those moments of disorientation when maybe surrounded by nothing but water and sky or just stolen away by my own thoughts I suddenly look about and briefly am not sure of what's up and what's down. At least the blockade from earlier in the week had also stopped and we could pass to our destinations.

We merged back onto the main road. After two more kilometers we passed from pavement to stones to mud, city giving way to town and then to sparse community, brick giving way to adobe, adobe giving way rain-by-rain to mud and then dust again. My appetite for it all was a bit dampened too, but then I was and am in the cuaresma¹, so 'tis the season.

Between watching for potholes and--it was impossible to read with this much jolting--musing on a movie scene², I wondered if I would have a good class, good being when more than a few students show up, that they seem interested, and that my own mind can stay on topic enough to reward their interest.  I recalled that toward the end of the previous semester attendance dropped and with that my interest sometimes waned. My challenge then was to keep my own attitude from influencing that of the students.

I passed a dog sitting on top of a rubbish heap, trying to escape the pooling water below.  I was glad that my books and papers were stowed in plastic bags. Water seemed to creep into everything.  And the people along the way looked stressed, hurrying along, trying to stay dry.  I saw no umbrellas or rain gear on them, only the occasional pancho. This soggy day was not for dawdling. I mentally thumbed through some resources.³

As I said, I hoped for a good teaching day--reasonable attendance, interested students, maybe a few jokes to keep it light--and that's just what it turned out to be. When class was over and I chatted with the men about things related to their upcoming hearings, or their medication needs, and  their desire to have certificates for their work in the class so they could prove their progress with a constructive activity and maybe reduce their sentence time. Nothing seems to happen without a struggle.
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¹Lent/Carnaval, elige su punto de vista, but isn't that like life.

²It was the scene from the film Amarcord in which a man apparently tired of being alone climbs a tree, refuses to come down, and begins shouting "I need a woman!" Soon his wish is granted. A woman arrives--a sharp-tongued midget nun.   It was a funny scene, but then I thought maybe a midget nun wasn't such a bad thing if she had what he actually needed at the moment, even if he didn't think so.

³"Just as from the heavens
the rain and snow come down
And do not return there
till they have watered the earth,
making it fertile and fruitful,
Giving seed to the one who sows
and bread to the one who eats,
So shall my word be
that goes forth from my mouth;
It shall not return to me void,
but shall do my will,
achieving the end for which I sent it."
(Isaiah 55: 10-11)

"¡Oh alto y glorioso Dios!, ilumina las tinieblas
de me corazón y dame fe recta, esperanza cierta y
caridad perfecta, sentido y conocimiento, Senor,
para que cumpla tu santo y veraz mandamiento."
(San Francisco. Oracion ante El Crucifijo
de San Damian.)

"My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself,

and the fact that I think I am following your will

does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you

does in fact please you

and I hope that I have that desire

in all that I am doing.

And I know that if I do this,

you will lead me by the right road

although I may know nothing about it.

Therefore will I trust you always

though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death,

I will not fear, for you are ever with me

and you will never leave me to face my perils alone."                                                                          
(Thomas Merton)

Change-ups and Connections

Along with my wife's shift to teaching in a different location,¹I decided to change things up a bit, and that now seems fortunate. I had been teaching three days a week at Carcel Abra, the men's prison for those with longer term punishments.  Attendance was declining so it seemed that I could reduce the time there to two days per week and combine two classes into one.  So far, this has been a good idea because the more advanced ones can help the beginners, and if need be, I can always change again since attendance is voluntary.   I also hope to shift some of the time to other activities there--a few hours in open invitation to play chess or checkers and talk.  One assistant is himself an interesting case.  He's an African, not Afro-Boliviano, awaiting trial on suspicion of drug trafficking.² His English is pretty good--as well as French and Arabic--but he speaks very little Spanish, so participating in class helps him learn some Spanish and overcome some of his cultural isolation and depression.  He's requested a Spanish/English Bible, a vial of blest olive oil and a phone call to his lawyer. I'm trying to get him the English Bible and have put in a request to the Calcutta sisters (Mother Theresa's gang) for the Spanish Bible and the oil. The call to his lawyer is one more appropriately handled by a Maryknoll missioner who is also an attorney volunteering for the Archbishop's office here in Cochabamba. So, my efforts in this case are mostly that of sorting or connecting, and when it works, it feels good--even with so basic a role as chasqui,³ delivering medications to the prison occasionally when a prisoner has a valid prescription request.

The change-ups were also valuable for refocusing my work at the hospice at Santa Vera Cruz.  I visited this morning to reschedule my work and discovered that new patients have arrived.  Despite their personal health issues they want to participate in a class. Also I decided to try and expand my work into yet one more site, in this case to volunteer in one of the houses in the Amanecer Foundation in Cochabamba to provide a safe, stable home environment for orphaned and abandoned children. It was in applying there recently that I discovered my application would be reviewed by Brian Vetter, a friend and former teacher/track coach of one of the Washington, DC contributors to my mission here.  When Lynn and I were close to departing for Bolivia in December 2009 I was told that I might encounter Brian while we were here.  I had just about decided that was not likely to happen when his name came up in conversation when I was applying to teach in one of the Amanecer houses.  So, I hope to be favorably vetted by Brian Vetter and to volunteer with this lamentably far too abundant group of young people here.
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¹She is now teaching English and Catechesis in a Franciscan high school, San Francisco and Santa Clara, in a neighborhood to the west of where we live.
²This seems to accord with a remark in the Rough Guide to Bolivia (thanks, Tim Marcy) that there are a number of foreigners languishing in Bolivian jails related to drug trafficking charges. This person, A, told me that he made the mistake of agreeing to carry a couple of suitcases for a man in exchange for a free airplane ticket back to his homeland--Ghana, I believe--and was arrested in the Cochabamba airport when the bags were inspected. If any of that can be proven, he might be released after review, but that will take place in a minimum of 6 months. So, he has some time on his hands.

Chas Chasquito

³A messenger for the Incas. Here's one pictured on a replica amulet Lynn bought on Isla del Sol. We really have enough of these items--we have a small collection of them hanging from nails on the mantel of a small fireplace in the house that we rent.

"Come, and you will see."

Frequently I am too caught up with the details of my own activities¹ to be aware of events that might change my opinions, improve my outlook. This morning I was setting up a couple of pots of water to boil and filter. Someone rang at the outside gate.  It was raining, just as it has been every day for the past two soggy weeks.  I didn't want to go to the gate because I didn't want to walk out in the rain. I didn't want to be diverted by someone selling something. I wanted to complete the simple task of preparing more water for daily use. Then the ringer sounded again--three buzzes, quick and sharp. All right then. I left my task, ready to be just as quick and sharp with dealing with the intruder.  After all, I was busy with . . . boiling some water.

It was Pedro from up the street.  I wasn't expecting to see him.  He owed me 200b. Then I remembered it was Saturday, the day he said he would pay it back.  He was grinning. He handed me 200b and thanked me for the loan. I quickly said "any time," glad that he had repaid me--both because of the money and because I didn't want him to feel awkward for having an unpaid debt.²  His need was honest enough--the day before school resumed for his three children he didn't have enough to cover the cost of fees and books. And now he was covering the shortfall.  We stood there chatting about whether this year we were having more rain than usual, whether the walls and roofs of the houses--especially the adobe houses--could take it, which communities had flooded.³ Then we realized that we were both getting wetter. We started laughing and took a rain check on the chat.

I returned to the kitchen where I noted that the unwatched pots of water were boiling.  Also the sun came out. Apparently it and the rain were doing the vegetable garden a lot of good. Our garden was originally created by the family that lived here before us, the Cuthberts.  We're just trying to maintain their good work and keep the compost heap turned.  We've got tomatoes, chard, spices (sage, parsley, anise, oregano, mint, and basil), and compost.

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  ¹Like the shepherds in the song I quoted in my previous post, I sometimes need a reminder to attune myself to significant events and deeper meanings around me, to look beyond the borders of self for needed answers.  So it was with a portion of one gospel passage, Ῥαββεί (ὃ λέγεται μεθερμηνευόμενον Διδάσκαλε), ποῦ μένεις; λέγει αὐτοῖς Ἔρχεσθε καὶ ὄψεσθε.' (John 1:35-42), which I read very late one night and more or less sailed through without more thought than that to discharge a chore, which was not my intent.  In Mass later that day Padre David urged the congregation to pause and think about the implications of that brief peripatetic exchange between two disciples and Jesus, so I did, running across Socrates' remark again, "the unexamined life is not worth living," and continuing on the road.
 ²He cuts grass in his spare time. In the rainy season the grass grows quickly. He does well so long as the grass is dry enough to cut. Earlier I had been listening to Merle Travis sing Sixteen Tons, reminiscing about the hard life of coal miners that Lynn, Emer, Norbert and I learned about once when we visited Stearns, Kentucky. The thought of Pedro converting to debt bondage on my watch wasn't cheery.
 ³The week before I had been traveling on Heroinas, one of the main thoroughfares in the city, when it had over a foot and a half of water that did abate quickly.  And on another avenue in the city, Suezia, that would mean raw sewage running out onto the street from the overloaded drain system. And life keeps on going.