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.

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