Out and About

It was a rather ordinary Thursday afternoon in Santa Cruz de la Sierra when the three foreigners—two girls, one from Peru, the other from Italy, and a guy from the U.S.—climbed up the short, narrow stairway of the bus that would take them halfway across the country.  The itinerary was far from definite, though they had a general idea of where they wanted to go—“general ideas” were about the best one could hope for as far as planning goes in a country like Bolivia.  Yet, despite the uncertainty and the sweltering heat, the sweatshirts and coats and hats stuffed in the bottom of their backpacks signaled, at the very least, a definite intention to seek out cooler climates.  It was to Sucre they meant to go first and, after 14 hours or so and a handful of pesky on-bus sales pitches, they arrived in Bolivia’s cultural capital, the colonial, tranquil city that, as it so happened, was hosting a ‘Night of Museums’ that very evening.

SUCRE

The funny thing about Sucre is that the mere mention of the name sets off a series of confused and puzzled responses regarding the status of Bolivia’s capital.  For the record, Sucre was in the past the capital, but now is only the ‘cultural’ capital—the government rests in La Paz, though Santa Cruz is unarguably the economic capital. 

Sucre was indeed our initial stop, but first a bit of background on the trip, because I, at least, was surprised to be traveling only 2 months into my Bolivia excursion.  My two traveling companions:  Karina from Peru and Diana from Italy.  Karina, wanting to travel a bit before leaving Bolivia, invited me along on what was initially her trip, justified as a sort of ‘grand finale’ to our time together working on the research project.  Diana wanted to come along as well—the more the merrier.  Traveling with a native of the continent makes a world of difference:  throughout the journey, Karina haggled over nearly every price we met and probably saved us hundreds of Bolivianos, not to mention some confusion navigating what could be at times a ‘spontaneous’ bus system.  I’m not quite sure how one goes about purchasing an ‘aisle’ seat on the bus, but for a good deal of the ride to Sucre, I had an ancient indigenous woman who only spoke Quechua resting on my knee.  Between her and the various men who climbed on board to pitch various ‘new’ and ‘novel’ substances that cured everything from bed wetting to aching bones, it was a comical voyage.

But back to Sucre—an absolutely beautiful city.  The streets wound up and down the mountain, and, in order to catch a glimpse of the city in its entirety, we climbed to the summit—quite the trek, to say the least.  It’s a peaceful, quiet city, and the majority of the walls are white-washed with stucco roofing.  We happened to arrive in the city for the ‘Night of Museums’ which meant after 6pm everything was free.  We killed some time looking at dinosaur footprints—not sure why so many dinosaurs passed through Sucre, but in a quarry just outside the city there’s a collection of over 500 prints from 8 species of dinosaurs.  We found ourselves in the Folkloric Museum that night learning about indigenous culture, confronted by some pretty awesome traditional masks, and watching a video about that exploitation of indigenous resources.  We also wandered over to the Cathedral museum—kind of lame; just a lot of gold and silver and a weird candle ceremony.  We didn’t even get to see the inside of the Cathedral!  Then Diana and I took a rather lengthy cab ride to a rather odd ‘castle’ just outside city.  Empty, poorly labeled, and full of people.  (“How much to get to the castle?”  “Which castle?”  “How many castles do you have in this city?”)

It was the Salar de Uyuni that originally inspired their voyage—its promise of otherworldly sights and grand adventures was too much to pass up.  An expanse of white as far as the eye could see?  Flamingos nesting in red lagoons?  Buildings made entirely of salt?  The Salar de Uyuni—in reality, the entire southwestern circuit—was said to be one of Bolivia’s most intriguing attractions, something not to be missed.  And so, rested from their peaceful stay in Sucre, our travelers set out for Uyuni by way of Potosí.  Rolling hills of green dotted by the occasional llama sped past the bus as it climbed through the Bolivian wilderness, up and over mountain passes, across seemingly dessert-like terrain, winding around otherwise treacherous dirt and dust roads, passing rock and brick buildings long abandoned to the elements. 

UYUNI & THE SOUTHWESTERN CIRCUIT

The city of Uyuni looks like it could be aptly placed the end of the world—chilly, with short, random, colorless buildings placed on either side of wide streets.  The first thing to do in Uyuni was find a suitable tour agency to make the trek into the ‘wild’ and, while we did at one time have 4 possibilities, our minds were made up when, in our first choice, we encountered angry Israelis raving about the injustices done them on their journey and, in our second choice and ultimate agency of preference, we met pleasant, contented Austrians who just returned from a lovely experience.  The next day we set out, joined by Raul our driver and 3 Canadians who were exploring South America. 

Words lack in describing what we saw.  We drove through small, dusty villages that were settled in and around magnificent natural phenomenons.  The Salar itself was an endless array of white—the largest salt flat in the world, we saw trucks coming and going transporting salt and building mini mountains to be collected on future voyages.  We climbed the Isle of the Incas, a patch of rock and cacti (the largest and oldest in the world) in the center of an otherwise blank landscape.  Two llamas greeted us.  We slept that night in a hotel of salt; literally everything was made from salt.  The next morning we rose with the sun.  The following two days were full of crazy rock formations, towering mountains, steaming volcanoes (though we were assured only the Chilean side was active), lagoons of green, blue, and red full of 3 species of flamingos, geysers, hot springs, and other wonders.  Our jeep only popped a tire once, though we did have to stop several times to check the engine.  And we made it to the Chilean border to drop off the Canadians.  An outrageously awesome adventure!

Tupiza had been an uncertain addition to the itinerary, though the promised beauty of ‘Bolivia’s Wild West’ and the potential for a horseback riding adventure drew the travelers to the mountainous terrain.  Only a short ride from Uyuni, the bus deposited the weary wanderers in a town that had yet to see the rising sun.  An old, nearly deaf man offered them cold bread and hot drinks for breakfast, and, with the little light provided at 6am, they walked the silent streets, feeling as though they’d stumbled into an old western film. 

TUPIZA

We had originally given up hope on riding horses after being told they cost nearly Bs. 300, but as luck would have it we found an agency offering 5 hours of horsebacking riding through the canyons of Tupiza for only Bs. 150, lunch included.  Whoa.  There is no other way to see the terrain of Tupiza—rolling mountains, dessert like landscape, sandy terrain dotted with scraggly trees and bushes, and as many colors imbedded in the rock and stone as in an art museum.  Again, pictures are really necessary here, especially if you want to see me in a cowboy hat.  Turns out horses are a little more uncomfortable than I thought, and maybe saying, “Yeah, I’ve ridden before,” referring to lesson I’d taken when I was 5 was a bad idea.  Maybe then they’d have given me more instructions then “left, right, stop.”  But we rode up sandy hills, descended steep terrain, passed under rocky alcoves, and crossed the Canyon of the Duende, where apparently a witch once lived collected sacrifices to fulfill a pact with the devil. 

Though Potosí was originally a question mark on the itinerary, the tragic mark the city has left on Bolivian history elevated the impoverished community to an essential stop, especially since it was along the way back to Santa Cruz.  Cursed by mines full of silver, legend says that an indigenous llama herder stumbled upon the riches and soon the Spanish conquerors followed.  It is commonly said that a bridge could be built from Potosí to Spain with the silver found within those mines; it is not so commonly said that a similar bridge could be built using the bones of the those who lost their lives in the exploitation that followed. 

POTOSÍ

It turns out we arrived in Potosí on the 201^st anniversary of the city.  The city was alive with parades and music, and we got to watch some folk bands perform and dance in the afternoon.  The mines were what drew our attention, and, though we had little money for another guided tour, we found our way to the Cerro Rico and Karina found a miner willing to talk to us.  It was a day of contradictions: the celebratory atmosphere of the city, proud of their history and culture against the bleak, devastating work of the miners.  We saw many men and children at work in and about the mines, and many woman sitting outside houses that were built right on top of the mountain.  Though we didn’t enter the mines, we did get to wander briefly through a dark, dank tunnel.  The miner encouraged us to climb to the summit, and we did, following a little boy named Ernando who, when he wasn’t in school, gave tours of the mines.  He was ten years old.  He told me the legend of the llama herder and mentioned the commonly held belief that the devil, “Tío,” lurked in the mines.  We reached the summit in time to be greeted by a lightning storm and so quickly climbed back down.  Back in the city, amidst the parties and music, we caught a film—La Tentación de Potosí (The Temptation of Potosí)—which was a documentary inquiring into this idea that the devil hid in the mine.  Certainly anything that was able to turn such apparent riches into so much death, destruction, and sustained exploitation must be demonic at the roots. 

And so the journey came to an end and, after two police searches and a much delayed bus, the weary travelers found themselves once again in Santa Cruz, the heat an unwelcome old friend.

The funny thing about being back is that now everything changes: Karina leaves, and so the research project is more or less over, a few lingering pieces left; with the commencement of ‘summer’ vacation at the end of November, English classes will end and Barrio Juvenil will close and most of the kids will go home, wherever that might be.  Even my mandolin lessons are ending, though I’m trying to find a new place to continue.  I find myself rather impatiently waiting for the next stage, whatever that might be.  Sitting idly has never been a strong point in my personality, though perhaps it will be when all is said and done? 

       

          

Main Characters

I’ve felt at times in the past that I’m not the main character in my own story.  There might have been so much going on or so many other people in my life busying themselves with one task or goal or another, that I often felt like I was playing a supporting role, a Gandalf or an Obi-Wan Kenobi type of character, perhaps.  At times, I would find that type of role intriguing—after all, who wouldn’t want to be the wizened old wizard or the Jedi master, the one who could supply answers and advice at precisely that moment of crisis?  But there were other times, too, when I felt robbed of ‘my story,’ when I felt as though all I was good for was a helpful word here and there, and otherwise other people were off living the adventures.

It seems to me that one of the biggest challenges for anyone who goes abroad for any period of time—or probably for anyone who steps outside what they know to be good and comfortable—is that suddenly they’re not just the main character; they’re the only character, and they seem to be surrounded by a handful of ‘extras’.  For me, this continues to be a tempting and dangerous reality.  It’s obvious that it’s hard to build strong relationships with or find support from people you consider as ‘extras’ in the great story of your life.  And yet, a constant question when encountering anybody new is, how long will this person be in my life?  An inability to answer this question often leads to uncertainty about how to proceed in the relationship, how much to give, how much to receive.  And certainly this conundrum is only compounded across language barriers. 

But most dangerous of all, I’ve found, is that when you relegate people to the role of ‘extras’, it becomes increasingly simple to separate yourself from them, to build a line of division which you justify yourself in not crossing.  “I don’t need to learn the names of all the kids in Hogar Don Bosco,” I might tell myself.  “After May, I’ll never see them again.”  Or, “If I want to hide in my room and read instead of sitting and talking with other community members, I can; after all, they probably can’t understand me anyway and I don’t need to try to make them—it’s not that important in the long run.”   

Certainly, I’ve found I need to take time for myself.  I think one of the most mentally, emotionally, and spiritually draining aspects of living and working in Bolivia is an overwhelming lack of ‘safe spaces.’  What do I mean by this?  Nearly every moment of every day, I need to be ‘on.’  When I’m eating lunch or dinner, I need to be engaging the kids I’m surrounded by (or perhaps the other volunteers) in a language and culture to which I remain a foreigner.  At breakfast or when I’m just lounging around in the common room writing or reading, I need to be ready to meet and greet another volunteer and carry on a conversation.  When I help with the research project, I’m often surrounded by teachers or administrators who constantly look over my shoulder, peppering me with comments and questions, or I have to constantly be on the lookout for Karina’s next instruction—again, all in Spanish, all clouded with frustration.  When I go to Barrio, I need to be ready to play games that I might not know or be good at and have conversations that I might not understand, all while fighting off an overwhelming feeling of uselessness.  And when I teach English, I have to be ready to meet with failure.  All of this I have to do while constantly afraid that I might miss that key word in the sentence or that all-important cultural cue, and the meaning of what might be happening all around will elude me.  And even when I have time in my room alone, I constantly feel as though there is more I should be doing, that my schedule is too light, or that I should be “out there” helping.  Even when I sleep I’m not safe—the phone might ring, someone might come to the door, and when I sleep at Barrio, I have to ward off bugs and be ready to greet the boys in the morning.     

It only seems natural that I should need some moments to recharge, but where can I go to get them?  Writing and reading, learning to play the mandolin, journaling, prayer—these are all good and viable outlets.  But I still can’t help feeling the lack of ‘safe space’ pressing in around me, and most troubling of all, in each moment of ‘safety’ I suffer from a fear of what is to come next—I may have had a great conversation with Mauricio on the bus from Barrio this morning, but I doubt I’ll be able to do that again; English class went great today, but how will I ever mirror such a productive lesson next time?  And so on. 

If you’ve read to this point and are thinking, “Man, Eric is talking a LOT about himself,” there’s a good reason for that—this is the perspective of someone who is the only character in the story. 

           

Did the kids learn something from that ‘failed’ English class?  I don’t care; I felt terrible afterwards. 

           

Was it encouraging to the Barrio boys to see me at dinner tonight?  Doesn’t matter to me; I felt useless. 

I think these are the kinds of sentiments that hide between the lines of my thoughts and feelings, and it is against these sentiments that I must in every moment exercise caution.  But it’s hard—I want to feel useful; I want to feel safe.  I want to know that I can repeat the successes tomorrow that I’ve enjoyed today. 

As she often does, Alli provided two essential pieces of insight to help me process what I’ve been grappling with above.  First, in reflecting on a book that literally everyone has told me I must read, Tatoos on the Heart by Greg Boyle, Alli reminded me that, rather than being called to be ‘men and women for others’—an oft quoted Jesuit mantra—we are called to be ‘men and women with others.’  Is this really that big of a difference?  YES.  Instead of me doing for Bolivia, I can simply be with Bolivia.  As much as I might like to convince myself otherwise, I haven’t brought any pearls of wisdom or magic beans to this country; I’ve brought a college grad who likes to read and write, isn’t very good at sports, and has something of an obsession with reflection.  As Fr. Ivan reminded me in confession last Sunday (which, as you might imagine, was something of an adventure in Spanish), volunteers don’t come to Proyecto Don Bosco as ‘experts’ in something, though they certainly bring particular gifts.  Rather, volunteers come for the singular purpose of accompanying the youth in whatever manner that volunteer is most capable. 

Second, Alli reminded me—in grappling with her own Ecuadorian experience—that the people here existed before I arrived and will continue to do so once I leave.  She noted that, while it may be frustrating to sit in awkward silence with a Bolivian or an Ecuadorian, it’s okay—if I wasn’t here, they’d be in silence anyway.  What’s most important is my simple presence, that persistent, “I’m here with you, and even if I can’t articulate it, know I’m here out of love and solidarity.”

Most of all, these bits of insight remind me that I’m not the only character in this Bolivian experience, and, in fact, I’m not even the main character.  I’m one of a cast of hundreds, thousands, and I’m called to play my role, simple as it might be, though most likely always in a state of flux.  My role, as one member of a rather large cast, is to respond with joy and flexibility, to recognize and embrace my own limitations and respond in love where I can.  This role says that it’s okay to go to Barrio and just have dinner with the young people I encounter and play a few rounds of cards; I don’t have to infuse the minds of the youth with profound wisdom.  This role says that it’s okay to teach the kids how to sing “Hey, Soul Sister” in English class because I don’t need to turn out perfect little English-speaking citizens; I need only meet the kids where they are, and where they are is in a place that desires to sing the songs they hear on the radio just a little bit better.  And yes, this role says that when I’m tired or worn down or simply desire to sit and read in the quiet of my own room, I can—after all, the Bolivian world isn’t relying on me to keep things moving forward, and so I can retreat now and again —I can try to turn myself ‘off’—and be okay with that.

But there is a deeper invitation buried within these reflections, and God, I think, has been quietly nudging me in a frightening direction.  I’m not the main character—I might not even be a supporting character!—and the fate of Bolivia does not rest on my shoulders.  I am called merely to struggle humbly and joyfully, to succeed where I can and to learn from those moments of failure.  I am called to simply be.  What does this mean?  It means that I am being offered a great moment of liberation, that I can step outside those ‘safe spaces’ and still feel ‘safe.’  It means, essentially, that despite all appearances, there are no successes and failures, only moments of grace, moments of community, moments of love.

I’ve spent the better part of the last two weeks doing a rather tedious bit of data entry for the research project.  I’ve been traveling to the various schools in the two neighborhoods we’re researching and collecting pieces of information on nearly each and every student—where they live, where they were born, etc.  When I began this part of the project, my pride flared up:  “This is the kind of work you give an intern who is trying to claw his way to the top!  I didn’t fly across two continents for this!”  And so my spirit suffered, and I became rather irritable.  But then a new avenue appeared:  while it’s true that this is the kind of work one might do to climb the ladder of success, I don’t have to worry about that here.  I need only work quietly and humbly and see what there is to see.  My frustrations abated somewhat, and suddenly I saw another side of Bolivia:  I glimpsed a bit of the inner workings of Bolivian schools; I enjoyed minor moments of hospitality—a soda here, a smile there; I got to practice my Spanish in new settings where I had only myself to rely on; and so on.

Embracing this form of liberation, seeking to step outside my ‘safe spaces’ to meet God in the challenge, the ugly, the troubling, and the frustrating, allows me to be more present to the moment.  If there is nothing to gain and nothing to lose, why bother myself with assumed expectations, both my own and others?  If all I can do is my best, if all I can do is be present to the moment, what the moment needs, and allow myself to both succeed and fail, then that has to be enough. 

It seems as though the other volunteers and workers with whom I live find me funny.  Not my jokes, so much (no surprise there), but my general approach to life, my mistakes, my attitude.  This can be fun—it allows me to do goofy things, to tune my mandolin while cooking dinner, to walk around with a handful of half-eaten crackers, to wear blue and yellow shorts with a lime green t-shirt—another opportunity for liberation, stepping beyond expectations and allowing myself to be present to the good and bad.  As Henri Nouwen noted in the book I just finished, Gracias!, I am being afforded the opportunity to be child-like, to ask silly questions and make silly mistakes.  But this can be disheartening as well, especially when it seems everyone is laughing at my Spanish or my accent or my inability to understand.  Yet, again, I must smile and allow that failure to be—I am not being tested; there’s no final exam.  I just have to keep moving forward.  Difficult?  Incredibly.  But with a constant call to humility, I am learning much.

Henri Nouwen noted that there are countless moments of extreme joy and extreme depression, that we find these moments in both those things we thought we’d love doing and those that we thought we’d hate.  The only constant thing we can rely on is the fact that these moments exist.  And so we have a choice—we can live for those moments of extreme, or we can seek to live in a state of spiritual continuity, to exist in the in-between.  I think this latter option allows us a better spontaneity to be open to the demands of the present moment.  Certainly, it is difficult for me to come away from a moment of great joy and satisfaction—will I be able to find such success in the next moment?  Will I be able to hold such a fulfilling conversation in Spanish with the next person I encounter?  But this form of liberation to which I feel called says not to worry, to put myself in all moments, challenging and enjoyable, and allow what will be to be. 

I’ve thought not a few times about last semester and how busy I was in comparison to my time so far in Bolivia.  I definitely saw myself as a main character—I was integral to the Communion Services, to the Eucharistic Ministers, to my residents in the Ignatian Residential College; I had to work hard at KPMG for my own benefit.  Perhaps I was wrong; perhaps in the end it’s better not to be the main character but to merely be part of a larger cast, all working together to create a grand saga of stories.  Perhaps that is the attitude I would have done better to adopt last semester; who knows what graces could have come from that?  Perhaps that is what we’re all called to.  I guess I’ll have to wait and see in the coming days, months, and when I return home.

During my VIDES training this past July, I was introduced to the Mission Mysteries of the Rosary while at Maryknoll headquarters.  One of the mysteries offers a reflection on the Roman Centurion who sought out Jesus in the hopes that he would heal a sick servant.  This story was important to my prayer this week:  here we see a man who leaves his home to meet God in a foreign place, to ask a simple question in the hopes that this journey will result in a new grace back in his own home.  Why is it we must leave our home—what is known and comfortable—to meet God so far away?  Certainly, this ‘distance’ doesn’t just mean a physical journey; God invites us ‘far away’ in many different ways.  But for me, what was most important about this story was the faith of this man…what kind of faith motivates a person to such an adventure, an adventure grounded in an extreme form of trust?  This Centurion was no ‘main character’—we hardly see him at all, in fact.  But his simple action—or perhaps not-so-simple action—challenges me to seek out this kind of faith in my own life, to base my own actions on a trust that I can’t quite comprehend.  It is through this trust, I think, that I will be able to move from moment to moment, from joy to sorrow, without falling into uncertainty and depression.  In faith and trust—and of course, constant gratitude and humility—perhaps I can better embrace this idea of liberation, this opportunity to simply be with people, allowing myself to endure the bumps and bruises, the joys and wonders that God provides along the way.   

  

Sacraments of Humility

I’ve been saying a lot lately that I often feel as though, since coming to Bolivia, I’ve learned more about what I can’t do and what I’m not good at than anything else.  But, like I’ve said in early posts, I came to Bolivia with the prayer that I would encounter humility, that I would be humbled and made to see the experiences of each day with new eyes.  I think it’s safe to say that I am on that path now, and there doesn’t seem to be an end (or opportunity to make a U-turn) in sight.  But that’s fine—this is an important part of my experience, perhaps the important part of my experience, and it’s something I mean to stick to, no matter how difficult.  Am I looking for pity or sympathy or an “Aw, Eric; it’ll be okay.”  No.  (Well, maybe!)  There are lessons to learn during every step of life—some that last longer than others—and this happens to be the one I’m working on now.  So, what I am looking for, what I hope to grapple with in this post as well as in the coming months, is a way of looking at these humbling experiences, to transform them from moments of embarrassment and frustration to graces through which God can move and mold my heart and mind. 

Has my Spanish improved?  Yes, but that doesn’t mean I understand everything people say to me.  That doesn’t mean there aren’t still countless moments each week where I am stuck, dumbfounded, repeating “Como?” or “Qué?” while the other person shakes their head and tries to choose words I might understand.  That doesn’t mean that the kids at Barrio can’t still snicker and laugh at me when I miss a joke or an insult or when they ask me to translate dirty words that I don’t know in Spanish to English.  That doesn’t mean that my community-mates don’t at times simply give up trying to explain something to me because they themselves grow frustrated with my slow improvement. 

I’m no star athlete, yet, that’s expected of me too.  I guess I have a physique that says to the boys I encounter: “He’d be a great addition to the team; get him to play.”  Plus I’m a guy, and all guys are naturally good at soccer and basketball and any other sport, right?  All guys love to play sports; in fact, any moment that can be used for running around with a ball, should be, if you’re a guy, right?  (It wouldn’t be hard to insert an observation or two on gender studies here, although I think you get my point.)  And so, when it turns out I’m not so good or I don’t want to play, the boys (and occasionally girls) are horribly confused and disappointed—but you’re a guy, you’re tall, you’re American; why don’t you want to play?  Why aren’t you any good?  You do play sports, don’t you?  I let down the kids; I let down myself. 

And what about those rather average moments of every day life, some tinted by cross-cultural exchange, some mirroring ordinary happenings from the U.S.?  For example, how many times did I show up at Barrio and Bismark—one of the educatores—tried to find something I’d be good at.  “You can help paint this mural,” he said, and then I did a less-than extraordinary job painting the soccer player’s face.  “You can cut out these letters for a poster,” he said, and then he had to correct me on what size letters he meant.  “You can help in the kitchen,” he said, and then proceeded to catch me as I was walking in the wrong direction and nearly held my hand as he showed me how to turn the meat over on the grill.  “Help me change the lock on the broken door”—no, this screw; no, do it this way….no, no, no.  And, as it turns out, I’m not that good at chess either.  “Want to play chess, Eric?” Francisco, one of the Barrio boys, asked me.  After a bit of trying to decipher the word for chess, I figured, I know the game; let’s do it.  Embarrassed three times, with ten boys watching. 

What am I good at? I ask myself often.  What was it I used to be so successful at?  Whatever it was, was it important?  Was it a real thing?  Because here in Bolivia, my skills and talents have a hard time manifesting themselves.  Talent seems so often to be something that can be easily seen here—you’re good at fútbol or dancing or you can play an instrument, things people can see.  “What are you good at?” kids have asked me, and what am I supposed to say?  I’m good at reading and writing?  I can lead conversation in community?  I can discuss theology?  I’m good at thinking through problems?  How would those things sound to a 12-year-old Bolivian boy?  And so instead, I try to hold onto those things I know I’m good at, keep them in mind to provide a bit of affirmation when I’m being embarrassed by Bolivia.

And yet, even those things I think I’m good at don’t quite translate in Bolivia.  Karina asked me to help her design and then proofread and offer suggestions for a questionnaire she’s going to use in her research.  Normally, I would have little problem with such a task; in fact, I’d enjoy it.  But my writing in Spanish is far, FAR from perfect, and my ability to offer suggestions on someone else’s writing is limited at best.  And to think, not so many months ago I worked in a center where that’s exactly what I did: helped others improve and think through their writing.  But here, I can’t do that; I have to allow myself to be humbled and face the fact that even that skill—my writing, my love of words and sentences—can’t be used here.

           

And what about those conversations I love to have?  How many times have I tried to guide people into thinking and talking about those “deeper” realities of life?  And yet, can I do that here?  At Campo Bosco, we had small groups where we were asked to talk about our lives, our hopes, our relationships with God—things I love to discuss and hear about.  And yet, I could hardly find the words to accurately describe myself, let alone my prayer life.  I had to be called on by the group leader to give my thoughts when I’d normally be one of the first to volunteer.  And I remember thinking: “Even this has been taken from me.”

It seems as though coming to Bolivia has stripped me of nearly everything I am, as though I’ve lost those things I’m good at and am forced to build from the ground up.  I feel like a child, in some regards, which can be good and bad—I’m justified in asking a lot of questions at least.  And I’m forced to come face to face with who I am at the core—though I won’t pretend that I’ve finished that task; perhaps I’ve hardly started.  But I’ve begun to think about those character traits, those frustrations, those little quirks of mine that exist not just as a result of my struggles here in Bolivia but that are actual parts of who I am—for example, at Campo Bosco I had to often remind myself that I take a long time to feel comfortable and myself when I’m in a large group of people; I don’t usually jump right into conversation when I’m with a bunch of teenage boys—these aren’t results of my language barriers; these are facts of my person that I have to face in English or in Spanish.  And so, while I feel stripped of everything that makes me an ‘impressive’ individual, that makes me feel confident and myself, I am also still me at the core.  I have myself to give—my broken self, as Henri Nouwen writes in a book I’ve just started reading; and isn’t it our ‘broken selves’ that we have to give to others, isn’t that all we really can give or all that is really expected?  Everyone feels broken, is broken, has cracks and scars and weaknesses, and it is in and through our brokenness that we can enter into solidarity, across culture, time, space, whatever.  Is it that brokenness that holds us together as human?

And so my prayer at Campo Bosco centered on this humility, on these feelings of helplessness and self-stripping, and I found myself wondering if I was being given an opportunity to glimpse a unique aspect of Christ’s mission.  Didn’t God empty Godself of what it meant to be God in order to become human?  Didn’t God give up everything that made God ‘impressive’ to become a weak, broken, ordinary human being?  Didn’t Jesus have to build ‘from the ground up’ in discovering who he was and could be as a human being?  He didn’t enter the world with a bang, working miracles and moving mountains; rather, he entered the world in one of the most humble ways possible:  stripped of everything he was; forced to seek out and build what he would become. 

Isn’t that what we’re called to each time we approach the Eucharist, whether at mass or adoration or whenever?  We come forward to meet Jesus in a great sacrament of humility: the Eucharist is that real presence, that real self-emptying of God to become human and an invitation to us to empty ourselves of “me, me, me” to come into communion with both God’s will and the realities of each and every person in the human family, past, present, and future, united in the Eucharistic sacrifice, that sacramental reality of God’s moving grace within the fabric of creation.  Perhaps what I am experiencing now—this ‘forced’ stripping of self—is what I should always seek in prayer, and the Eucharist stands as a reality of what I should want to become.  Here, maybe, is that ‘Daily Bread’ in a much grander form, much more literal form.  Here, too, is that foundation upon which I should be building myself, seeking those ‘real’ skills and talents, offering my brokenness to others. 

Fine; all well and good.  Have I learned my lesson, then?  Hardly.  I caught myself just the other night while working with Karina trying to exercise my own pride and foolishness.  Karina has saintly patience; I don’t know how she puts up with me (my usual annoying self in English) and my inabilities with the language we work in.  Often, I don’t understand a part of the project or some element of my task, and Karina diligently attempts to explain to me what I’m doing and how it contributes to the larger picture.  She even offers me insights into the research method and project formations—things I should be more than grateful to receive from someone so well-versed.  And yet, I often shun her help and advice, saying something to the effect of, “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it; I don’t need to know all this extra info—this is your project, not mine.”  Humble, huh?  Not at all.  But, room for improvement, yes.

Another tricky example:  I was at Barrio the other night and, to my great discomfort, it was a night to play sports.  “Do you want to play basketball or soccer, Eric?”  Neither, was my response, but I couldn’t say that.  “Basketball,” I tried, thinking perhaps my height would make a difference.  It might have, if we hadn’t played in the dark.  Instead, I missed passes, got hit in the face, and quickly became exhausted—I literally couldn’t see anything in the pitch black!  But more importantly, here I was embarrassing myself at a sport I never pretended to like to play.  Is that something I need to keep doing?  Is that what humility calls me to, to continue to do something I dislike, that frustrates me and brings me down, that causes me to lose respect in the eyes of the kids I serve?  I’ve tried it, right?  It’s not like I turned it all down outright; isn’t that enough?  Or am I required to do more?  Where does humility come into play here?  What is demanded of me?

I don’t have answers.  I probably don’t have all the questions, either.  But I do have this:  my prayer this morning was born out of frustration; I’m often a little anxious on the weekends when there’s little to do.  Many people have left me comments that highlight that seeming lack of organization and order in my schedule—it’s very true; there isn’t much order and there’s hardly a schedule.  And there’s a good chance it’ll all change at the end of November when the kids go on ‘summer’ vacation.  Such disorder is hardly my preferred lifestyle, and I get very anxious when there are large gaps of free time or when I feel like I haven’t done any real ‘service’ in the day.  Yesterday I submitted my application for my Bolivian visa (FINALLY), hung out with some Salesian Lay Missioners, and had an awesome BBQ with my community—all great stuff, but what ‘service’ did I do?  And yet, my prayer this morning reminded me of something I have often told other people:  service doesn’t just mean holding a hammer in one hand and an orphan in the other; service goes deeper than that.  An easy reality to accept, especially when I so want to end each day feeling as though I’ve done something, closing my eyes with a sense of satisfaction?  Not at all.  But I needed to be reminded of this reality anyway.  I needed to be confronted by my pride, my desire to have what I want done, what I think is good and necessary and appropriate, shattered and cast aside.  I needed to be reminded that God is at work in the day, in each moment, providing those graces and instances of ‘Daily Bread’—and, most importantly, that God has already proven this fact to me over and over again.  But, I need to relinquish my own expectations and open myself to God’s will, God’s plan, God’s project.  Not an easy task at all, but a humbling one. 

           

So, does any of this come easily?  No.  Does any of this mean I’m ready to just open myself up and let go?  No.  Do I still face disappointment and anxiety that I’m not doing enough, that I’m on the wrong track or have gone in the wrong direction?  Yes.  But who is to say that a conversation I had yesterday during the visa process or simply my presence at the grill fanning the flames last night wasn’t ‘service’?  Maybe it was.  Not what I expected, but what I expect might not be important.  Perhaps I need to allow myself to be stripped of expectations as well. 

           

Perhaps it is only when I have emptied myself completely that I can partake most fully in these sacraments of humility that I encounter each day.  

Campo Bosco

A couple of weeks ago, at one of the Saturday night meetings in Barrio Juvenil, Padre Iván mentioned a trip to Cochabamba.  He said that there would be a delegation from Barrio attending an event called “Campo Bosco” from September 30-October 2, and that everyone should pray for those attending and look forward to hearing some good stories upon their return.  Now, selfish as it might seem, all I heard from the conversation was that there was a Proyecto Don Bosco-sponsored trip to Cochabamba, and I wanted to be a part of it.  So, on the car ride back to the Volunteer House, I asked Padre Iván if I could go. 

          “You want to go to Campo Bosco?” he asked.

          Yes, I said.  If I could.

          He smiled.  “I already asked Valentina—you know how good she is at taking pictures.  Next time.”

          And I figured that was that.

          It wasn’t though, and later that week I bumped into Padre Iván and Karina on my way to dinner at Hogar Don Bosco. 

          “Eric!” Padre Iván began.  And then he invited both me and Karina to Campo Bosco.  Things are always in a constant state of flux here in Bolivia.

          And so, I spend this past (extended) weekend in Cochabamba with 1,500 Bolivian young people—ages seemed to be anywhere from early high school to late college—a whole slew of educatores, animadores (these are terms they use to describe group leaders or anyone responsible for ‘animating’ the youth), Salesian priests, Daughters of Mary, Help of Christians, three other volunteers (Valentina, Karina, & Chinsia—probably butchered the spelling) and a girl associated with the Project (Maria), and anyone else who managed to get themselves to the Mary, Help of Christians Girls High School just outside Cochabamba.  We left Thursday night on the 8:30pm bus (or flota) and arrived in Cochabamba around 6:30am Friday morning.  (Yes—we did sleep on the bus; no—it wasn’t comfortable; and yes—somebody DID leave the window open, and I, of course, had only worn shorts and a t-shirt which prompted one of the girls I was traveling with, Maria, seeing me shivering, to give me her shawl out of pity somewhere around 2:00am for a bit of warmth.)  We started our day with some breakfast—fried bread with cheese in the middle and some coffee—and took a series of taxis to the high school.

          Let me paint a brief picture of what Campo Bosco is like.  For anyone familiar with World Youth Day, it’s a lot like that, on a much smaller scale, infused with Salesian spirituality and charisma.  A handful of the nine departments in Bolivia send delegations—there were people there from Santa Cruz (the department of Santa Cruz includes all of the surrounding pueblos as well as the city), Cochabamba, Sucre, La Paz, and others.  We were given fun little bags to throw over our shoulders, strips of fabric to designate our color (for me, yellow), a booklet of songs and prayers and questions for small groups, and a name tag.  I was in the yellow group, Moises (each group had a Biblical figure associated with it…for me, Moses), and my small group was Pio IX (I have no idea who that is).  There were 12 color groups in total, and about 5 or 6 small groups for each color.  Within your groups you played ‘dynamic’ games, shared in small groups, and sat with each other at bigger events, mostly, to cheer loudly for your Bible character (“Somos Moises, Somos Moises…MOISES!”).  Each day was full of singing and dancing (they can’t do one without the other here, so EVERY word of EVERY song had about 4 hand motions and dance moves to it, so there I am wiggling about in bleachers PACKED with the youth of Bolivia and every one of them knows the dances and I just keep spinning around knocking people in the head with my bag, which I naturally couldn’t put on the ground for fear that someone would steal it), talks and prayers, skits and small group activities.  Anyone who has been to World Youth Day will remember what an adventure meal time always was, and it was no different here.  They gave us pouches of liquid to drink (Juice?  Where’s the ‘tear here’ option?  I have to use my teeth?), snacks twice a day, and a leg of chicken or something a bit more mysterious for dinner (I seriously couldn’t put a name to 70% of what I eat in Bolivia).  And where did I sleep, you ask?  There was a Salesian University down the road (and a Salesian seminary further down the road—do they own EVERYTHING?!) and our delegation from Proyecto Don Bosco slept on the third floor, in a little classroom barren of desks and chairs, in sleeping bags on the floor.  Uncomfortable?  Yes, in more ways than one.  But what a cool experience to be able to just hang out and crash on the floor in such a makeshift experience with some of the boys I work with.  To listen to their banter and laughter, to wake up to their jokes, to hear “Qué tal, Eric?  Dormiste bien?  Qué tal tu espalda?”  (Everyone was deathly concerned about my back.)  Hard to wake up and go to sleep surrounded by Spanish (and teenage boys), but a very meaningful experience nonetheless. 

          So there’s a pretty brief overview of Campo Bosco; let’s see if I can’t give a few more ‘concrete’ scenes of what I experienced.  After all, Campo Bosco is a BIG deal here—it only happens once every 3 years (or 2 years, depending upon which year you’re looking at), and people LOVE it.  And it wasn’t hard to see why—yes, I do get tired after hours and HOURS of dancing, and I did fall asleep, if only briefly, at probably every event (no surprise there, though, right?).  But what a beautiful thing to be a part of, to take part in so many young people’s excitement about their faith, about building new friendships, about challenging themselves and growing.  Did I make some huge impact this weekend?  I seriously doubt that.  But I got to see it all, I got to talk to some people, I got to embarrass myself again and again, and I got to be present.  So let’s see…  Some ‘specific’ scenes (in no particular order)…

          The first that comes to mind was a brief ‘pilgrimage’ we made to the Salesian seminary.  All the groups walked together, up the muddy path, stumbling on lose rocks and patches of earth overgrown by weeds, past cows and horses and tractors, with the ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE backdrop of the mountains surrounding us (the department of Cochabamba, or at least what I saw, is SURROUNDED by mountains…incredible).  At the seminary we watched a serious of skits designed to bring us into the life of Christ—the calling of the disciples, institution of the Eucharist (seriously awesome contrast between the Last Supper, the mass of the early Christians, pre-Vatican II, and the present day mass), the Passion and Death, and others. 

          Friday night was a penance service.  I knew we were off to a good start when the reflection music was “Concerning Hobbits.”  We then were asked—well, I apparently misunderstood what we were asked to do, so I’ll tell you what I thought we were asked—to write a letter to someone we loved.  So, I dutifully wrote thoughtful and hilarious words to Alli and pocketed the note.  Well, then some animadores come around to COLLECT our notes.  I’m not giving mine up; I put some good thought into it!  It’s a good thing I didn’t…they threw all the notes in the center of the auditorium where they were, during the next skit, torn apart and BURNED by ‘demons.’  (Nearly every skit was a climactic battle between good and evil.)  But seriously, they set a FIRE in the middle of the gym.  The Mother Superior of the Daughters of Mary Help of Christians in Bolivia had to keep coming into the center to move aside the balloons and streamers that were coming just a little to close to the growing flames.  Classic.

          So, the Father Superior (Inspector?  Not sure of titles…) of the Salesian in Bolivia, Padre Cristobal, was there as well, and I have to say, I was SO impressed.  He participated in EVERY event, sang and danced, greeted the kids and the adults alike with hugs and kisses and handshakes and was just such a presence, especially at the events he spoke at.  But perhaps my FAVORITE part of Fr. Cristobal was when I met him outside one night with the other volunteers.  He takes my nametag in hand, looks at it hard, says, “Eres de Irelanda?” because no one has any idea where I’m from (often Spain is the guess until I start talking, then Brazil, but Ireland was a new one!).  I say no and he continues with: Eric Clayton…do you play the guitar?  Conoces Eric Clapton?  WHAT?!?!?  CLASSIC.  Even in Bolivia!!

          Let’s see…I know this is long, but I’m not FORCING you to read it! 

          Saturday the other volunteers and I escaped into the city.  We went to lunch at this little place on the side of the road (Karina wanted to try something authentically from Cochabamba).  In front of the restaurant was the grill and the chefs (odd?), and they were hard at work on what looked like all the parts of animals you weren’t supposed to eat.  We sit down inside (well, there was no roof…) and they ask me, “So, Eric, what do you want to eat?”  Now let’s be honest—I can’t PRONOUNCE half the food, and it does me little good to ask what each dish consists of, so I say, whatever you want.  And then appears in front of me 3 dishes of the craziest looking meet and veggies I’ve ever seen!  Dutifully, I try everything, and not bad at all!!!  We ate way too much, they continued into the city.  Between that day and the following we were able to see the main plaza of Cochabamba, some small pueblos nearby (there was a wedding, of course), and a sanctuary dedicated to the Virgen of Urukapina (not sure the story there, but really cool—apparently it’s a big pilgrimage site every August and people carry rocks around to symbolize something), and the Cristo statue that overlooks everything in the area (we rode a taxi to the top of the world).  Two thumbs up to Cochabamba.

          I felt a lot like a Disney character at times—people would just come up to me and ask to take a picture with me.  Who are you? I’d think.  But I’d smile and who knows where those pictures might end up? 

          What I learned about Salesian games are that all you have to do is a) scream and yell, b) move about obnoxiously, and c) violate personal space to call it “game.”  Father Cristobal sang a song at one point to quiet everyone down (at least I thought that was the goal) and next thing I know, after every verse I’m being battered about in some way—people step on my toes, kiss me, pinch me, high five me—it didn’t take long for me to catch on.

          But all in all, Campo Bosco was a great event, full of challenge and fun, uncertainty and joy.  It’s no wonder everyone gets so excited about it.  But I think that’s enough for now.  I have more to add about some of the experiences in small groups, but I’ll save that for a following entry, one that will most likely be far more thoughtful and of a more spiritual nature.  If you made it this far into the blog, well done!  

             23 points for you.       

Community

I’m no stranger to being in multiple communities at once.  In fact, it’s something I really enjoy—it’s a chance to get to know many different people in multiple settings while doing a variety of things, all while coming together over some common bond that makes the community a community.  But I have to say, since arriving in Bolivia, my concept of community has been in a constant state of flux.  Certainly not because I’ve lacked for community, nor because I dislike the communities I find myself in; rather, what makes up my current communities is so unlike anything I’ve experienced before that I find myself constantly revisiting my own ideas of what it means to be in community, what it means to live intentionally with others, and what it means to seek a common purpose.

The first community that comes to mind is the most obvious: the people who live in the volunteer house.  And yet, what kind of people are they?  I live with a handful of Germans, several Italians, a girl from Austria and a girl from Peru, three Spaniards, and some Bolivians.  (There’s a Canadian too, but he lives in Barrio Juvenil—until he leaves Sunday—and so only passes by every now and again.)  One of the Italians also happens to be my “boss,” and most of the Bolivians I’ve never actually met.  People are coming and going all the time, whether they’re leaving for a short vacation or leaving for good.  And I imagine I can expect new housemates sometime between now and May; after all, three people have moved in since I’ve arrived.  And because there is no official “start” or “end” date for this volunteer experience, everyone is at a different stage of their work, everyone is staying in Bolivia for a different amount of time, everyone speaks Spanish (more or less), and everyone is of a different age.  (The Germans, for example, seem to come to do service work right out of high school, which makes most of them 19 or 20; the Spaniards and Italians, on the other hand, are all mid- to late-twenties.)  Everyone does different work, as there are six stages to Proyecto Don Bosco as well as NGOs, office work, and nearby schools to keep people busy.  Most interesting of all, everyone is here for a different reason: Karina, from Peru, is here for a research project that will help her complete her Masters program; Katarina, from Austria, hops from one Spanish-speaking country to the other to gain experience for her Spanish language program; others have received varying levels of degrees and education to work with children while others still are here as an in-between experience before the next ‘big thing’ or to add yet another volunteer experience to their growing list; and it seems that it’s not an abnormal thing for young Germans to go abroad for a year of service before entering university…I’ve met nearly more Germans in Bolivia than Bolivians.  And then there’s me, here to be challenged personally and to grow spiritually, to meet new people and to learn from them, to improve my Spanish and to learn what it means to live and work ‘on the ground’ in a developing country.  I have to say, no one has expressed exactly that as their motivating factor for volunteerism.

And yet, we all live together, we all laugh at jokes (when I understand them) around the same table, we all play games and share food and fight off the pigeons that hound our washing machine.  We all share joys and challenges from our days, and we all rally behind each other, whether that be in celebrating a birthday or supporting someone in a low moment.  What holds the community together?  Certainly not the house, because that might come down at any moment.  And I can’t even say it’s the work, because we all do such different things for such different reasons.  (I can’t say working with kids is what I was made to do, but it is the current way in which I manifest my love, learn from others, and meet God; others here specialize in working with the young.)  It must be, then, something more…a determination, perhaps.  A determination to work and live in Bolivia, to experience something new, and, most importantly, to encounter new people and experiences.  (I remember that first day, when I walked into the house with very rusty Spanish and no clue who I would meet and all I could do was walk up to people and say… “Hola, soy Eric…de los Estados Unidos,” and hope for the best.)

And yet, this is only one community in which I find myself.  I’m also a part of the Barrio Juvenil community; I’m a friend, a mentor, a companion to the older kids, (at least for 4 nights a week!).  Slowly, I learn their personalities, what they find funny and what upsets them.  I know that Alexander has a laugh that frightens me, that Louis loves movies and hates being called Pinche, and that Katarina thinks its hilarious when I say, “OOOO yeah.”  And each night I learn a bit more, and I expect that will only continue as I begin to sleep over at Barrio four nights a week, being a presence at night and in the wee hours of the morning.  The young people, though, aren’t the only ones in this community.  There are the educadores as well (a Spanish title that incorporates mentor/chaperone/friend/companion…each stage of Proyecto Don Bosco has several).  There’s Xavier who thinks I’m funny, who moves about slowly (perhaps because of his size), and tends to forget to give change when you pay him for something.  There’s Gabriel, a young guy, who dominates at fooseball and for some reason thought it would be a good idea if I played soccer.  And then there’s Bismark, who convinced me to help him paint the mural that now adorns the common room and who asked me to pray in English and then got upset when I didn’t translate.  And of course there’s Kevin, from Canada, who leaves on Sunday and whose place I seem to have been groomed for, although we’ll see if I’m able to fill those (dancing) shoes.

My presence in this community doesn’t stop at the barbed-wire fence.  Xavier and a consort of Barrio kids invited me to a soccer game between the two rival Santa Cruz teams, Oriente and Blooming.  (Your choice of team is apparently a very big decision; I felt like I was at a protest.)  I joined the Barrio group when all of Proyecto Don Bosco went to the fair (ExpoCruz—an annual event where Santa Cruz showcases its goods and animals, a majority of the ‘goods’ apparently being women and a good deal of the ‘animals’ being the guys who prowl about the fair).  I spent most of the night with Bismark, and couldn’t help thinking how strange it was that I was wondering around a foreign fair with a guy I had only just met struggling to speak in a language that constantly gets the best of me.  And yet, how interesting.  What holds this community together?  The young people?  A desire to be present to them?  I’m not yet sure…

And because I’m a member of Proyecto Don Bosco—a community in and of itself—I stumble into community after community each and every day.  For example, there’s the community of boys I eat lunch and some dinners with at Hogar Don Bosco (where I also teach English two days a week): Victor Octavio who is so excited to learn English; Juan Carlos who thinks he’s a big shot, but is a good kid at heart; little Luciano who bounces around the table.  It’s a wonderful privilege to eat with them, to be a presence at their table day after day, to talk at times and to be silent and listen at others.  It’s hardly easy; they’re young boys with an obvious sense of humor—go ahead and guess what they want to learn how to say in English.  But it’s also a deeply satisfying community to be a part of, to be missed when I’m not there, to be patted on the back when I am, to be greeted in the yard.  Food might hold this community together, but perhaps something else as well.

So this is but a glimpse of my ‘communities.’  I’ve written too much and hardly said anything novel, but I’ll close here.  Each day continues to be a challenge, but it is when I am surrounded by these other people, when I am able to have that person-to-person interaction, that it all seems ‘worth it,’ that I feel able to go on. God manifests Godself in people; where two or three are gathered…          

Daily Bread

Is it weird to say I have a ‘favorite’ part of the “Lord’s Prayer”?  Probably.  But I’m going to say it anyway.  And, as you may have guessed, the words that resonate most with me are, “Give us this day our daily bread.”  Why? you ask.  A reasonable question.  Say it like this: “Give us this day our daily bread,” emphasis on the ‘this.’  What’s the difference?  Well, really there is none; it’s only a reminder of the significance of the word ‘this.’  But for me, it’s significant.  It reminds those of us who pray the “Lord’s Prayer” that we have a God of the moment, a God who recognizes that in each day, in each moment of each day, in each breath of each moment of each day, we need something to go on, to move forward.  You encounter struggles, obstacles, joys, and unexpected turns.  And if we are to stay grounded, we need sustenance to take that next step, to address whatever challenge or demand has presented itself.  And while that sustenance may not be ‘bread’ in the literal sense, it is still just as real.  There is still a need for “daily bread,” whatever form it might take, and that need comes “this day”…this moment.

As you might expect, there have been many, many moments in Bolivia thus far when I’ve needed to remind myself to ask for that “daily bread;” it’s been a cornerstone of my prayer.  And as I’ve reflected on it, I’ve realized the uncertainty for which I ask, the inherent desire for flexibility.  Because each day is an adventure, and I rarely can see through the murkiness of the coming hours when I first wake up in the morning; I have to trust, ask for a healthy dosage of “daily bread,” and get up to face the day.  Sometimes my “daily bread” has allowed me to see more clearly the good in a situation, to stay with the kids just a second or two longer when I might have otherwise left and in so doing encounter something wonderful; sometimes it’s simply the grace to ride out a difficult situation.  In whatever form it’s manifested, a difficult morning may turn into a fun afternoon, or a sudden experience of doubt and hardship might potentially ruin an important moment. 

Let me paint a brief picture…

There is a young boy, Miguel, who stopped me after dinner the other night as I was leaving Hogar Don Bosco.  I rarely stay long after; dinner is usually enough of a challenge for my Spanish, and I like to stop while I’m ahead.  But Miguel came running up to me just before I left the property and said, “Hello, how are you?”  “Hablas ingles?” I asked, and he just smiled.  And for the next 30 minutes or so, we practiced English, and he told me how much he loves to learn the language.  I learned a little about his family, his passions, and he promised to teach me some karate in the future.  Had I not stayed, had I cut the conversation short, had I stuck to my original plan, I would have missed starting what might become an important relationship for both of us.

Give us this day our daily bread…

I had a great day last Friday running around the city with some Salesian Lay Missioner friends, trying to get the next step in the visa process together.  It was a great time with some great people, and I was on something of a high.  That afternoon, I had promised a sister of one of the employees at Proyecto Don Bosco that I would help her with her English, and so at 4:40pm I got on a bus to head towards the center of the city.  I hadn’t ever ridden the bus in this direction, but figured I could figure it out.  On Bolivian buses (micros) you just yell, “Pare, por favor,” (stop, please) when you want to get off.  Now, I wasn’t sure of the bus route or how close I could get towards the center of the city, so I kept assuming I could get a little closer.  Onward and onward we went, and I kept saying, “Just a bit closer.”  I said this until I no longer knew where we were and finally decided to wait for the bus to loop around.  Funny thing about Bolivian buses…they don’t loop.  I rode it until the end of the line and back, missed the meeting, and walked home a bit dejected after a 2.5 hour failed endeavor.

Give us this day our daily bread…

Yesterday I was invited to go on retreat with the young people from Barrio Juvenil, Fr. Ivan, and Giulia.  I was a bit uncertain as to my role and didn’t have much to say, but I was able to talk to several of the young people, learn a little about their families and backwards, and share a joke or two.  While I couldn’t say for certain what my purpose there was, I think my presence was important.  The more they see me, the more the young people will get to know me, to trust me, to share with me.  I’ve already had ice cream with one of the boys, Louis, and I’m hoping we’ll become better friends.

Give us this day our daily bread…

It’s still hard to speak and understand.  I easily get frustrated with my Spanish, and I’m afraid others get frustrated too.  They have to repeat themselves over and over again, and I feel like the dumbest person they’ve ever met.  But still they invite me out for dinner or ice cream or simply chat with me at the table.  I’m still included in different projects and given responsibilities.  And, with any luck, I’ll soon be teaching English to some of the kids at Hogar Don Bosco, an exchange of sorts.  So we’ll see…

Some of my reflections have been on the nature of the Crucifixion.  By human standards, the event itself was a complete failure.  Jesus was killed, his mission ended, his followers scattered, the end.  But for anyone who buys into the Christian story, the tale is far from over, and what is a failure by human terms is a great victory for God’s project.  I try to keep that in mind when I feel like I’ve failed—when I can’t understand what’s being said to me, when I can’t think of anything to say to one of the young people, when I feel overwhelmed with the size of the city or the task put in front of me, when I think about what I’m actually doing here (Am I doing, or simply being?  And which is preferable?)…  There is plenty of room for failure, at least by my standards.  But I have to believe that, at the end of the day, it’s not really my standards that are going to matter, and that my apparent failures will become something much more.  

Interested in seeing some pictures?  Check out this link: Santa Cruz 1

Projects

And here I am.  What an amazing thing to think of…what a difference a few days make.  Where as on Monday I was in the comfort of my air-conditioned, PA residence, now I’m in a small room (a small, HOT room) in Bolivia that I share with my German roommate, Phil, in a small community of volunteers from all over the world (Italy, Germany, Spain, Peru, Canada).  We all cross paths throughout the day, whether that be in the main house (which I can just about touch from my window) at one of the work sites (there are six), or maybe dinner somewhere in the city.  But we’re also pretty independent of each other, each having their own tasks and schedules and errands to run throughout the city.  And Spanish is the lingua franca, although all of the Germans I’ve met, whether those in my community or other German volunteers in the city, speak English, as does Paulo, one of the Italians (whose been to 27 countries and is only 27…whoa).  Unfortunately, my Spanish is something of a halting mess at the moment—at times I’m able to understand pretty well, hold my own in conversation; at other times I couldn’t even guess what people are saying and I have to stop them again and again (and the kids are even harder to understand...street Spanish, yikes!).  It’s exhausting trying to keep up in conversations: I’ve eaten most of my meals with the young people we work with, whether they be age 6 or 20, and each meal requires a tremendous amount of focus simply to stay involved in the table conversation.  But it’s good; I’m improving and I’m learning a lot about the people I’m working with.  I had a long conversation with one high school student about movies and soundtracks—it’s a lucky thing to stumble upon a person’s passion so early in the conversation!  And I’ve tried to answer the younger guys’ questions about U.S. pop culture.  (Who knew Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato were so popular in Bolivia?)

In the mean time, I’ve been getting a crash course in what it means to volunteer at Proyecto Don Bosco.  There are six different “stages” of the program, and each child is placed in a “stage” depending upon their situation.  There are two places for kids just off the streets—Patio Don Bosco, which is more of a day-time facility (and where I was only hours ago reminded yet again how miserable I am at soccer…futbol), and Techo Pinardi, where some of those boys will go to sleep at night.  This is definitely a more challenging environment as these kids are right off the streets, attitude and everything.  Mano Amigo and Hogar Don Bosco are live-in residences where the kids (younger in the former, older in the latter) study and play and have access to nearby schools.  Barrio Juvenil (where I will most likely be spending a good deal of time in the coming months) is for young people ages 15 to 20 (more or less) and is really just a place to sleep and eat—they all go to school or work during the day.  The other “stage” (and I haven’t seen it yet) is a farm outside the city where the kids go after the introductory “stages” to get far away from the streets that can so easily reclaim them.  They do farm-like chores (is my understanding) and live and play there. 

So what will I be doing, you ask?  If only I knew.  The thing about Proyecto Don Bosco is that there’s so much to do all the time and everyone seems to move around quite a bit.  It looks like I’ll be helping out in the administration office first…they’re doing a project now to assess the families from which these kids come and ways in which to educate the entire community about the rights of the young.  I’ll be spending some nights at Barrio Juvenil, and eating at least one of meals at Mano Amigo or Hogar Don Bosco.  And I’ll do whatever else Fr. Ivan (my director) says.  And in the meantime, I’ll continue to explore the city—I got a great crash course from Kevin, the Canadian volunteer, on my first day.  Between taxis, micros (buses), remembering that pedestrians DON’T have the right of way, tracking down street signs…we’ll see how I do.  So far, so good.

It’s tough; it’s really hard.  But I think that’s good.  There are some moments when I think, “Man, I’m really doing it; this is great,” and others when I think, “What have I done?”  (And yes, I do lie awake concerned about every little thing, the least of which is not figuring out the next step of the visa.)  But I’m moving forward; this ‘project’ of mine is moving forward.  My mantra throughout the course of my travel to Santa Cruz was, “This is God’s project, not mine; that’s where my strength and guidance and answers will come from.”  And so it has to be here.  I prayed (perhaps to fervently) on my retreat to Kentucky to be humbled, to remember humility, to live a humble life.  Well, I am challenged simply to communicate (and feel awfully stupid!), I’m surrounded my fascinating, interesting, experienced people from around the world, I’m reminded again and again that I’m not much of a soccer or basketball player, and kids have asked, “So, what can you do?” (after realizing I don’t play an instrument or dance).  That, then, is the question I think I have to answer moving forward.  What can I do?  I can love, yes.  But how?  In what ways?  I’ve realized that so often we say how each person has their own strengths and each person has their own obstacles but rarely do we put those concepts together.  I have to believe that my strengths—whatever they may be—are exactly what I need to face these obstacles of mine, that I need only keep moving in the direction I’ve been stumbling towards.  So we’ll see. 

Bolivia—tremendously difficult, but so far, so good.  And each moment is a step forward.