Futbol and...

HOCKEY!!!

I have been playing soccer every Thursday since the beginning of my time here with the same neighborhood "team" made up of boys and young men that work and live at a factory making jeans.  They shyly accepted me at first when I asked them if I could play and as the weeks have passed, I believe we have become friends through our conversations on the sidelines and joking around on the field.

Most of the team is away visiting their families on summer or holiday vacation right now but a few of the boys are still living there. So, when Brendon and I returned from Peru, we went out to play with them.  Brendon just moved into my neighborhood (yay!!!) and was quickly accepted onto the "team".

We also found out that a person from Maryknoll who had returned to the states, had left field hockey sticks in a storage garage. He had started a field hockey league in another part of the city but left a year ago so the sticks had been collecting dust ever since.  Brendon and I went and rescued the sticks from their idle fate and asked the soccer boys if they wanted to learn how to play hockey.

I did not know what to expect but as we walked across the big dirt soccer field with the sticks one Saturday night, we immediately attracted attention. What started as 5 of us, quickly turned into more.  We began playing on the little concrete soccer field and to our amazement, the amount of neighbors on the sidelines continued to just grow.  We had to teach most of them how to hold the stick and we simply instructed them that the rules are the same as soccer except you can not kick the ball.  It takes most people a few minutes to get the hang of the stick but really, they are programmed for hockey since soccer is a part of their blood. 

An interesting aspect of the soccer culture though, is that one, it is almost exclusively men.  Two, if you do not learn it or like it when you are young, it is hard to join in when you are older because everybody is already good and knows what they are doing.  Street hockey, we have found, levels the playing field.  The very first night we had 8 year old boys, 25 year old male athletes, and 40 year old women out there playing on the same court.

We played for hours and when we finally called it quits, they circled around us, asking us when we would play again with strong suggestions for "tomorrow".

We have played a few times in the last week and a half and every time I am surprised again.  New neighbors coming out to play, the middle schooler that refused to play because he was afraid of getting made fun of finally making it onto the court, a young girl who has never played soccer getting out their and playing with her father and brothers.  I have learned more of my neighbors names in the last week and a half than I was able to for the first six months.  It is incredible. 

It is summer break right now so perhaps hockey will slow down as people get back to their busy lives but even if it does, relationships have been formed between us and neighbors and between neighbors that otherwise never interact - and that can't be undone.  I am so happy and excited about this new adventure.  I have been healthy enough that I get to teach people something new, play a game I love, and share it all with the man I am going to marry! 

The Ugly Truth

Bolivia is a beautiful country.  I love the variety of natural resources and geological features.  The indigenous groups that make up about 50% of the population keep the culture thriving and the colors vibrant.  Bolivia´s got character...bloqueos, marches, pedestrian days, festivals abound.  And the people are nice.  I don´t always understand the actions or ways of thinking of my co-workers but they treat me with respect.  The men and women in the prisons are mostly warm, funny, and grateful.  The kids are sweet and in dire need of attention often.  My soccer ¨team¨ is gentle and kind while also a bit competitive and they have treated me with nothing but timidness and kindness since I first began playing with them in August even though I am a girl:).  They are the least machista of all the Latin American countries I have played in.  Not nearly as many ¨cat calls¨ as I grew accustomed to in Ecuador and other places.  Many gringos get robbed but so far I have been lucky.  So, short of a fear of the wild dogs on the street, I feel safe here.

The ugly truth though (that some of you may find too gross or rude to read - so be warned), is that, as a gringo coming to Bolivia, a person has almost inescapable odds of getting sick at least once.  It is a constant topic of discussion and within days of being here, any shyness about bowel movements is quickly overcome and most people are explicit with most people...at least in the gringo world of conversation.  So, it was not all that surprising when after only 9 days in the country, I felt a sudden onset of upset stomach that quickly decided to leave my body not only through incredible projectile vomiting but in any other way it could find.

This was my introduction to being sick in Bolivia.  It certainly did not let me ease my way in.  A key to survival here is a stool sample.  This is the fun game of going to a laboratory that you can find about every ten blocks in the city.  You get handed a wonderful little cup, give thanks or curse depending on its size.  When finished, you leave it and return a few hours later to see your results.  At this time, if you have any idea what the lab says...you can know you are fine and you must have just had food poisoning (which was the case of my initial sick incident here) or, there are medical facts you don´t understand and have to proceed to a doctor´s office to get help diciphering and determining the best course of action.

This has been the case in every case since the first incident.  I am past the point of the typical gringo getting sick and have reached a level that few can obtain.  At this point, I am a pro at stool samples.  I have been diagnosed with amoebas several times here, once about a month after arriving and now, since the beginning of November, I have been diagnosed with amoebas three seperate times.  In between, I was also diagnosed with a stomach infection and also a seperate bicho or bug.  The lab and doctor have become accustomed to my weekly visits.  My doctor has filled up an entire page just on my stomach history in the last couple of weeks.  

It's not easy.  One affect of being sick for six or seven weeks straight is that I feel pretty useless.  Some days I would go in to work and feel great and get stuff done and other days, after only hours I would have to leave to deal with my stomach.   And, I think the biggest frustration, is that it is hard to be away from a bathroom for long.  My prison work and home visit work are both defined by poverty and well, part of that is a lack of adequate bathrooms to which so far I have avoided facing head on but does mean I have been seen sprinting through the streets to get to the nearest toilet.  It means less soccer, less interactions with Bolivians and Bolivia, which of course is what being here is all about.

My fear of the dogs has lowered as I have learned how to navigate around them and even avoid the scary ones when possible.  But my fear of food has escalated and especially with all the well-intentioned yet contradicting advice I get, I am not always sure what will lead to only greater issues.  I am extremely careful, as I have to be while my stomach is so sensitive,...and any immunity you´d think I would build up seems to get kicked down every time I have to take an antibiotic to treat the amoebas.  Food scares me.  It is considered rude here to turn down food somebody offers you but I am at a point that rarely can I accept the food feeling it is ¨safe¨ so I have to explain my situation and try to not offend the person when turning it down.

I really like Bolivia.  I want to BE here and not forced to the bathroom or doctor´s office with so much of my time.  We are exactly half way through our 10.5 month commitment here and I am afraid while also a bit hopeful for what the second half of my time holds here.   A good friend is meeting Brendon and I at Machu Picchu for New Years so I am hopeful that traveling will be peaceful and I'm excited because I hear long bus ride buses in Peru actually have bathrooms on them unlike here in Bolivia:)

Today, for the first time in seven weeks, I got a lab result that says there is nothing wrong with my stomach...no amoebas, no infection, no other bugs.  So, I will load my system up on probiotics and other such healthy things and then cross my fingers and pray...for a bit of peace so I can enjoy this gorgeous country (and Peru:)).

The Way Its Done

Today, from midnight to midnight, I am not allowed to leave my housing complex.  It is Census Day.  Anybody caught out of their home will suffer a fine, some time in jail, or both.  In Bolivia, they come around and literally count my head.  I sat down with a woman this morning as she asked me what my walls were made of, if I had water supplied to the house and if so - how, if my kitchen was its own room, and about 40 other questions.  She filled in each bubble carefully before proceeding to the next question and did the same for each of us living at this complex.  She has 20 houses to go to today.  We were #6 and she didn't finish at our house til after 11 am.  Of course, certain regions that are uncountable such as the Amazon, the country, etc will simply not be included in the census.  A reliable source of information for the country, or a narrow vision of city life?

Bolivia is full of days like these - the unexpected, different, distinct from my own country and makes me wonder...unique?  The Tanzanian and Korean sisters across the way certainly seem just as caught off guard by them as me most of these types of days.

Two weeks ago, the sisters invited me to an inauguration of a neighborhood street with them.  I asked what exactly that included, they shrugged and said, "I don't know, maybe they will cut a ribbon?".  A couple of us headed over to the inauguration to find hundreds of people, dozens of security, a giant giant stage, numerous professional bands, and...EVO, the Bolivian president.  He was here to celebrate the paving of a few neighborhood streets.  I had wondered why our neighborhood suddenly had gotten street lights put in in less than one day...just in time for Evo's arrival.  His speech as well as the president of the neighborhood and the mayor's all included detailed descriptions of how much asphalt was used, how many street lights were put in, and held promises of more water to homes and more asphalt in the neighborhood.

And of course, one of the events that affects our lives most regularly here in Cochabamba, bloqueos, were also exciting the first time or two I experienced them.  These are blockades that occur whenever a group of people, the last two months its been the drivers of public transportation, decide that a presented law or policy is unfair to them.  A bloqueo may last part of a day or all day depending on how negotiations go.  If it is the public transportation drivers, it will be on a Tuesday, in the last 8 Tuesdays, 6 of them have had bloqueos.  What exactly is it you ask?  Some days it is a bunch of rocks in the street, some days it is large tree branches, some days it is 100 public buses...but the theme is that these items gather at the major intersections in town - stopping people from going much more than a mile radius from their home.  It effectively stops or at least slows down any and all work for the day - including often not allowing us to get to the prisons or other ministries.

You might expect them to be violent, you wonder why nobody attempts to simply move the rocks...but they don't.  And it isn't violent, not at all.  In fact, near most bloqueos you can usually find a group of the drivers playing soccer to pass the day and see many men and women attempting to walk to work so they can get their pay for the day.  The mood is light and cheerful.  Evo himself used bloqueos and marches as a way to fight for his rights before taking presidency.

I guess this is just the way it is done.

A Mine Blurred By Fear

This week I did one of the scariest things I've ever done.  I went inside a mine in Bolivia.  I knew it would not be pleasant but I never could have imagined the nightmare I was about to experience.

In a town called Potosi, at 15,000 feet in elevation, there is a hill called Cerro Rico (Rich Hill).  This hill has quite the history with the mining beginning around the time of the Spanish Conquest.  It was originally a mine for silver and as time and layers have passed, it is now a mine for some silver but also for minerals such as lead, copper, and zinc.

I had heard the mining situation described as horrendous but also knew there were dozens of tour agencies offering tours in the mines and thus thought it couldn't be THAT terrible.  We were careful to find a tour company that gave some of its profits to the mining community as well as had ex-miners as guides.  Our research suggested that the miners did not mind tourists since part of the tour included bringing them gifts of drinking water or dynamite.

This is the information we had entering the mine.  We also knew that it was a cooperative mine, that is, the workers make profits proportionate to what they extract.  They have to buy all their own supplies, including safety equipment.  So, with this information, we began our tour.

First, they suited us up with thin plastic boots, thin pants, and a thin shirt.  We had a helmet and a strong headlamp.  Then we stopped at the "Miner's Market" to buy the miners gifts.  We stopped at the refinery to see the chemical process of breaking out the silver and quickly moved on to the mine itself.

                                                                  Sifting for silver.

                                                                       Silver!

Before even entering, a miner stopped us and asked us for help.  He wanted us to help move some bags.  I could not lift one.  I tried with all my might and eventually worked a system where Brendon would lift it onto my back so I could contribute to the transportation of the bags.  This miner had dozens of bags in front of him and we helped him with about ten.

                                                                   Entrance

                                                       

We waited as a "train" consisting of small "cars" came out of the mine and then proceeded to walk down the tracks.    As we walked in, it immediately got darker and more difficult to breathe.  I had my face covered with a handkerchief but it did not stop me from being overwhelmed with the various smells and sensations occurring in my mouth and throat.  I can't even describe them because I had never smelt anything like them in my life.  I was ducking (or just hitting my head) every ten feet or so due to low hanging wood, much of it split with earth threatening to fall.  I tried to ignore the bright colored masses hanging from the beams I was hitting my head on.

Split beam with stuff growing on it.

Our guide stopped to ask us if we wanted to go see something special but said it would be more dusty.  I told him we wanted to just do the normal tour as I could feel my body already shifting into alert - flight or fright - mode and I didn't want to prolong the tour.

Apparently, I should have been more clear.  The next thing I knew we were watching our guide hoist himself up some dirt wall/random planks and disappear up a wooden shaft.  I followed, thankful for the confidence I have in climbing up rocks and walls.  As we reached the top of the shaft, I could barely see my guide two feet in front of me and my breathing was labored and I was already sweating.  I tried to tell him I didn't like it but he couldn't hear me as the noise had become incomprehensibly fierce from the jackhammer type machine they were using just feet away and above us.  Our guide motioned for me to follow but I couldn't.  My body was on full alert and was about to "flight" myself right out of that situation.  We returned back down the shaft, posting my legs on opposite walls to make my way down so I wouldn't fall down the shaft.

                                                       Our guide disappearing up the shaft.

                                                      Katie descending down the shaft.

We continued on down to the second level of the mine, once again on the "normal" tour.  I never reached such panic again but I never calmed down entirely either.  As we worked our way down the hole, we passed several miners on their way out.

It was the first time in Bolivia I wished I didn't understand Spanish as I heard a miner say,

"Yes, we finished for the day so we have the dynamite ready and are about to do our explosions for tomorrow."

WHAT?!  While we were in it?  Surely our guide must have been mistaken as he continued down the hole that was leading us deeper into the mine.  I panicked and quickly asked him why we weren't leaving if they were about to set off dynamite.  He assured me it would be fine.

I recited to myself the phrases that kept me moving through the two hour tour:
"The guide wants to live too.  He will not lead me to danger."
"You are alive.  Stay calm.  Breathe."

The hole we were lowering ourselves down is something that I would normally find in sync with my love of adrenaline.  We were carefully planting our feet on knobs, sliding down rock here or there, crawling our way horizontally to the next spot large enough to stand.  And yet, in this situation, it was not a fun caving adventure but instead, with the smells I have never smelt before and can not begin to describe, with the men climbing up the mine hole as we headed down, with the knowledge of so much earth above me and explosions about to go off, with the constant thought "these men work here"--- I had this haunting feeling I was in some people's living hell.

                                                    View down the "hole" from above.

                                                  Miner telling our guide about dynamite.

We reached the third and final floor.  We trudged through bright green and orange colored water.  We walked deeper back to unbelievably HOT parts of the mine, thanking God when those miners said they had already done the explosions for the day.  We visited some men still working.  Talked to a father and son taking a break to chew coca leaves.  Paid homage to "el tio" or the uncle that is the "underworld god" they pay homage to and make offerings to keep them safe.

We worked our way back out of the mine.  Light.  Breeze.  And finally, fresh air and sun.  Thank God to be alive - you can be sure I did.

That night after showers, breathing, wine, and a bit of food...Brendon and I found ourselves asking so many questions that clearly neither one of us could answer.  They started with ... Why?  How?  Why not?  Who?  What if?  And on and on.  Some of these questions I had before even entering the mine, many came through the experience.  But at the end of the tour, as the guide sat us down in the hot third floor to give us the history lesson of the mine, or as we sat with the father and son with an incredible opportunity to ask questions - I was frozen.  I was stunned into silence.  My mind was not blank but it was not able to focus on questions.

So, I do not have lots of answers for you.   I do not have lots of facts.  I certainly still have a lot of questions.

I can tell you that these men work there anywhere from 5-7 days a week from 6-10 hour shifts.  Boys as young as 10 to men that had been working there 27 years already.  They do not eat as they are not allowed to go #2 inside the mine plus their food would quickly be contaminated.  Most do not wear any type of face mask as it makes it more difficult to breathe in the already hot and dusty conditions.  When asked if there is something they could change, the first answer is to have an opportunity to make a living somewhere else.  The second answer, to have the technology to make it safer and easier to work there.

                                                        Cerro Rico as seen from town.

Brendon; calmer, civil engineer, been inside a US mine -  may someday share some more information, more facts, a different perspective with you.  But for me.  I am just so glad to be alive.  And grateful for minor struggles at work, fresh air, light, eating, health, choice.

L-O-V-E

That four letter word that in English, we use to mean so many different things.  We love our ice cream, we love our parents, we love a significant other, we love our toys, we love a song...anything, anything can be the object of our love.  We hear it constantly on the tv or from our own speaking to describe something, "Oh my gosh, I love your shirt."  "I love this class."  And yet, we are not so free to use it with other human beings, we qualify who we can say it to.

LOVE, is that deepest of human connections.  It is what we use to express our most profound relationships, our most humbling human experiences.  We love the people in our lives, but how often do we describe people we just barely know as loving them?  How often do we tell our closest relatives - let alone a mere acquaintance - that we love them?  And why not?  We freely express our love for the cup of coffee we are drinking.

For much of my life, but highlighted even more so here in Bolivia, I have wrestled with what LOVE looks like as a verb.  It is a verb.  A word that means action.

So how do I take action?  How do I LOVE in the most profound of its definitions?  Does it have limits or do we just put those on ourselves because it is easier or because we are afraid of something?

I have felt called since a very young age to help others.  To do something outside of myself.  Perhaps I am naïve in thinking so, but I have faith that most of us in the world have this same desire - to live for something bigger than ourselves - to brighten somebody else's life.  And here I am, plop in the middle of another country as a volunteer and I just feel torn.  My culture is not left by the wayside, it came with me.  I struggle with what I feel called to do with what I am told is healthy, balanced, or normal.

I like to work with other people.  I like to give of myself and share and here, LISTEN.  A part of me feels like there should be no boundaries, no work hours, no time constraints or physical restraints.  No need for self-uncertainty or self-doubt.  I should just boldy go to the people I work with and listen with no fears or hesitations.  I should go interrupt the soccer boys' evenings to get them to come out and play or talk or share.  I should find ways to be with people and GIVE to them with no fear of what it costs me.

But another part of me says that I need to take time for myself, I need to follow the boundaries of the work hours, of the social norms, I need to protect what I have and not just give without thinking.

I wrestle with LOVE.  I always struggle to know, should I give it all up and go?  What am I hanging onto so tightly?  Why?  And WHY in the world as I get older does it seem to get even harder to let go of my perceived securities?  I KNOW, I know.  We all do, we all know what is important in our lives and yet, somehow, I am so distracted, so convinced that there is a balance.  That my middle class life style is not hurting anyone.  That I am in another country so that is good enough if I need to be selfish too.  And day after day, no matter how many times I have this discussion in my own head, no matter how much tension I feel suggesting that there is something bigger I am being called to do, no matter how many facts I see that show me my lifestyle IS affecting others -  I give in to the reasoning that I need balance.  I take the easier road.  I hold back and restrict the act of love.  Why?

One Neighborhood, One Perspective

This past weekend I spent a day in a neighborhood called Kara Kara - it is in District 9.  If you asked any local person downtown, if they knew this neighborhood existed at all, they would refer to it as the "neighborhood with the city dump."   A Maryknoll priest lives there and he wanted us volunteers to understand a little bit about the place he lives and works.

Kara Kara exists on about three rolling hills, that is to say, there is not more than a soccer field or two worth of flat space in the entire neighborhood.  There were no trees to be found on any of the hillsides, the ground is made up of mostly dry dust.  Ken, the priest, walked each of us volunteers to a different house to spend a couple of hours with an individual or family there.  He informed us that the people willing to have us stop by just happened to be the wealthy of the neighborhood so to keep that in mind.

I had the great fortune to spend a couple of hours with a man named Giovanny.  He has a little plot of land with a brick house on it.  It is a one room, no kitchen, no bathroom home (there is a "toilet" outside).  Himself, his wife, his 20 year old son, 18 year old son, and 13 year old daughter all live there.  They have an unobstructed, perfect birds eye view, of the city dump below them on the hill.

Giovanny and I spoke for a couple of hours about many different topics, including Evo Morales, the current Bolivian president.  I think what struck me most out of the entire rich conversation was when Giovanny spoke the phrase "...the middle class, like myself...".

He considers himself the middle class?  When I asked him what his dream would be for himself, what he most hoped for out of Evo as president or anybody in government, he said he hoped for a home with three or four rooms and a chapel in his neighborhood.

A couple of years ago, a non-profit organization, tried to get the city to move the dump as it is upstream of town (water issues is a whole different topic) and is just a hole in the ground with no lining or any sort of maintenance/regulations to keep the rain water from washing the dump into the river.  Kara Kara fought this organization like mad and organized to keep the dump and neighborhood as it was.  It provided a source of money and they didn't want to see that go.  They received a SMALL amount of money for having it in their neighborhood and used this money to make a soccer field, etc.  Another way they made money from it is dozens of people from the neighborhood wait at the dump.  As trucks from the city bring the trash and dump it, these people dig through it looking for recyclables or anything valuable that they can resell for money.

The dump was allowed to stay as nobody else wanted it, but, with the agreement it would start to be lined with plastic in an attempt to better the water flowing to the city.

I left Kara Kara that day so grateful to see one of many, yet a distinctly unique, Cochabamba neighborhood. I am lucky to get to work, live, and visit many more neighborhoods.

Routine!

The time is going so quickly!  We have already been here for over a month and at this point, it is hard to imagine being ready to leave in another nine months!

Life has become a bit of a "routine" here.  I use that term loosely because everything is constantly changing and transitioning.  There are so many mornings that I wake up thinking I have a grasp on what lies ahead that day and somehow, sometimes within minutes after waking up, my entire day has a new dynamic.

I have settled into two "jobs" here in Cochabamba.  Every Tuesday I am working in the prisons.  Two sisters and I bring powdered milk and other various donations to three different prisons, alternating each week which prison we go to.  The idea is to help educate parents with kids in the jails about nutrition and to monitor the kids by weighing them.  The bigger picture is to keep tabs a bit on the families with kids in the jails to see how they are doing and what they need.  This job is in cooperation with the archdiocese of Cochabamba where a sister runs many different prison ministries, this just being one of them.

My other work is at a social work office in the Southern Zone.  I am working with families with kids with disabilities.  At this point, my main job is to do home visits and just begin getting to know the families and check in with them to see how they are doing and what they need.  The disabilities, ages, and situations vary greatly with the 30 families we serve.  I have loved the home visits I have gotten to do so far, getting to know the families, the kids, and just seeing all different parts/ways/homes of life here.  This part of the city is less developed and thus there are many additional obstacles in these families' lives besides their kid having a disability.

I live on the northern edge of the Southern Zone of the city.  I am in a house with another American volunteer (this is for sure going to change in the next couple of months) and also some mice.  We live on the same complex as four Maryknoll sisters from the US, Tanzania, Korea, and the Philippines.

My neighborhood is nice; it has running water, some parks, a sand soccer field, electricity, and two bus lines that run through it.  It doesn't have any grocery stores and very few restaurant options so food requires a visit to another part of town.

A big part of my daily routine is traveling around the city in TRUFIs (an acronym for something).  A TRUFI or a MICRO can range from a small car to a small van to a bus.  I stick my arm out to make it stop wherever I happen to be standing.   I hop on, squeeze in a space I never think I am going to fit (and often have to put my knees in my chest to make it work or half sit on somebody else).  I ride around til I want to get off and then yell "Voy a bajar (I'm getting off)."  Now, the local secret, a Micro you slip the driver the change as you hop on, the TRUFI, as you hop off.  The difference between a micro and a TRUFI, sometimes not so clear until the driver yells at you to pay!  My record so far is 12 Trufi rides in one day but it averages more around 8.

That is a bit of the routine at this point :).  You are welcome to come see it for yourselves!  And although I don't use email as much as in the states, I love to get your emails even if they are just about your daily routine!!!  If you want to learn more and see some pics...http://langenhuizen.blogspot.com/