Street Mission Two: Valadares

I wrote this on my return to the south central region of Brazil after a month touring the Amazon and costal states of the North. I was in unfamiliar surroundings as instead of going back to Sao Paulo l stayed for most of my remaining time in Rio de Janeiro. Rio de Janeiro is an internationally recognizable city, just think of the welcoming Jesus on the overlooking mountain and most people say, “Oh Rio”. It is an expansive city that is known for beaches and Carnival, but like any city there is more than just tourism and festivals. I stayed in the Barrio (neighborhood/city) of Campo Grande with the Brothers for about 3 weeks late March and April.

I experienced the first street mission in Rio on March 26 and the weather was comfortable after a short evening rain. It is fall here in the southern hemisphere, but fall here in Rio is not like a brisk late October day in Missouri, it’s in the seventies at night and often likes to rain. I am relatively far from the beach and can only see the hills and mountain surrounding Campo Grande or in English “Big Field”. The mountains and the rain remind me of my first street mission in Governador Valadares in the state of Minas Gerias just north of Sao Paulo. The rain was steady and cool that September night, but that experience set a tone that has carried me through my mission as if to keep me open to the blessings of little things.          

Street Mission 2013 Governador Valadares Brazil

The brother’s house is empty of brothers except for Ronalte, the Formando, and Paulo, a fifty year old son just off the street, because of regularly scheduled “mission week” in which the religious visit other cities requesting their help. I joined in on the first three days of the outbound mission and returned by train to Valadares and tonight will ride along on the street mission. The lack of religious has no effect on workings of this Wednesday night event due to the well-tuned Legos (Lay Associates) and friends of the community.

Henrique and his girlfriend stand in the kitchen as I come down the stairs from the third floor. “Hello, Henrique.”

“Hello my friend.” He speaks in English and reaches his hand out and we half embrace. He speaks English as a number of the young adults do. His girlfriend does not, but smiles and gives me a hug.

“Boa Noite, Sh-anwm,” she pronounces my name a couple more times in different ways and trails off.

Henrique is around six foot tall, very lighted skinned with dark almost curry hair that is perpetually messy. He is the son of Viviane and Mario and his sister is Mariane who is in the Order in the process of becoming a Religious Sister. When Henque speaks it is in a laughing tone with a laid back lilt, and he pronounces English almost perfectly.   

“Are you ready to go?” he smiles with a nod waiting as if I might say no.   

“Great. Boa Noite Ronalte!”

“Boa Noite,” Says Ronalte. I see his soapy hand wave out of the kitchen and then hear the pluck of a big cooking pot in the sink.

We walk into the dinning rom to stairs that lead down to the street. “Tchau Paulo,” I pause and smile. Paulo waves me off dismissively and puffs his cheeks to make a balloon deflating sound. He opens his mouth in a self-satisfying smile to reveal his few reminding teeth. “Good night to you too,” I say, and watch the silver haired man shuffle to his viewing point over the street. The street light silhouettes his buzzed hair, weak jaw, and whiskers, if not for the raspberries and cheek popping he would be about as silent as the man in the moon, with is the though I hold for a moment.

We walk out the gate and Paulo sends us a final Blurrrrp sound from above, but I look up and he is innocently stoic in the moon light.

***

 The sisters’ house is white with two stories and a very imposing gate capped with protective electrical wire. It is a feature on most of the houses in the neighborhood and I would bet it is not on, but I’m not the one curious enough to test it. Two female Formadas open the steel door and we all walk to the back of the house. The chapel building is a converted two car garage, and upstairs is an open air covered roof that serves as the storage area and alternate kitchen for the missions. I walk up the stairs and see they are almost done packing three plastic tubs with individual wrapped Brazilian Hot Dogs. The Brazilian Hot Dogs are called Cachorro Quente, they are made with chopped hot dogs in a tomato sauce on a standard hot dog bun and topped with crushed potato chips. Normally the street mission serves bread and vegetable beef soup, but with most of the sisters and brothers out of town, tonight is different. There is another mission on Wednesday mornings where the religious go to the commercial produce market and ask for donations, much of the produce for the soup comes from that earlier activity.

I help carry the tubs and installed jugs filled with tea to the four or five cars in front on the house. Everyone prays for the success of the mission in the front courtyard and it begins to drizzle. Three groups will be going out, one on foot, and two in cars going to different sides of the cities down town. We pile into a Henrique’s car and shut the doors with five people in a compact Fiat, but for Brazil that is spacious. Viviane is in the lead car ahead of us, she is a Super Lego in the order. I make up that term but it is true. She has a daughter in the order, her son is a Lego, she is involved daily with many of the various events, missions, and plains; all this while running a hotel.     

It is a heavy rain now and the car is steamy beyond the capacity of the air conditioning. We drive to a commercial section of town that is shut down for the night.  Under the overhangs are a few sons and daughters up against the building fronts just out of the heavy spray of the rain on the sidewalks. We run out of the cars to a cluster of tents under the large corner awning. The smell of marihuana is thick and the tents sort of smolder.

“Oi, Oi!” We speak into the tents.

Clap, clap! Clap, Clap! Viviane claps in front of the tent. I smile at the ingenuity of solution, because knocking on a tent never has much of an effect - sound logic.

“We have food and drink for you if you would like?” She speaks around the shelters like a den mother.

I hear the zippers race and the first flap opens, a dark skinned shirtless man in his forties with spots of gray in this hair pokes his head out. His eyes are tired and red from a combination of smoke and lack of good sleep. “Eu quero,(I want)” he is hungry and comes out of this tent and stands with us. As our group speaks to him the others stir slower and come out of both his tent and the ones beside it. It is a large group and they eat and talk while the rain pounds the street. I watch closely without much understanding of the conversation, but I hear a request for prayer and we circle about the ring of tents. I hold the hand of the man who first got out of the tent. His hand is ruff and not quite cold I can feel under the calluses the veins are still trying to warm his skin; a hand worn from manual work that pays little and ages the body quickly. The prayer ends and he presses hard against my hand as if to punctuate the Amen. I turn to wish him a good night, and he blesses me in a raspy voice.

We drive on as the water in the street is already to the level of the sidewalks, because of the over filled gutters from the previous days rain. We turn on a street that pointing down a gradual hill. Sitting against the building is a man holding his knees in a seated fetal position. The rain is so steady it’s eating away at the dryness around him and soon will overtake the ground below him. We stop and get out, and he shuffles to greet us. Some in our two car load group embrace him and he smiles as I shake his hand. His hand is so cold, which is strange to me that with the temperature in the sixty that a body could feel like winter’s cold.

“Boa Noite!” I say.

He grins and turns to all the people talking with him. I catch words that suggest they are talking about me.

One of girls in the ground says to me, “His name is Gia.”

“Oi, Gia.” I see he has two hot dogs and a plastic cup of tea. His knees wobble and we help him to the ground. Someone has grabbed a piece of dry card board from the car, and set it under him. The food is warm, but as he eats his body begins to shake and his bare arms are clammy in the early stages of what could be hypothermia. The alcohol or drugs can no longer trick his body that he is warm, the shivers are like waves and he needs warmth.

In the rumble of the crowd I call out if anyone has clothes in the car. Tonight we don’t, most nights we would, but not tonight. From somewhere a brown button down shirt is draped over him. He is still cold, so Henrique holds his food, while our group mother Viviane and I put the shirt on him and button it up. I sit flat, wrap my right arm around him, and rub his arm with my left hand. The group of young adults and teens never stops talking to him and he is smiling at them.

Someone says,”Gia speaks English, French, Spanish, and Portuguese.”

Gia looks at me and says in English, “My name is Gia.” He laughs and the group laughs with him. “I can sing too.”

“Sing Gia!” Shouts the group.

He looks at me again and starts. “We are the world. We are the children. We are the one who can make a better day so let start living.”

His body is warmer now and I feel the iciness leaving his hands.

“Sing Sean! Cantor, Cantor, Sing!” (You need to be ready to sing at any time in Brazil, that should be on the Government website.)  

I feel my own goose bumps now as I give it a good Stevie Wonder try, “We are the world, yes we are the children, ohh -let’s make a better day – yahaaa - let’s start living-ing.”

In Brazil “We are the World” still plays often on the radio and in the streets. The teens know the song too and we sang it until Gia was thoroughly warm. In the shinning September mist and lamp lights of Downtown Valadares I knew I would never forget Gia and his welcome to Brazil.              

Henrique, his  Girl Friend, and Formando Weaverton 

 Viviane

 Inside of a Brazilian Hot Dog

 Henrigue

Our Small Group for the Night

As I Depart Brazil I remember my friend Br. Gabriel

April 17, 2014

I have returned to Sao Paulo for the last week of my mission here in Brazil. In the last two months I have been somewhat out of contact with the United States. The houses of the Religious Brothers who I have stayed with did not have internet; it is strange to be online again. It has also been a long period of time without a new post and I am excited to continue talking about my experience in Brazil. I may return next week, but will continue write for whoever would like to hear about my mission until the I feel it is the proper time to let it stand.  

I spend the past month in Campo Grande, a city in the Metro of Rio de Janeiro. It was in the 80’s in Rio, but in Sao Paulo only six hours away by bus it is in the 60’s and rainy today, and it will hit the low 50’s tonight. It is fall here and that fits well with my memories of when my good friend Brother Gabriel and I parted for different locations last year in September. For me, the bittersweet mood of departing seems to be wrapped in the changes of weather, most often fall and spring. I feel the weather change again as I depart Brazil for the United States and it is me departing.

***

September 2014

It feels like a Sunday in fall. The wind is chilly, the sky is greyer than blue, and the color green in the trees is over shadow by the browns in the hills and the sandy banks along the Rio Doce. The familiar tones speak louder to me today, but it is spring here in Brazil. The threat of ran is in the air, and the river flows quicker as upstream the rains did come.

Last night brother Gabriel was scarce in the crowd that came to bless the chapel of the sisters. Normally a beacon in social functions he was a ghost free to appear any place at any time. He chose as most ghosts to be selective and scarce. I wasn’t even sure how he got to the Mass and party or even how he left.

I returned to the house with the van load of the brothers. It was stacked with amps and speaker sticks, a mixer, ornate candle sticks, and a matching alter cross. We unloaded the van in front of the bar crowd that sit perpetually under the metal roof that shoots out to the street. We wave, and they wave from the one dilapidated table that hugs the bricks of the fire that burns for evening heat. We unload the car into the into the store rooms that resided in their chapel. Unloading the van is complicated by their practice of removing footwear, normally sandals, because of weight for awkwardness of the items.

I walk upstairs to see Br. Gabriel finishing up the dishes from the lunch he prepared earlier in the day. He was at the tail finishing and I walked into the kitchen to greet him.

“Hello Brother.”

“Hello Sean,” his tone friendly but thoughtfully distant.

I saw that the door to the closest sized bathroom was half open. I looked in from across the room and noticed Paulo, a son from the street, was in there hiding. Paulo had started taking refuge in the bathroom earlier in the week and was becoming very obstinate about leaving – even to the point of muttering in angry drones. He saw me as I faked a cough to turn from his gaze. I turned back and he was still looking at me, so I smiled and he pointed to me and then motioned his thumb to his mouth, shaking his pinky in the air.  “Agua Paulo?” I speak loud and with diction. He shakes his head and points to me. “Oh, I need Agua, is that right Senior Paulo!” He acknowledges me and pushes his forehead into his folded arms.

I walk into the kitchen. Brother and I talk for a while about many things. I take full advantage to speak with him as he is leaving the house at 1:00 PM tomorrow and leaving me without a translator. It is not important at this time to give the specific of are conversation. He was returning to his home town to see his parents, family, and friends that he had not seen in five years. That is a long time to be away, and hometowns seem to never forget us as who we were before we left, and most often why we left. I could feel the deepness of his thoughts in his reflections over cleaning the dishes.

We also talked about the true reason I was on this journey. It was a continuation of previous talks, but I knew he was reaffirming the points that had marked my time thus far in Brazil. The greatest one to speak of was his answer when I asked him how to be silent and listen to God with patience in a busy world. His home town was on a beach and that was the metaphor he used to explain. (I suspend the need to quote directly from dialog)

“It is like the breakers and the waves at the shoreline. They are loud, fast, pulling, and pushing. You may never feel about to break out of that force, but on the other side is the peace; the peaceful place where God speaks to your heart. It is there all the time, even when you are in the hectic surf.”

I could see his eye lighten and that very peace manifest in his form, as he imaged that loving and quiet place.

“Thank you for being my guide for this leg of the journey Brother.” I embrace him and back away.

“You will see a lot in Brazil, but the real journey is not the culture or the language. It is a spiritual one for you. Only one part of this whole journey is Brazil.” He outlined a box shape on the counter top and pointed at areas in it. These are just parts,” he furrowed his brow at me as a question. “Parts?”

I nodded, “Pieces, pieces of a puzzle.”

“Yes, and you need to look out for them, and then you can arrange them.”

It was getting late and I paused in thought. “Boa Noite Brother. I will see you tomorrow.”

“Yes maybe.”

“Why are you planning to run out of here before I wake-up?”

He spoke in a not quite correct phase. “No, we will awaken you,” he paused and then laughed.

***

I awoke to the bell at eight in the morning. I was nice to sleep late with no mass until Sunday night. Already I could hear brother packing as he would walk up and down the stairs to gather things. I cracked the window and reflected on the day. It was a good Sunday morning panorama; the sun was breaking the clouds.

Tainia and Ana from the sister house arrived about 10:00 AM to deliverer an envelope. I walk down to the main level to greet them and the full kitchen of cooks. The smell coming from the kitchen is savory and oily. A lay associate named Andrea` orders the Formandos around in the kitchen, but he smiles in a playfully rye way. He is a round bellied and light featured young man standing beside Caio, who is thin, and 6’3.

In Tainia’s hand is a red flower. The flower is very tropical looking with four petals that start at the stem wide and thin to pointed hairs at the tips, from the middle of the flower are thee ruby red insect feeler like stamens poking up at a unified crook.

“Irmao Gabriel?” I point and she smiles and shakes her head yes.

So much of this house is buzzing and when Brother appears from packing he is playful and calm. I can see he is ready for the trip to the point he can relax a bit.

A few arrive to see brother and enjoy lunch. They are excited to have a yellow cola on the table that is native to Brazil, its tastes like ginger ale, but is made from a fruit only here call Guarana.  They have completed the lent of St. Michael the Arch Angel; it is like the lent before Easter only it takes place between August and September. This year those participating gave up soda, sweets, and candy. In addition, they prayed a devotion every evening in that forty days, and keep a status of the saint in their house.

The sun’s fight with the clouds is lost and it becomes very gray as we pray and begin eating a meal of baked pasta noodles mixed with lightly sautéed vegetables and potatoes. It now feels a little sad that Brother is leaving, but we laugh frequently as we sit on the ground eating. The Brazilians love to pick on each other and play jokes, but one favorite is pointing out if someone is too big, too tall, too fat, or their particular mannerisms. It seems that everyone takes and gives it, yet it is a bit juvenile and they do stop most of the time when someone turns red.

As we finish lunch, Brother Gabriel walks up the concrete steps and refuses the chocolate and fruit desert on the table that everyone is ripping apart. He trips and falls into the stairs, he pauses and starts to laugh. I can see he is no longer uneasy, just in the place in packing were you get clumsy and forgetful.

He returns wearing a backpack, and has a brown army like duffle bag santa claused over his shoulder. Everyone moves in for a hug and a goodbye as it will be five weeks before he returns to the house. Brother Gideao rushes us to the train station and cuts into traffic with our Volkswagen van like it was a motorcycle. We turn the corner of a street and I notice the brothers talking seriously in the front seat. The van turns back east and Br. Gideao jams the gas.

We are back at the house and he honks the horn and yells to Weaverton who comes down quickly. The van takes off as Weaverton is still standing blankly alongside. I asked what brother forgot. And everyone irrupts in to laughter. “What?” I say looking around.

Br. Gabriel turns with all of his travel money and paper work in his hands, “My tickets,” everyone laughs again.

We arrive as the train pulls into the station, I will never forget the sight of two Religious Brothers in the front seat of a VW van cutting off cars and honking around corners. We take one final picture with the group and we wish Br. Gabriel a good trip as he walks onto the platform for the train.

In all my time in Brazil, I have not been far from Br. Gabriel. He guided me in Sao Paulo, on a two fifteen hour trips, one on and train and one on a bus. He introduced me to Governador Valadares and to the great people who love him there. I watched him organize two large events for the church and youth, and together we missioned in a troubled remote town called Aimores. Yet it will always be Governador Valadares, a city he touched in many ways, which will miss him for the time he is gone in October, and when he leaves for another post in January 2014.

On this leg of my trip he kept me on track as my spiritual confidant, and my Portuguese professor. I will see him again, but not for months and I would like to say thank you personally.

“I can only attest to the grace of God that you welcome me to The Fraternity of Missionaries in Brazil. A guide and a friend whose words and example still helps me remember what a beautiful experience this has been for me. I will always be grateful.”

 The Dinning Room in Valadares

 Good Bye From Upstairs

 The ride with Tickets.

 The Train Station

Hugs Good Bye.

Street Missions Part 1

One of most important missions that the Brothers, Sisters, and Lay Associates (legos) do every week is called the Street Mission. I have been fortunate to participate in their missions in numerous cities in Brazil and Paraguay. My first experience with their street work was in Kansas City, and it was the beginning of my road to South America. In our metro, the sisters and anyone wishing to assist set out in groups into in the city to give sandwiches and coffee or juice. I joined the weekly group for the mission in October of 2012, and since then I have seen the number of locations and the number of weekly helpers expand. A generous benefactor and local business owner named Willy, I will omit his last name for now, donates materials for the mission each week. This is no small amount of food and supplies as once a week the sisters make about 80 sandwiches with ham, turkey, mayo, mustard, and cheese. Included in each of the sacks are two sandwiches, fruit, chips, snack, and bottle of drinking water. The sisters welcome clothing donations, over the counter medicines, toiletries, and can food, all of which are distributed at the same time as the mission.

 

Although the food is an essential part of the mission, the primary mission is evangelism. Yes, evangelism – a scary word for American Catholics and non-affiliated people. The image comes to mind of a preacher yielding from stone steps while firing off damnation to cat calls and rolling eyes somewhere amidst the street performers and hurrying business people. Yet evangelism to the Order of Missionaries’ of the Poor of Jesus is to engage the poor, the hurting, and the lonely. It is to be love, to be joy, and offer the love and joy in a welcoming, personal, comforting, and thoughtful way. That is the interaction on the streets of Brazil, Paraguay, the United States, and soon other counties. I will attest to their evangelism because it affected my life in a very personal way. I was both lonely and hurting at the time I started to assist the sisters, and the way my life slowly changed was a result of my experiencing and participating in those acts of love, in showing others their worth, which is the evangelism I have seen.

 

I would like to highlight some of the experiences in my time in South America on the street missions and other related interactions. I will jump from different dates and cities all with the purpose of showing the patient nature of their work and of their evangelism.                    

 

City: Manaus      Location: The Brazilian Amazon      Date: Feb. 2014

 

Tonight is Paulo’s birthday party and it has been quite a while since he lived on the streets of Manaus.  His story could be a full blog post in itself, but I will explain briefly. Paulo paused from the drugs long enough to make a decision to stay with the brothers, and then attend their nine month rehab in the city of Belem, in the state of Para. Upon his graduation and return to Manus he took employment, began acting in local stage productions, and recently finished a course at university. He visits the men in their first steps to recovery at the brothers’ house regularity and tells his story at events focused on preventing addiction and assisting those currently addicted.  He has opened himself to be an example to men, and tonight they celebrate him with a party complete with Brazilian hot dogs and a tall round white frosted cake topped with Choco Puffs.

 

Before the festivities began I walk into the car port to go up the stairs to the chapel for a small amount of silence. A son still living on the street is sitting behind a potted plant and waves me over. I don’t know him, but he wants me to sit down. I am holding a guitar that was jokingly handed to me in front of group choir practice. The player departed the car port for some reason but before said, “Would you hold this?”  I took it and the group giggled as he left. Again the son behind the tree calls to me. I shake the son’s hand and remembered the guitar is still in my other hand and quickly return it to the choir as they laugh in a great burst while still refusing to take it, I lay it down, bow, and walk off.  The man’s name is Lyon and he is obviously in the waning effects of whatever drug.  He is dirty from the street, but smiles to show me his t-shirt, which read in English AMSTERDAM, and the line under says, “I saw your mother in the red light district,” he is very proud of the shirt and laughs as I read it. I am impressed the printer spelled the words right, most of the English on T-shirts here comically misspelled or disordered.

 

His feet are cut and the wounds bulge from not being properly cleaned and dressed. I have seen this often, the cuts are inflected, sore, and the bottoms of his feet are wet because the moister in his leather sandals. It has to get that bad before they requested help and the hospitals would be better, but those on the street don’t allow go to the med centers. One of the Formandos joins us, he has a full long pointed beard but is only about eighteen, he hands him a bottle disinfectant or rubbing alcohol for the wounds. I ask a question, and he responds with a blank look indicative of seventeen. I can tell Lyon is not part of his plans for tonight, but he is patience and observant. He is hardly and ordinary Brazilian youth leaving his family’s house (with their permission) to live a religious life, still attends school, and working seven days a week with the poor. Tonight I imagine he wants cake, and to celebrate. We all can get glassy eyed when the plans in our head change quickly, even I confess to doing this. When I have an idea and it changes in the past I have chosen to be racked with impatience.

 

In the common room everyone is signing happy birthday and soon will be eating hot dogs and that giant cake. I watch Lyon clean his wounds in a fruitless and painful way. I asked for a rag, water, and soap. My request confuses the young formandos, that or my Portuguese pronunciation is bad, which does occur frequently. I stand up and walk into the party and ask Br. Sudario for those things and explain the situation. We walk into the dispensary and find all of the things easily. Brother hands me gloves for me and the formando, he pauses and looks to say please use them. I fill the container with water and walk back to the car port. I hand the formando a set of gloves and his body language is resistant, but his expression still blank. “Brother asked you to wear them,” I use brother to simplify the process, but he take them and set them off to the side. “I don’t want you sick, wear them.”  

 

We have a lot of fears in the US that lead us to over sanitize, over protect, and over react. We have been over mothered, not by family, but by news reporters, advertisers, and the government into thinking every public toilet or “mis-washed vegetable” has hepatitis and that every microscopic organism is just waiting to sicken you, thank you Dr. House. On the other hand, in South America unrefrigerated chicken or meat not a concern, and there are times I wave off the chicken parts because I don’t feel comfortable. Outside of a hospital most people seem to have a blasé feeling toward sharing food, cups, or silverware.  I reflect that there are things on both sides that drop the scales to one side or the other, but there certainly is a happy medium. Mine is any contact with blood or other potentially tainted fluids.

 

I angle the formando out of the way and start to help Lyon, and the Formando assists. Lyon’s feet are filthy and I admit my impatience in washing his feet, because each time I try to avoid his wounds he would winch because I found another one. I finally hand him the soap and watch him clean. He finishes cleaning, I dried his feet, and more productively we treat the wounds. We have no bandages, no tape to make the gauzes into bandages, or good way to dress his cuts. This is not preferred, but in the past I have seen both creative solutions and other times the realization that we have to do without. We suggest he go to the hospital soon.     

 

We move Lyon’s chair and he sits and drying his feet.  He hears the party inside and asks for something to eat and drink. I pull up a chair and ask him questions as I would anyone I just met.

 

I say, “Lyon, are you from Manaus?”

 

He smiles and rubs his chest with his wrist, “No, I‘m from Recife.” Recife is a coastal town on the Atlantic Ocean, and is on the list of Beautiful Brazilian Beach along with Rio de Janeiro.

 

“That’s a long way, do miss Recife?”

 

He smiles again, “I’m a surfer. I used to surf the ocean everyone, so ya.”

I see him in the light, it may be the surfer comment, but he does look like he could be from California. He is lanky with a fair complexion, but it is hard to see through his tanned and unwashed skin. He nervously waits for the food and combs his finger in his curry sandy brown hair.

 

“You don’t get many good waves in the Rio Negro, do you?” I smile.

 

He nods no, laughs in a muted blurt, and stops to look up at the formando who silently appears with a plate of two “Ki-Caos (kee-caowns)” or Brazilian hot dogs.  The buns are as big as the plate and are filled with chopped hot dog meat mixed with tomato sauce, cooked onion, and garlic. The formando also offers him a plastic cup of soda, and Lyon quickly sets his plate on his lap while chewing on the first hot dog. He seems confused as he takes the soda and juggles to hold the cup, eat the hot dog, and balance a plate on his seemingly uneven lap.

 

He is coming down, and asks to stay the night. The young formando is standing without expression, but his tone is sympathetic as he explains that they cannot allow him to stay tonight. He explains simply and remains stoic, but Lyon presses until he sees no change; the answers is “not tonight.” So Lyon looks at him and says, “Well can I have some cake?”

 

Lyon, despite his state, is easy going and likable, I can tell the conflict in him is building between him and the drugs. It may only be him coming down, but I feel it is deeper. It is hard for the formando to say no, and hard for me to hear him say no. There are a lot of calls made by the brothers on who can stay in the house and who cannot. If someone is still under the influence of drugs or alcohol that is an automatic no. It is dangerous because changes in behavior could lead to augments or violence. In this house decisions are made for the safety of the eight men recovering from the street and the ten brothers. The men who want to stay must start the process by not using drugs for a short time before entering and then build a trust with the brothers. They are welcomed to the house conditionally and remain with the brothers until they are ready for rehab. Those sons that want to stay one night, like Lyon, are a judgment call and both safety and fairness always considered.

 

Lyon stuffs the other hot dog quickly in his mouth and wants another. The formando returns with another hot dog and soda.  Lyon gulps soda he had and sets down the other, then devourers the hot dogs. I see in his eyes a dispirit look both uncomfortable and impatient. I put my hand on his shoulder and say calmly, “Lyon, relax, there is no rush, eat and sit back.” He smiles with big checks.

 

I pause, “How old or you?”

 

“Thirty one, but my birthday is in March.”

 

“When in March?”

 

“It’s this week.” He pauses from chewing for moment and I see him drift into a thought.

 

“Well this is a good night for cake then.”

I look at the stairs behind me and a visitor out of nowhere is eating cake. “See they just cut the cake.”

 

The visitor stands up to rejoin the party and Lyon asks if he wants the rest of his cake. The young man hands him the plate and Lyon pushed the half piece into his mouth. The formando returns with a big slice of cake and I say in a firm and friendly tone, “Lyon, calm down, enjoy the cake, just relax.” A spoon is standing up in his cake, he takes it, and then lays it down. He stops with a full hand of cake near his mouth and shivers, signaling a wave of sickness from eating too fast.

 

We relax for a couple minutes and talk until he starts to pack up with a sudden urgency.  He can’t stay and needs to search for a place to sleep. We say goodnight and I tell him I hope to see him again.

 

When he leaves I thing about desperation and reflect on the urgency people feel when they need or want help. At times people ask for help and then their actions show the opposite. It seems for some that convincing others of their need is only a step on the road of trying to convincing themselves. I have also seen those who are miserable and totally unaware of the reason for their desperation. They will only wake up when some threshold is reached, but the difficultly is without help their depth may have no limit.  I have seen caring action restore the feelings of worth in desperate people, to unsettle them enough that the substances they use become less of a hiding place. Lyon hasn’t asked to change his life, only to be assisted in the things that are most present – like food, water, or medical help. He is seeing what help he can get from the brothers to fill his immediate needs. The brothers will continue to help as they are able, and those times of assistance are opportunities to listen, talk, and affirm a different path – a choice.

 

***

 

 I have seen Lyon a couple times since that night and he continues to stop by the house, because there is an interest. Also, he has been to the hospital and told me about his painfully cleaning of the infected wounds on his feet and the new dressings that are helping him walking more comfortably. The last I saw him I told him how I feel about him, that I like him and seems to be thinking a lot. I leave it at that… and I leave it to time.   

Two Cities in Paraguay Part Four

I returned to Brazil this past December and lived in a complex called “The house of Mother Teresa” which is a home for elderly and disable men and woman. The house is unique because both brothers and sisters in the order live together on the grounds and in most capacities work alongside each other. They all participate in cooking, cleaning the common spaces, helping feed the residents, managing supplies, and washing clothes in the laundry. The complex has a large U shaped main building for the 25 men and four small “Casas” or houses for the brothers, sisters, guests, the female residents, and even their own information technology specialist and his wife. There is also an administrative hub that operates from “Mother Teresa” that works in tandem with the office of Padre Gilson (Co- founder). Run solely by sisters, they exercise great patience in handling many things relating to government documents, Brazilian bureaucracy, translating, wayward missionaries, and, coordinating many events, all with an undefined work schedule.

I found myself returning to Brazil from Paraguay and really enjoying the company of two Paraguayans, Roque and Marissa, both due for their novice phase this year. They were leaving in February just before I was set to fly to the Amazon. Roque and Marissa helped me greatly with learning Portuguese because like me at one time it was a new language to them. Marissa is tan featured with jet black hair, round cheeks, and sharp angled eyebrows. She smiled frequently and is able softens the most curmudgeonly residents with that alone. Roque is a beautiful liar which was his chief source of entertainment. He has light honey color skin, a permeate grin, and a limited capacity to grow facial hair. When I decided not to shave for a week he explained that the order prohibits guests from growing beards. He repeated the story for a number of days until when I did find myself shaving I was glad he had left on a mission. He brought me into a couple of his stories, like if someone left the house early in the morning; then they died in the night. If someone asked, “Where is brother or sister so in so?” He would reply,” They died and we carried them out, very said.” Then he would look at me for corroboration and I would nod somberly. The other story was that I was African, which he used on a couple brothers on route to their final locations. I helped him with the rues by confirming that I was “South” African. He and Marissa share a common easy of service and were incredibly thoughtful to the men like quickly helping someone eat, or spending extra time talking. The big heart of the Paraguayan is truly a part of them and when they left I missed them, and those I meet in Paraguay.

Marissa and I laughed about the buses in Paraguay especially when someone would complain about the metro system in Sao Paulo. The buses in Asuncion Paraguay are the primary transportation and I traveled by bus to the sister’s house across town. It is wise to travel the buses with a local, because roads are not well marked and you need to remember what your stops look like or you will get lost.  The buses are unique for a whole list of reasons, number one being ascetics. There are no municipal buses and the lines are run by private companies and in my speculation the routes were arranged “fairly” by those companies. These 20 year old plus Mercedes passenger carriers all share a theme with the Muppets’ wildly designed band bus “Electric Mayhem.” Multi colored outside and extravagantly themed inside with the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ, and fringe. They have no air conditioning, several windows that stick up or down, questionable exhaust systems, and always extra room for one more person. The bus drivers rip through traffic cutting off cars, motorcycles, other buses, and skimming pasted pedestrians. The conductor squeezes through the people on the bus or runs from the front door to the back at stops with a wade of cash in his hand. The buses are business on wheels and never turn down a fair because there is no more room. On many occasions, I was pressed against three people standing and one sitting, not fully exhaling on account I would lose that space, when the bus would stop and board a heavy set Chipa vendora (female vendor) with a full basket on her head. They would call “Chipa” (which is a greasy bagel shaped bread made with yucca flower and cheese) from the front to the back of the bus, muscling though the crowded aisle.

***

I traveled on a warm November morning with Rony, a son living in the brothers’ house, to help the sisters across town with their lunch mission. The sisters in Asuncion provide lunch at their house five days a week the same as the sisters in Cidad Del Este six hours across Paraguay. A remarkable example of providence keeps this mission going day after day where resources are limited, and the sisters exercise great economy.

We get off at the stop and walk the two blocks to the gated white house of the sisters. We are met at the door by Sister Lua or Moon, who is very tall with white skin and deep set eyes. She welcomes us with a bright smile as she unlocks the gate. It is a two story house with a large courtyard in back that is a third covered, which opens to a large green grass back yard. In the covered area are tables set into one long surface, and in the open air more tables are set for over flow. In the kitchen the sisters and Formados are working on two naval galley sized pots of vegetable beef soup and a 5 gallon cooler of juice drink.

At 10:45 AM the gate is unlocked and mothers with children in tow begin to walk into the back yard. The children walk lightly finding their friends to sit with and gathering younger siblings, it seemed like they were coming down from class to the lunchroom at a school. I help carry the heavy pots in the kitchen to the outside kitchenette which is our serving area for the arriving families. I help sister Lua in the serving line and the children wait in patience for the bowls to be filled and Rony collects high fives while setting juice at each of the occupied seats. The mothers help us speed up the distribution and even set a remote spot for an older man in a giant sun hat that wants to sit alone.

In an hour we served forty people, ten were adults, and the rest children. We finished lunch after many of the children were served seconds and walked out well feed. The sisters and I began to clean up and, when they saw us, the mothers began to pick up and help us finish. I little girl who was shy the whole lunch walked to me carrying plastic chair, she could barely hold it up, and I took it from her to stack with the others. I said “Gracias” and then she remembered she was shy and turned to find her mother. The clean faces and clothes of the children impressed upon me a different culture of the poor here, they are proud do whatever they can to provide for their families. On a number of occasions I saw mothers discipline their children and it took only a cross look or quick word to correct the behavior.

***

I jump to the other mission with the sisters latter in my trip. It was the first time I would see the people that live in the city trash dump. They were the same families that visited the sisters’ house for lunch and it is one of the reasons the order is blessed to have a location so close.

We packed cookies in little sacks, buttered bread, and jugs of juice for the weekly trip out to the community. We walked a mile before entering the town on the edge of the dump. There is a very small market, a bar, and some houses. The wide dirt road we walk on winds up a hill and we stop at the foot path and small patch of grass. In front of me is a vast sand field that stretches out to the Rio Paraguay. From the open land we see lines of children walking up to meet us. The sisters call them forward with exaggerated waves and calling out the names of the boys and girls. About thirty gather to eat bread in the afternoon. I sit down take pictures and observe the activity. It was not long before the boys become curious and started to ask me questions, but it is hard understand them in the fast mix of Spanish splashed with Guarani. I ask them about school and their families and we start to engage in conversations. I spoke to a boy named Michael that pointed out his brothers, and when they were too shy he would answer for them. They were all on their summer break and it was a fast topic because school had just ended.

We walked on to the other location in the trip and the houses became shacks that were pieced together with a mixture of available wood and scrape. We crossed part of the dump that was next water way that winds through the heart of the dump and empties into the Rio Paraguay. The children played and swam in the water that was also a sunken road. Motorcyclists would raise their legs up and drive into the knee high water and up a hill on the other side. The sisters wanted to cross the river and I asked were we were stopping. “Just across the water and up the hill”, said one the sisters. I looked at the water as a diaper flowed by and a fat hog wallowed in the shallow river. I said I would wait on the beach and they could cross the river. It was the first American decision I made on my trip, and at first I feel strange. The sisters call to the children in the river and they stood up and walked over to us. It was not a big thing. We remained for thirty minutes in the hot South American sun and gave away all of the juice to the kids and the mothers, some that would bring large bottles to fill. The juice is made from clean water which is still a commodity in the areas around the dump and even the churches collect tap water from the city to assist the families here.

We walked back to the sister house with light jugs and empty hands, but also with joy in our hearts from the smiling faces of the children on a summer’s day in Paraguay.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two Cities in Paraguay: Part 3

Asunción is the capital city of Paraguay and home to more than 1.7 million people. The city is dense with commercial and residential buildings side by side and for me it was disorientating to navigate outside of the neighborhood I lived. I was lucky to have a guide for my trips beyond a jog or an afternoon walk. I spent about a month in the city and even on a map it is hard for me to find one a place of reference. I am very grateful for the aid I received traveling to different parts of the city. You are warned by taxis drivers and locals to be careful in the tourist areas and at certain times during the night and early morning. I will say my night life was limited to group activates but that didn’t always mean I wasn’t out late on occasion. These brothers and sister “try” to keep normal hours, but that’s not always possible, between youth events and missions in the streets.

My first week in Asuncion was in late October during the order’s twelve year celebration. I was able that week to see many things in a tourist sort of way. I left for the boarder of Brazil and returned four weeks later to experience life on a day to day basis. It is important give you an overview before describing my return.

 Asuncion is a swirling blend of locations and districts that buzz amidst constant sound and movement.  One such place is the market district that wraps around many city blocks encompassing store fronts, wall-less shops packed in warehouses, and tarps covered stands tucked between building and road sides. The maze like district is covered from both the hot sun and the passing torrents of rain. The market is lively and exotic for foreigners as vendors sell just about everything. They have no restriction on what they can offer in their varying sized spaces, from car parts and electronics, to meats and fruits, it is all in the open and ready to be sold.

The Government square, “Heroes’ Memorial”, the center statue park, and the Cathedral all reside close to each other in the down town tourist district. I walked with two Americans friends and my spiritual mother Sister Magdalena to the edge of the statue park. The stands sell hand crafted wood working, intricate sewn items, and even piercing and tattoos. I walked away from shopping and watched the men at the many concrete tables playing checkers. I could see the seriousness of their games as I walked closer, each man held a wad of cash in his hand or tucked it under their side of the board. The players chain smoke and exchange sours looks as roving spectators drift around the tables.  Under a grand looking statue people sit and talk while resting in the heat of the day. The native women sell their own jewelry and Rosaries fashioned from different types of threads, beads, and local seeds. They sit segregated from everyone else next to the goods arranged on blankets. The native people live in the poorest parts of the city, some live in shanties along the stale drainage ditches, and others in housing alongside the city trash dump.

The United States is embraced in Paraguay, and so is American themed fashion, capitalism, and coke a cola. I helped interpret many shirts with knock off logos and non-sense phases; some were comically bad in translation. The capitalist system is well instilled in the cities culture, and it’s a hustle to survive. Yet there is a Spanish and Guarani phase that defines the easy mind set of the people, “Tranquillo Pau”. As a question it means, “Are you Calm?”, or as a statement, “It’s all quiet and good.” There is a strong work ethic in the people, and I have seen it working alongside the laborers of Paraguay, but they don’t worry about things, just relax in between and pace themselves. They do love Coke a Cola in Paraguay -it’s made with real sugar, along with American vehicles like the Toyota Tundra, I feel the giant Tundra is an American vehicle especially next to the French Peugeot truck. There are American restaurants like TGI Fridays’, malls that have American or American like stores, and the hotels and bars use English names. All priced for the wealthy and the tourists in areas far away from the average Paraguayan. 

I lived in an area that was typical of the many neighborhoods threaded about the city. These areas are packed between the fast moving thoroughfares where cars and buses weave for supremacy. In my neighborhood the speed bumps and uneven stone streets and prevent speeding. The family living across the street shared their living space with a warehouse for reupholstering furniture. When it rained the three children would go on the roof and clear the water off the low spots and to the gutters. Many of the houses up and down the street had open windows to sell small household items, cigarettes, food, beer, and soft drinks. There is a barber, an internet house, little bars, a salon, a couple restaurants, and a gym. The outer streets are lined with repair shops, butcher shops, a supermarket, and many other services; there is no shortage of little businesses.

The brothers’ house was nearly abandoned before they began renovation and the neighbors welcomed them warmly. The house is three stories with a roof used for hanging laundry. It has an open air courtyard of brown aggregate concrete, with a grand mango tree living off to the side, and a grotto to the Lady of Caacupa; the Mother of Jesus Holy Mother of Paraguary. The kitchen, dining room, and chapel are on the ground level, the brother quarters are on the second floor, and the sons’ quarters are on the third. I lived on the third floor with the sons. The sons all were in their late teens and twenties, living with the brothers after struggling with drugs or alcohol, estranged from their parents and family, and without good options in life they turned to the Fraternity for help. They all attended a Regate-me (recue me) which is a religious retreat focused on younger adults both men or women that are struggling with drinking or drugs. I my time in Asuncion, five sons lived with the brothers. They alternate tasks, like cooking or cleaning, but all had plenty of time to recover, reflect, and find a focus. Martin was one of the men, he was around twenty, and after six months started working, staying with his parents on weekends, and speaks to groups about his drug additions. Another son was named Ronny, he is originally from Brazil, and after time spent with the brothers began working for a painter and lay member of the Fraternity.  

***

First Street Mission in Asuncion, Paraguay

We packed the cars on a hot night in late November with bread and juice for the Friday night mission into the streets of Asuncion. The donation materials for the street mission in Paraguay consist of bread, butter, and powdered juice. This is a poor country and the Legos (lay Members) stretch what they have to keep the weekly mission going for most of the year. There are many different missions with the youth, children and families, and the regular needs of the brothers’ and sister’ houses. The legos all give time, money, supplies, their homes for retreats and events, and their talents in the capacity they can sustain.

Brother Seraphim was in charge of the mission that night and we fit fifteen people in three small cars and headed to the other side of the city. We drove through at a grand complex for South American soccer that had a large office building for administration, an elegantly lighted hotel, practice fields, and sporting stadium.  At first I expected us to drive on by into a nearly neighborhood, but we drove in front of the hotel and jumped the curbs on the other side of the road. All three cars parked inside the ring of light provided by the hotel and when I got out a string of long shadows approached us. Where the light begins to fad is a deep drainage ditch mostly full of swampy water, full from the persistent rains and run off from the streets and fields. The first to arrive at the cars were the children, and they quickly organized themselves with little help from the Formados. In their native language of Guarani they prayed and lined up for bread and juice. I came around one of the cars with my camera and a little apprehension because this was my first mission in Asuncion and I remember being overwhelmed by the crowd in the border of Cidad De Este earlier in my travels.

The children smiled and wanted to have their pictures taken, and then asked to see the pictures in the viewer. This went on as the line for food and juice moved steady. The calm of the people was striking and I remembered the madness in Cidad De Este in late October. The adults were behind the children holding the youngest children, who now chewed on little French breads and wriggled around to see the action that was going on around them.

When the line dissipated so did the space between us and new groups formed with the brothers now holding the babies. The children played alongside the road in a patch of mowed grass, and I was asked to take more pictures by the natives.

I was walking beside the largest group and a tall dark featured man spoke to me in English.

“Hello.”

I paused and said softly. “Hello.” I didn’t recognize this man and he didn’t come with our group.  “You speak English?”

“Yes, I speak English. Would you like me to help you talk to the people here?”

“I would, thank you. My name is Sean, what’s your name?”

“You can call me Rob, Sean.” He drew a breath,” You are an American and this man wants you to know about him.” He pointed to a dark skinned native man who stood very straight and was wearing a clean white shirt. “He speaks Spanish and I can translate between you.”          

I was still confused because I didn’t know this man, and wasn’t sure how he knew I was American, but he spoke softly with direct intension.

That is how I met the indigenous man Maximo who stood alongside his girlfriend Antonia, and they told me of the situation in this camp along the water. There are 125 people living in the long line of wood and tarp shacks that run into the darkness. Maximo came here a year ago without an option from the agency that assists natives call “the Institute of Native Affairs”. Much like the Native Americans the US, the Guarani peoples were displaced from their homes and enslaved for centuries. In this century areas in the undeveloped lands to the north became “reservation” like villages. The issue is compounded with little employment and a preference for the more European Paraguayans. One positive movement is the Paraguay’s renewed appreciate of its past heritage. This includes the language and the culture of the Guarani peoples, which has been embraced with great enthusiasm. The country has celebrated its improvements during their bicentennial, but social and economic changes remains slow.         

Still Maximo lives here among the many children and want for assistance. Like his people before him, he was living in another city to the north until he was unseated from his housing. His assistance ended and after losing his home he moved to Asuncion for work, but work is hard to find for many native people and he remains unemployed. He and the other adults claimed to have no problem with drugs or alcohol and I could see the genuine care for the children by their clean clothes and faces.       

I was amazed at the pride in Maximo’s weathered face and his clean blue shirt, for he had not given up, but knew he needed a voice, for his was not being heard. He asked me to speak for him to the people I knew in the United States, and he said that with a real faith.  Even still he is there without good shelter, power, and water beyond the faucet outside the hotel.        

 Sports Complex

 Shadows

 Native Children

 Clean Clothes and Faces

 Martin Helping with the Street Mission

 Maximo and Antonia

 Brother seraphim

 

The camp in the distance