Paraguay Part 1

This is an experience from Monday OCTOBER 28 - I cannot upload pictures at this time

The city of Cidad de Este sits on the Paraguayan side of the river that borders the southern Brazilin state of Parana. Across the “friendship bridge” into Brazil is the resort city of Foz do Inquacu, which is an international destination for their amazing waterfalls and recreational activities. I happen to arrive in Cidad de Este in time for their Monday night street mission. Every community in the Fraternity has a night that they venture into the streets and provide basic food to the poor. I knew where we would be going for at least one leg of the mission. When we arrived that morning Sister Magdalena pointed out the tarp villages as we walked from the bus station to the sisters’ house.

The week prior the order celebrated its twelfth anniversary and that modified their missions for the week.  I had been traveling around with three Americans from Kansas that I knew from the order. Kristin was in South America to teaching lace making for priests’ vestments, Bridget was a visiting nurse on vacation to help with her medical experience, and Sister Magdalena, my spiritual mother, is in charge of the house in Kansas City. For a week we traveled in Asuncion, the capitol city of Paraguay, to the exotic shopping quarters, to the sites of the city, and to the events of Fraternity’s festival. It was great to speak English, share experiences, and laugh at things that amuse Midwesterners, but in my Provencal American way, I felt the need to get back to work.

 I traveled overnight on a bus with Kristin and Sister, and we separated shortly after seeing the nature wonders of the fall of Inqusu. I was alone in new city with people I didn’t know. It was a good start.

I looked forward to the streets, and again was the only America.

 

***

Brother Emanuel stopped the car in front of the large house of the sisters. The wide open brick courtyard was visible through the high rot iron fence and two gates stood in between brick pillars, one for a car and one for people. The order had been renting it for only a short time and construction materials were stacked in the yard a future project. The main entrance to the house was plain with no overhang, and I noticed a second crude entrance with a plywood door recessed across the courtyard.  This location of the house offered a central point walking distance from the areas where many of the indigenous native people lived. I discover that the secondary entrance was a kitchen and dining space for the meals they offered five days a week.

Inside the lay associates (legos) buzzed around making juice and bagging bread for the mission that night. I was blocked leaving the kitchen by Brother Junipero who introduced himself by singing me the start Aerosmith’s “Crazy”.  I joined in for a couple lines and he became very excited. He had many English phases and spoke in a high voice, pausing only to roll his eyes to remember the next group of words.  He exhausted his English and fluttered off as quickly as he came. Sister Veronica who is in charge of the house smiled at me when I noticed she was in the room. She had a soft wide face with light wrinkles of middle age, her eyes smiled with an understanding, and I felt her large presence that contrast to her tiny stature. I smiles and asked to help, she nodded to the things in a pile, and I took them to living room where everyone started to gather. I watched the teenagers, parents, and religious assemble with great energy, they had to be quieted from their conversations to pray for a successful mission.

 In South America when you are in a group ready to go anywhere there is certain madness. Things are shuffled about, side conversations in sue that have no bearing, points need to be made, and voices are raised; it could be a simple argument or a mass of people yelling to “vamos”!   

I had the pleasure of walking with a family who daughter spoke a little English. The girl was discerning religious life and was most likely still in high school. She would speak phases very well and then get nervous and browbeat herself in her native tongue for some small mistake.  Her mother spoke in Spanish and said she was very good at English, but was very shy. I complemented the girl in front of her mother, and she blushed and turned to her mother. But her mother face turned indifferent, “See, he thinks you are doing very well.”

We came quickly to the corner where the tent camp started, the tarp houses lined the ditches that separate the fields and roads, and we walked past the smudge pots and black figures siting in the dark. We didn’t stop and I was wondering if we were going to walk passed the whole row, but the street keep going and shelter crammed together never ended. In the distance I saw a gathering point lighted by headlights and an institutional looking building. The dark shadows closed the space and surround the parking area where a rolling speaker stood. The female formandos started singing a cute song about ducks and all the children came out of the crowd to quack and shake their tail feathers. I helped unload the bread from the cars and was directed to distribute bread to the now full parking lot, which was more long than wide. Sister Veronica danced a baby in her arms around the lighted parking and I felt a bit of peace that escaped me in the hurried assembly.  

“Two pieces of bread.” Said one of teenagers

“O que.” I understood.

“Two pieces.” She took out two pieces and showed me. The bread was hot dog buns and they had already been separated into twos. Her point was very clear

“Yes,” I nodded again as she handed me the bag.

A little girl not more than five walked up and stood in the front of the line and a number of people filed in behind her. The music stopped and the sisters lead the prayer in Guarani . They crossed themselves to Tuva, Ta’yra, Pytu Marangatu. Good luck with the pronunciation! It and Spanish are the official languages of Paraguay, but the “Indian” population is not educated, and does not go to school to learn either formally; it is a great block to their joining the main society. The prayer concluded.

In the pause before we started to handle out food, I could see how saturated with dirt the sons and daughters were. They had darker skin than their more European appearing countrymen and their facial features made me remember the artist drawings in history books for their ancestors the Aztec and the Inca.  Their dark features couldn’t hide the sores and cuts unwashed about their neck and face. There was blankness to all their eyes. The children looked as tired, as the adults. The adults were little more than teenagers, some of the girls held babies in their arms, and I was perplexed for a moment that the mix of ages didn’t include an older generations aside from the very old men.

“Ok,” the girl helping me pointed to start. “Only one piece for youngest ones.”

It made no sense to me, but handed the little girl one piece of bread.

Another girl stopped me. “You need to give out two pieces of bread per person.” She gave me a look of contempt that only a teenager can give.

I looked to make a case with the original girl who was helping me, but she was nowhere to be found.

The lines widened to a semi-circle, and the young men were pushing and shoving with their hands out and over the heads of the children. I ignored eye contact and refused the men to help the kids first, but that didn’t stop them. I felt a relief when the women and children were back in the middle of the parking lot and dancing with the sisters. It was the first time I had seen the discourteous throngs with little concern for anyone else. A boy came up and went to pull the sack of bread from my hand, a number of men still behind him; I jerked it back and went on giving out bread. We started to move on and the same bold boy came back and I handed the remainder to him; for all I know he may have wanted to take it to help his family or he was just that hunger.

 We came to another road in a more remote area, and still more lined the sides of the road. They reassembled the sound system and mostly children came running out to dance. Their smiles were bright and everyone was dancing. I even jointed in with the group of ducks in a circle. We reached a point in which we had no more bread and we ran out of plastic cups. The men seem older in this village and came over calmly with trash bags loaded with empty plastic soda bottles and proceeded to fill them with the juice. I looked about and couldn’t find a water source. No river, no facets, no bathrooms.

A boy of 8 or 9 climbed the formando in front of me and held out his hand to leap to me. I held him for a minute as he looked for another target and a walked over to the circle of older teens in our mission and only got within his jumping range; his body tensed and he bolted. After he found a hold, he scurried lizard like across them and hopped off into a full sprint.

I turned to my left to saw a red haired teenage girl smiled at me. She had freckles and I faintly recognized her from the sisters’ house. Her name was Teresu and she lived as an Aspirante with the religious to discern holy life.  There were four at the house and they all wore brown t shirts and long ankle length skirts.

“What are you doing here!? I was addressed in English in suspicious and harsh tone. The smile disappeared.

“That is a good question, I don’t know if I can answer that.” I spoke flippantly to her tone. I will confess I was punchy from not sleeping on the bus the night before.

“What do you do?” She seemed attacking.

“I do nothing.” I felt no need to explain, and from my brief reading of Kierkegaard I felt that a legitimate answer.

“No, why are you here?”

“Why are you here?” I deflected.

She became frustrated but paused and answer with a peaceful tone. “I am here to service Christ.”

“That is a good response; I am here to see you.”

“What?”

“You’re making and choice to serve a greater thing than yourself, that is one person choosing to serve something beyond themselves. Is it important what one does, where one is, and what one wants?  You said you want to service?

“Yes,” She looked inquisitive at me.

“That direction is what I see in everyone here. It changes things without the need for personal obligation. It is joy and ease. They wear it on their faces and give it away freely with no need to be somewhere else. One person is affected by one person. One soul is awaked by one soul.”   

The dancing and laughing continued and the crowd blurred into one happy whirl of motion.

“That is why I’m here, and that is what I wish to understand.”

She smiled looked at the dancing.

Into Paraguay

I leave on a bus at 1 AM Brazilian time to return to Paraguay. I will be in the capitol city called Asuncion for the next month. It will be an experience to assist the indigenous population who are very poor. Some  live the garbage dumb of this city of 2 million.
When I was there last, I had very limited internet access, so it may be Christmas before I can post regularly. Be well to all my friends and family, Peace and love to all.

The Toy Maker and the German

Last night a sound registered me awake, and although my mind could not place it in heavy sleep or dreamy stirring; it spoke urgency. The steel door of the brothers’ house was being worked with great leverage. It was no knock. I have heard that rap many times on the door of the brothers’ house on the border of Brazil and Paraguay.

I looked through my feet as I laid in the living room facing the open air foyer. The foyer is fifteen feet long and six feet wide and centers the chapel, the priest’s private quarter, and the front door. I felt little distance from the door as I reasoned the situation. I saw light cracking through the lock side jam, and then the resistance of the steel snapped the corridor dark again. This repeated in a rhythm of force and recoil again and again. It was a couple seconds before my instincts kicked me treading to an upright stance.

I went first to close and lock the living room door and alert the brothers. I found no lock, it had been removed. I didn’t know the time I had, and didn’t rationalize the gates construction, but it was holding! I realized all of the brothers and father were in back sleeping in the open air kitchen because of the heat. I was alone against this tormenting wrenching. I made the choice to swing out the side door and face the passage that shoots from the front door to the very back of the house. This is the only way in and out, and from there I could confront them before a breach of defense. The brothers would hear me, and most importantly the person or persons behind the door would hear me. I had surprise, and a solid plan.

And then quiet, a deafening quiet. As a puff of wind they vanished, and I waited to confirm their exit for ten minutes. I returned to bed and waited until all was peaceful, both in the house and in my mind. I did not sleep for a time as dozing seemed indulgent. It could have been a hungry person or a confused son just drunk enough to take his anger on inorganic object. I never found out.    

***

There are many people crammed into this house; it feels that someone is always on top of you. I may still be accustom to living alone, but you are never alone and even in the bathroom most of the time the knob will rattle or there with will be a knock at the door. I think that only made my being alone earlier so strange. I fell back asleep around four o clock. At 4:10 AM the alarm clocks began chiming from the back if the house. I felt a relief to have their movement in the house and soon they were buzzing around in preparation of an early morning mass. This was not a normal occurrence; an exception for travel to Sao Paulo for Fr. Rafael and many of the brothers. Father walked by prepping his vestments and I stopped him to explain the sound at the door. He agreed with me that it was strange, and that I need to sleep.

I heard the chimes of the Holy Eucharist around five o’clock.

At seven the younger formandos sang their way to the door and out to school.

The prayer bells rang at seven thirty and again at eight for breakfast.          

I awoke 8:00 am.

***

The Toy Maker and German

The bells for breakfast signal the house open for our sons and daughters to come in and have café and bread.  I sat and ate two small French breads with butter and enjoyed the calm of the near empty house. I smiled as a few of the sons came and stood at the table. They know prayer is required and Br. Baruc, who runs the house, lead them in an Our Father and a Hail Mary.

A square jawed man with blue gray eyes and white hair buzzed almost to his scalp sat down and gave me a quick hello and good morning in English. I meet him on the mission to the favelas that climb the hills above the river. A world traveler he spoke many languages and shared many interesting experience from his travels. He held two conversations at once, one with me in English, and one with brother in Portuguese. He effortlessly navigated both as neither was his native tongue.

“I didn’t ask your name the last time we met, mine’s Sean.”

He chews a chunk of bread. “It’s George, but they call me Alemao.”

I laughed, “That makes sense being your German. (Alemao is Portuguese for German) You speak well, did you have any problem learning Portuguese?” 

“They think their language is so hard to learn, but it is quite easy. You find things to read when you are on the street and listen to all the conversations at bus stops. If that is all you hear, it is easy to figure out.”

He pauses and looked me directly in the eyes, “What are classes, four hours a week – right -for as long as you want to pay. Well I am in class every hour of the day and I learned quickly. Very quickly and it costs nothing! I just sit on a bench and many things are talked about right beside me.

“That makes sense, how many languages do you know.”

“Five or so.”

A tan middle aged man dropped his duffle bag, walked to the table, and stopped himself to pray. He finished the prayer and was handed a plastic cup of coffee and bread. His eyes showed his quiet excitement for the small meal. He didn’t have the steeliness of the German.  He was slow to speak but not shy. I could see him tone out when the German talked. To everyone else, he remained patient for someone to make their point before speaking. He chose to remain silent most of the time, but nodded to confirm he was listening.

George was speaking to brother and I started to speak with this new man.

I spoke in Portuguese, “Hello, how are you today?”

“More or less.” He looked up at me. “ And you?”

  “I am well. My name is Sean?

“Leomar.” He seemed to enjoy that I was asking him questions.

The conversation opened up to the table. Brother Baruc asked about his sun burn. He was newly cooked around his chest by the sun, which was a contrast to his dark workman’s face. I could tell the new shirt was a different cut than the one he had before. A sharp v of red was now very obvious.

The conversation shifted and I got lost in the speed of their words. Leomar ran over to his bag and pulled out a pair of pillars, medium gage wire, and a handful of plastic whistles. He scattered them on the table with a wire sculpture complete with a tiny plastic cup in it. He filled the cup with liquid soap and handled it across the table. Brother took it and watched as Leomar showed him in pantomime how to use it.

Soon the air was filled with soapy orbs from his simple hinged machine. The German was unimpressed and turned to drink his coffee. The rest of us laughed and traded the toy around trying to outdo each other with size and quantity of bubbles. We just enjoyed the experience and Leomar showed a kindly glint of satisfaction for our enjoyment. Brother handed it back and Leomar asked if we would like to see him construct one. We all nodded for him to go ahead.

He turned the wire deftly, and in five minutes time had completed the frame. Brother took a cue of his own and walked away from the table. Leomar drilled into the whistle with an ice pick to mute it and focus the air flow. He twisted off the steel wire around the plastic lip of the whistle and then created a loop for a little bathroom cup that would hold the soap. Brother returned and set a full sleeve of little plastic cups.

I walked over to watch. “How much do you sell them for?”

“Three realis,” he responded with a smile. (Three realis is about a $1.50) 

 I decided to buy one from him. He saw me going for money and walked around me. From his bag he pulled out a few of the toys in different colors.

“Which one would you like?”

I pointed to the white one. He picked it up and in a quick motion refused my money.

“I am blessed for this wonderful breakfast.” He said little more as he repacked his things.

He shook my hand. “Tchau and God Bless!”

“Thank you very much!” 

When he had left the German gathered his large red velvet lined board with different kinds of jewelry pinned to it.

“Where do you go to sell your things?”

George smiled, “Hopefully where the tourists with too much money are. That is always where I want to be.” He paused to fasten his backpack. “Do you know what our friend’s problem is with his silly little toy?”

I indulged him, “What is that.”

“He has no interest in making something people want. You can purchase a plastic one for nothing in the store. He might as well sell pok-a-mon stickers off a roll for a dollar a piece, better money. He could make a bubble gun, kids like the bubble guns, but then he would spend a day to sell a five realis toy. The real truth, he is wasting him time.”

I thought about the previous moment, when we were all smiling and laughing, and the pride and kindness that a simple toymaker shared with us.

“I don’t agree, I saw a peaceful man enjoying what he made.”

The German ignored me in his shuffle and showed me a necklace with a cannabis leaf medallion. “This is what the tourists want, I can sell this.”

“I could see that.”

 The door to the Street and one of our sons praying

The long hallway

Governador Valdares First Day

I am in Paraguay now and this is where I will be until December 17. For the last two months I have compiled many stories of my time in Governador Valadares. It is in the state north of Sao Paulo called Minis Geris. A country side filled with rolling mountainous landscapes of brown hills and wide winding rivers. The city of Governador Valadares was my extended home and even in Paraguay I miss many things about that Brazilian town, which you may never have seen on a map.

I am weaving a narrative as I go, but I have decided to jump to some of my experiences in a random order. Some things are chewing on my mind and are impatient. So, I may be on a beach, in the mountains, or a cramped city, but I will give you fair warning.

****

You learn a lot about someone on a 14 hour bus trip. Br. Gabriel and I talked in between trying to sleep on the rocking bus taking us into the mountains. We had an impromptu transfer in the wealthy city of Belo Horizonte; at midnight we sprinted to buy tickets and caught the bus across the terminal.

It could only a blessed force that helped Br. Gabriel and I talk so well on the trip. We covered so many topics over the roads and on other trips the train tracks. In many ways our conversations got harder to understand as the moving cars and busses stopped; sometime reduced to nodding.

Brother had been a law student before his conversion to the path of Christ, and his discernment and then progression into religious life. A great portion of his schooling was complete yet he was uneasy to continue on that path. He lived in the coastal city of Sao Luis in the northern part of Brazil, with many friends and a worldly future in front of him. A talented actor and singer his favorite role that he played was Scare in the Lion King.

His eyes twinkled and he laughed at my expressions as I tried to use pantomime to fill in for the words I didn’t know. He said, “You would be a good actor, you are like Jim Carry.” I don’t like Jim Carry all that much but I could see the complement was genuine.  Many things were shared in our light conversation.

 Brother, who is in his late twenties now, has a calming older sibling quality and a performers thinking process. We understood each other as we both spent much time reflecting and in our own ways to the contemplation God.

The restroom door on the nearly empty bus was broken and would click open and slam back and forth. The automatic light in the toilet would illuminate most of darkness as it clicked, slammed, and swung its way down the mountain roads. I was the only one awake for the ride and would be flipped into the window and then to aisle at every sharp change of direction.

At 4:14 am we arrived in Governador Valdares and began the walk to the house through the city’s business and governmental district. In a concrete park and grandstand space Br. pointed out ten or so homeless sons sleeping in the near daylight of the flood lamps. It seemed like a silent protest on the other side of the street from the city and federal government building. We walked for a mile or so to a red fat bricked road which took us down a hill.  I heard the comforting sound of natural rushing water as we walk towards the void of black beyond the amber lights. The rumbled of bass gained volume as Br. stopped and pointed into the blackness. “Do you see that?”

I blinked, “See what, there is nothing there.”

He shot me a look of disbelief, “The lady, the mountain. It is right there.”

The emptiness dissipated into a lightless blue of sky and the black sternness of the mountain. The mountain slowly revealed itself as an illusion in front of me.  

“Wow!”

Brother smiled and pushed me to the left down the sharping turned road that runs parallel with the river. The quick hill slid into the basin of the road and on into a party still going ahead of us. The women we approached stood or leaned about the car blocking the middle of the street. The heavy smell of marijuana and beer was present in air, but I couldn’t see anyone drinking or anything but cigarettes. The street was narrower than up top, and a bar with a steel overhang was the center of the dwindling party. Brother stopped a couple step beyond the party, “we are here.”

“Here?”

“Up here.” We walked up the three steps to a gate and brother started to unlock it.

I looked at our next door neighbor with one decaying card table, a wooden cable spool loaded with spent beer bottles, and the slow smoking remain of a fire that the dogs rolled in to keep warm.

“Ok, this has potential.”

The music could now be described at a club mix with samples of US artists from the last 15 years. The songs were all distorted and almost unintelligible due to the volume. We walked up the stairs and into a large open air room with many plants. Brother showed me to my room off the kitchen and set me up for the night. I said goodnight and looked at my watch, it was 5:15 am. My pillow vibrated against the wall shared with the neighbor and DJ. I moved it to the opposite side of the wall and lay down with my pray blanket. It was given to me by some of the ladies from Good Shepard Catholic Church, in Kansas. It was familiar and in this foreign place it was warming against the cold and comforting as I doubted my own reason for this trip. Really I resolved to thank the creator for leading me and crashed into a dead sleep.  

 

The Sun Rise at the House in Gov Val

The road below the house

Some of our neighbors

The Mountain Pedra Negra

 Bar next the Brothers