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.
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