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

Crackland Sao Paulo Part Two

I see Brother Agnus half a block down directing us. His sharp profile is unmistakable in the ambler lights of the intersection. He waves to the right and disappears into the corner. Brother Gabriel hands me a red thermal jug of tea, cha’ in Portuguese, and a sleeve of thin plastic cups. “You will give out tea, yes?” he awaits to make sure his English is correct, but to the task I am given the question is rhetorical.

“Yes, ch-aa.” I speak with an English ch sound.

“No, it is cha`, not Indian tea.” Brother elongates the sounds. “(Sh)-(ah).”

I repeat “Cha`, (sh-ah), cha`.” I look down at the long clear stack of cups in my left hand and think to ask if I have too many. Our conversation lasts till we reach the next street. I look at brother and trip on a short barricade jutting out from the curb. I hear the cart rattle and screak turning to face our new direction.

 The cart pauses for a faint moment; I hear the sound of the wind fluttering blankets, the broken street gravel grinning under shuffling feet and cardboard pads. Those as thin as paper drift with newspapers in the narrow center of the street. It is a wide space between the gated building fronts that face one another. The sidewalks are deep and from the curbs to the walls people camp three back. Those standing in the street swell in waves to choke off the walking path. I can’t tell if anyone is talking, but a notably muted murmur does ebb the noise floor.

Two lay associates push the people lightly back to make a path for the cart. An “excuse me” or “sorry” is not heeded or heard, our sons and daughters are floating in at some point of their high gone world of chemical euphoria. In varying degrees their awareness was either faint or confused. The closer to laying down the more inward they were. Those that stood were social, some mildly staggering, but still lucid. Hanging onto the curbs were those in transition, not quite ready stand and walk. It was clear to see those with history on this street, their clothes were dingy and the skin on their faces was drawn into the bones.

At this point I stayed close to the cart. Not from fear, there wasn’t time for that to come to mind. The cart was approached in a zombie like rush. We were never mobbed, but it was hectically orderly to hand out food and drink. We would stop, be encircled, distribute, move a few feet forward, and be surrounded again. All the brothers were absent, but Br. Gabriel. He stood next to me helping with cups and pushing me a long as I got hung up. Sister Damiana was short, but not wispy, she took charge, and that was evident to everyone on that street; it was her shopping cart. She would reorganize the cart quickly and still hand out bags to the nearest people. She didn’t smile that I saw, but smiles are not common here.     

I kept to the few words I knew, but still it was clear I was a foreigner. Even through the drug haze a curious Brazilian spirit would come out. It was one of the reasons brother pushed me along. I was having conversations with the son’s and, even with my poor language skills, we could greet each other. The phases I repeated Portuguese were simple.  In English they were:

Hi. How are you? Nice to meet you. Your name? Do you want bread? Water or tea? It’s hot, be careful. Bless you. And bless you. Tcha.

A few formulated further questions and the most common was where I was from. I could sense a spark for them to ask. In the street lamps’ reflection off their wide watery eyes I could feel a twinkle of connection. It never tired me.

“Where are you from?”

“The United States, Kansas City?”

“OH, Good!”

“And you?”

“Here.”  

***

Brother Gabriel directs me away from the group and we edge the crowd to reach the sidewalk. I can see the other brothers kneeling or crouching in conversations with the blanket wrapped men. There is an easiness and peace in their glaze, as if their eyes were listening. Even if a man or woman spoke in nonsense or confusion the brothers interaction was steadying. I broke my focus when Br. Gabriel waved me over. I handed out tea and sacks of bread that our party would run to us. To those lying against the wall I would declare “Cha`” and “Bread”, and an arm here or there would reach out. If their buddy was next to them, staring off into the distance, they would tap him and they too would raise their hand. I became familiar with a certain stare, blank and focused on something beyond, like blessed nothingness somewhere beyond them. Those that were unreachable would take no food or drink, and if there was enough, then something would be left for them when they awoke.

At my feet I noticed the blankets of those on the ground were stiff and unyielding. They would adjust to close one hole from the cold and wind and another space would open. They covered themselves in patchy gray and light blue industrial moving blankets that I image even new seem dirty. Tented below me, a man breaks down and re-assembles a crack pipe with military precision. In a minute he lays the parts on the cleanest part of a sheet, cleans out the blockages, and is flicking a lighter to it. For this second hand observer there is no smell or smoke to the crack. If there is, it must be very faint for the breeze to sweep it away undetected.

It hits me that I am alone from my group. I see no brothers, no lay associates, and no br. Gabriel. It was the first time I wasn’t helping someone or in a crowd. The first moment a hand wasn’t asking me for something. I felt dizzy to stand up straight. A whole city block swirled around me, as a density populated ecosystem. In the street it was a carnival of movement and next to the curb men sold and swapped items on a red carpet market. In sections on the ground were watches, clocks, rings, small appliances, and other items of small value; all part of the economy of this street.

A man in a loose black suit with hollow cheeks and slick jet black hair smiled at me.  I am not sure how he noticed me out of his completed negotiation on the red blanket. He walked two steps and reached out his hand. “You are American?” All the fear came into me. I heard all the people in the United States saying to me, “It’s dangerous to be an American in South America”.  The fear was a sign that the shock was fading.

“Nao (which is no),” I lied as I shook his hand, and positioned myself into the crowd. He remanded smiling as I glanced back at him through the bobbing heads. Then I dove into the flow of the street.

I return to my group that was in front of me now. A wolf grinning young man struts by with his arm around a girl dressed in a tight revealing red top and mid-thigh length skirt. She has a stern face and I notice that her pace is leading more then his arm is pushing. They walk fast through the crowd; I felt cold beyond the night air.    

 The food was low, the tea was gone, and all the jugs of water were running low. A black SUV trolled into the crowd and the street cleared. We all watched it drive by and I asked who it was. Some said, “That is the drug dealer.” The vehicle stopped and the windows opened as several approached. I could see the police lights faintly casting onto the buildings down the street.

This is a place that drugs are allowed, not that it‘s legal, but there is an understanding. Something so prevalent could not be denied, but it can be overlooked. For the government, it contains a social problem. The population of Crackland is easily controlled, because proximity to the drugs provides an invisible fence to keep them here. The police are to war with the drug dealers outside of here, but inside it symbiotic. In the modernizing of Brazil the priorities shuffle to what is shiny, the poor in sky scraper favelas and burnt out section of Sao Paulo are not a high priority.          

The Fraternity and a church group called Christland, to counter Crackland, are the few that offer support to those in this street. And even then, the brothers can only encourage, and plant in them the option for change. The brother offer rest, food, and a place to recover. The next step for the sons, if they choose, is the Fraternity’s Chacara or country house that operates outside the city to provide rehabilitation and peaceful space.

***

We walked out of Crackland onto a main street, light traffic passed us by and except for our party there was no one on the street. Our shopping cart was empty except for the drained red thermal containers. We walked back to the house and it was nearing 2:00 AM.

I thought of human beings with the spark of life turned down to a flicking pilot light. I imaged being able to wake them up with a kind and loving hug or touch. If only some affirmation of their worth could recover one man or one woman from their drug laced slumber. I remembered the look the brother induced in a few of the sons, to wake a part of them wanting to hear beyond the drugs and the reasons they needed those drugs.

I awoke at 4:30 in the morning to hear a knock at the front gate. I went to the door and could see a man standing beyond the locked gate. A short shadow emerged from the stairs going to brother sleeping quarters. It is Br. Haniel full dressed with the same sure smile.  He walks to the door and bids me to return to my room without a sound. His eyes show little fatigue as the street lights show his face in the open door. He walks to the gate and I remain in the long narrow hallway. The man outside sounds stressed and has a pleading low tone in his voice. The gate creeks open and the unlocked chain bangs on the metal. I walk quickly to my room and listen again. Two sets of feet walk into the house, and in a short time all is quiet.   

Crackland Part One

In Sao Paulo’s Luz Station District we walked beside the central landmark, an early twentieth century train station. In English this place would be called the Station of Light, but it’s only a dim beacon across the street a bar nicknamed Hell.  From there is a place that breathes earthly torment, an address that compresses into one city block, a great mass of souls resigned to the industry of self-disintegration. On a winter’s night in August, I was introduced to Crackland.

***

The walk from the Brothers house was not a mile from the station. Our group was mixed with six hooded brothers, our plain clothed lay associates, and in full habit Sister Damiana. This street mission requires a show of force, because it is not safe to walk the streets at night in this area of high rise favelas and wanton crime. We are armed with an overflowing shopping cart of small crusty buttered baguettes in plastic bags and jugs of hot tea and drinking water. The cart that we orbit is pushed steadily by Br. Raleb, it is our security and our distribution center. In mid-block the station building ends and we look across the street at the bright and crowded bar. A live band plays and it seems like a happening place. Brother Gabriel turns to me and says, “That is Hell.”

“It’s not very imposing.” I half spoke to myself. Brother turned back to acknowledge me as we walked further.

“You see this building?” He points.

“Yes.” I looked up at the five story white building just a few building fronts from the bar.  The rooms all had red curtains mostly closed with the lights inside shining through. It was odd to see so much bright color with most of the neighborhood dark and locked up for the night.

“The prostitutes live there.”

We continue to the corner of the block. I turned and took a second look at the bar and then the apartment building we slowly passed. Hell was place to procure drugs, sex, and a number of things left to the imagination. The bar is acts as a flame and the prostitutes gather in and around the front of the building and on down to the end of the block.  I could now see the women moving indirectly and walking nowhere, many with a slight downhill stagger. Several of women at the end of the block walked to our cart, the brothers talked warmly to them as we poured tea and gave each a bag of bread. Lighters flickered in the recesses of the building fronts. A few others came up to the cart and were welcomed. One woman in the group became irritated waiting to be given food and raised her voice in confrontation. I drew into the group a bit. A short sure eyed young man named Br. Haniel drifted in front of the irate woman and gave calming assertions with light words and his direct glaze. He remained unflappable and gently stoic as the tension dissipated. His habit was faded to gray without adornments, but well cut; it made me think of an officer in the Napoleonic times. He had a peacefully knowing smile, coco colored skin, and a sparse beard with thin mustache of his age.     

We walled on for ten minutes and came to a cross street. A Military Police vehicle that looked like a cross between a hummer and a SUV drove up and parked on the sidewalk. We had to navigate around it onto a street of light but steady flowing traffic. We lifted the shopping cart off the curb and made no advance or acknowledgement to the authorities. The military police are their own entity separate from the outward armed forces, trained and maintained by the under the Brazilian Government. Local or metro police other operate in large cities, and there are federal police as well. The Brothers eluded that we were not welcome to be here. The police are not in favor of the Fraternity’s presence in these depressed areas. The police seem to act with certain interests that the poor are infringing upon. In Rio and Sao Paulo they are moving the homeless in an effort to clean the areas for the upcoming world events like the World Cup of Soccer and the Olympics.    

We arrive at our turn off and I saw the military police parked on the closed off street, which is the mouth to Crackland. Their lights flash and bounce off the buildings as we walk down the throat. I am walking beside Br. Agnus who is the scout of this team. He has a triangle face accented with a pointy goatee and wild darting eyes. He paces, buzzing next to you one moment and then he is a half a block ahead; the only things that move faster in Brazil are the mosquitos. He seems to be oblivious that I spoke little or no Portuguese, but still he spoke to me quickly and directly. I think in our bursts of conversation he convinced me that I understood him perfectly. I still think that might be true.  

 We meet a couple homeless men huddled in their blankets for the night. Once again we stop and talk as friends to our sons on the street as items from the cart are unloaded.

A thought crossed my mind, “This is all to Crackland?!” It echoed in my head. I am blessed to be helping with all I had – which at the time seemed very little. But, I gave into the selfish impatience of wanting to be shocked or surprised; but why?

As the conversations in Portuguese continued, I handed out tea in clear plastic cups. “Hot,” I warned.

I wanted to help in a big way, to purify a river, to save a village, and to collect grand stories to maybe pad my ego. For all the rivers to be filtered there stands thousands in solitude waiting for one touch or one act of kindness. I remembered the eager presence the Sisters of the Poor of Jesus in my home town. In Kansas City we drove to those tucked away under bridges or hidden off the streets and brought food, clothes, coffee, and a few sacks of toiletries.  We also were there to talk and pray with those who would like to; not to force an agenda – just to be. The sisters’ real gift was to look at man or woman in the eyes with no judgment and great care. It seemed to move the sons and daughters to tears and most of the time a smile.  A smile on the street would stay with me for days, but how quickly I sometimes forgot.

I was challenged that moment in Brazil to remember that I was there to meet one person at a time. The rest would happen as the spirit revealed it. Although I was unaware that around the corner was of heart of this cold and dark place; a place to test my glib little thought about surprise.  

The churches and streets of Sao Paulo

In Sao Paulo I had a great opportunity to see two beautiful churches and familiarize myself with a slice of the busy city of over 10 million. The city is lined with wide parkways, congested superhighways, urban areas, and statue heavy green spaces. In contrast there are narrow one way streets and many non sequitur neighborhoods of mixed use buildings and varying facades.

***

I walked into the Cathedral of Sao Paulo in the afternoon not aware that inside the light of day could be equal to the outside. The walls spired to reach for the heights of the ceiling, and to my own memory I can faintly remember the floor’s appearance. The designers and architects most certainly welcomed the sun as the nature light reflects through the arched windows and off the bright gray stone. The stain glass was crystalline with minimal color and design; poignant but airy.        

It is a giant of a church without many opulent adornments. The intricate could only have resided in vain against the whole of this rising space, and that fact was well understood in its construction.

I walked around looking up with my mouth gaping at this amazing Cathedral. The history of the Cathedral starts about 100 years ago. The construction process began in 1913 and continued until 1967. In 2000 to 2002 the Cathedral was restored to the original beauty of its 1967 competition.

I walked out to see the square below and there was a great mix of those circulating on and below the steps. I scanned the view of the square; many others looked out with me. Most wore faded or threadbare clothes and seemed to stare as if projecting their inward thoughts below. Those in business suits cut across the plaza steadily, and small groups watched the preachers and street performers. A town car with government plates rushed a side mirrors width in front of me as I stepped onto the landing. It never slowed as it weaved through pedestrians on this closed street off street running from the Federal Court Building.

In Brazil I have the impression that right-of-way goes to the cars, and if a person is hit by a car it would be that persons fault. 

***

We moved northwesterly to the Monteiro De Sao Bento; a Benedictine monastery and school. I walked with Brother Gabriel leading the way most of the time. It was difficult to walk side by side, mostly due to the narrow sidewalks packed with people and stuff. I say “stuff” because it could be municipal items like light poles, phone booths, and over filled trash cans, which seemed to be more strategically placed to be in your way. The great diversity of obstacles was impressive from the produce and juice stands, trinket kiosks, wheel barrows, construction materials or debris, three wide conversations from store front to the street, wooden carts, and crates stacked to be loaded into buildings.

We were able to walk in the streets for a couple blocks due to a street protest. The clown dressed protesters walked in a flotilla with music playing as they performed amidst the stilt walkers. It was more like a circus and I never understood what was being protested. I asked Brother Gabriel and he said something to the effect, “I don’t know, they protest so many things.” In Brazil protests are common and can be absurd or benign, or impassionedly vocal or physical riotous.    

It felt at times like total bedlam both on the streets and on the walkways. It was exhilarating to race from the Cathedral, in the center of the city, to the Monastery twenty hectic minutes away. Both churches were great towering structures that stood imposing against the modern commercial buildings.

I hadn’t thought about it until now, but I don’t think I could have chosen a greater juxtaposition. In the churches it was serene and peaceful. I could see some people in focused prayer with such heavy burdens that the marble floor they knelt on seemed to sag. On the street, the people focus on transporting themselves to their locations without being stopped by the many obstacles; which in a short time I understood completely.

In shadow of the Monastery I could see it was more than a church. It was a complex that occupied most of the city block, and its sizable presence defined the neighborhood.

Brazil is a culturally Catholic country since being colonized by Europeans who were tied to the Catholic Church. The people are active in varying degree in the church, from very devout to completely secular, weddings and funerals. There are other Christian religions here like the Baptists, and Protestants, but the Catholic Church is treaded into the fiber of the Brazil. The symbols, saints, and expressions are common. I hear on the street or in TV interviews the common expression, “Thanks be to God”, which seems to be more of a punctuation then a mindfulness of God.

We walked through the courtyard and to the left were groups of young children playing at recess.  We came to the angled doors of the basilica. This entrance was designed to break the waves of sound on the streets in front. Ornately patterned stained glass darkened the nave and wood trimming the marble trapped the light that cut into the space. My eyes followed the stately arches and statues of the 12 disciples that pedestaled just above the heads of those walking beneath, and on down to the center aisle to the elevated floor holding the altar and a high lectern.  Wood pews sat on the raises floor and faced the altar to its right, and a couple of balconies hovered above. It is where the monks would assembly to be separate for masses. I walked in enough to see the wide dimensions of the whole room. The hidden alcoves lit by dim lights and candles lined the walls; each a station of devotion to a Saint, Christ, or the Virgin Mary. I circled the swells of people in prayer that pressed against the backs of those closest to the statues. I questioned why some Saints ushered an impatient following and others waited to be recognized.    

I recalled the Cathedral in which light echoed in the awesomeness of the space, but here the lack of illumination twinkled the ornate artistry of the paintings, the metal work, and wood work. I can say I felt peace without the grandness of rapture and took in that external peace. In some ways it felt much like wood paneled library.   

***

This experience called to mind something I say to my friend Mark, when we visited the Cathedral of St. Louis in New Orleans last year. I said:

All churches and holy places are created to glorify the presence of God and to inspire those in them to experience the spiritual in some way. A church for all its beauty and grandeur is built to show a gratitude to the almighty.   

Although there is no church building that exceeds the beauty of one human being. All of us were given the gift of inspiration and carry it with us.

That being said, those who created these churches must have felt inspired themselves.

 

Monastery

out front of the monastery

Light Traffic in Sao Paulo Down Town, Not a Joke 2 in the Afternoon

Cathedral in Sao Paulo

Roof Above the Front of the Cathedral

Monastery Overhead Credit to http://www.wikipedia.org/