31 May 2015

31 May 2015

Every journey has an end, true, but a journey never really ends. It's always part of a larger picture, a human life, which envelops it and weaves it into the tapestry of conscious thoughts and unconscious feelings comprising a human being. So I will miss Columbia, the beautiful people and places I've come to love here, but I am grateful that they will never really leave me. I have learned so much about peace, violence, rural life, government corruption, youth, and humidity here, unforgettable things.

You have heard me talk about many of those things in past blog post, hard issues that made for hard writing and likely hard reading. My purpose today is simpler: to whisk you away to Columbia with me for a few moments, to immerse you in the reality we've lived here, and to thereby communicate the otherwise incommunicable about this month.

It's 6:15pm (18:15, in local terms) as I stare out the window. A heavy sun hangs just over the horizon, streaming a tired red-orange light through the huge trees which overhang the single entry into the airport. The landing strip is surrounded by trees, a reminder that the world outside this air-conditioned refuge is as good as any greenhouse, with hot, thick air and frequent rain. And not merely outside – rare is the house with air conditioning in this developing area. I think of Osman preparing breakfast this morning, gleaming from head to toe after an hour of frying fish on a heavy gas stove in the kitchen. Or I think of hot days in Lani's oven-apartment in Libertad, beads of sweat forming on our faces as we worked or talked despite two fans blowing steadily on us. And that was when the power wasn't out, which was not uncommon.

An tree frog unperturbed by my camera flash

Yet somehow life continues here, at a more leisurely pace to accommodate the heat but surely and steadily – yuca is sown and harvested, corn is sown and harvested, cattle are sent out to pasture and milked and slaughtered, chickens are fed and their eggs taken and then they too are slaughtered. Every plant and animal has its part in this ritual of life, even the semi-stray dogs which wander through every small town and sometimes through big towns. Indeed, I sometimes feel the dogs symbolize the communal side of life here, for while most dogs have a family they "belong" to, the ownership is rather loose. The dogs wander about town, listlessly barking at strangers or residents they've come to dislike and begging for food anywhere they spy its consumption. In many towns the dogs are joined by pigs of all sizes, also of the semi-communal nature. These trot through dusty or muddy lanes, depending on yesterday's weather, rooting through the frequent piles of trash and relishing mango pits and half-eaten plátanos. Since it is quite rude to keep your door closed during the day – what kind of neighbor shuts out potential visitors or shouted greetings? – houses that sit at street level receive frequent visits from these semi-communal friends. What's a dog or two under the table, after all, when they – like everyone else – are just struggling to get by?

It was into this world that I was plunged a month ago. I thought perhaps I was ready. Then I attended my first community council meeting in Libertad, just days into my stay, and I hardly understood a word. Between new accents, new names, and new concepts, I was lost. Fans droned on in their lazy turns across the room, trying their best to put me to sleep. Council members droned on in their bickering, not helping my drowsy state at all. I only woke up when I heard everyone chuckling and discovered to my horror that my napping had been pointed out by one of the council members. It was a humbling experience, the kind everyone should have during their first week in a new country.

Pichilín, the town of green hills and thatched roofs

By contrast, the last week of my stay has been intellectually and emotionally captivating. The first two days were spent in a remote village of 300 people, doing our last workshop and survey. It was a beautiful town surrounded by high green hills and acres of rich farmland. The houses, unlike most in this area, are set well apart from each other and back from the road. Each house, whether cinderblock or wood-and-mud, is relatively small but includes a large shelter in back with a roof of thatched palm. These shelters serve as kitchens, laundry rooms, and gathering places for friends and family. Some are even lighted by a single door dull bulb for further enjoyment in the evenings, when they gather and talk about the day's work on the farm or gossip about neighbors. We slept in one of those small houses both nights we were in town, and both nights were accompanied by heavy rainstorms. Under the tin roof the raindrops sounded a sharp fusillade, a strangely pleasing serenade. Rain has a different, life-giving meaning in the countryside.

The next two days were marked by heavy work on the computer in the office, compiling survey data and creating recommendations based on the month's work. Aside from the entering of data it was remarkably interesting, figuring out how to present the information in a succinct and powerful manner. The following Tuesday we presented the information, which was well received by the whole team and discussed as the basis for the next step in the project: to help the youth launch a regional project.

Then the last two days were spent accompanying a group from George Mason University, here studying conflict resolution. We talked with professors and human rights activists from across the region until late into the night, fans whirring overhead in our outdoor shelter as we learned about massacres, political intrigue, and acts of selfless heroism. One professor, a former guerrilla collaborator, told the story of how the first paramilitary massacre had taken place in the same peaceful town where rain has lulled me to sleep just a few nights before. I was translating for him at the time, and I struggled to make it through that story without having to stop and weep.

How could I forget this place? So much suffering, so much goodness, so much beauty. I think a good God for this opportunity. I'm grateful for the redemption of Christ, through which all of our imperfect efforts to improve things here will be made perfect. I pray the blessings of God on this people and this nation, that peace will come quickly and that justice will follow closely on its heels. I pray the same for my own nation and the rest of the world.

Sunset in Colombia

24 May 2015

24 May 2015

I wanted to write today's entry with a different focus. In past entries I have spent a good deal of time discussing the problems and questions encountered here. But today I want to draw out the beauty of Colombia and of humanity that I have encountered on this trip. I will also catch you up on the week, naturally, but I hope to do more.

One of the beautiful things about the heat and humidity on the Colombian coast is that plants grow everywhere. Within 15 years abandoned buildings have vines and plants all through them. Trees spring up on plains, over mountains, by rivers, next to homes, the regular rains providing enough water for them to grow anywhere. Where humans or animals don't regularly travel, the ground is covered in grass, shrubbery, and general greenery. On Monday Jorge and I took a hike through one of the greenest parts of the coast, the Alta Montaña (high mountain). The hills aren't very high compared to the Rockies, but they make up for it in pure green – dark where the trees cover the curiously steep hills, light where rain or sun have made clearings for grass, neat rows of green where farmers have made clearings for corn or yuca. I only hope the picture does it justice.

The Alta Montaña, from our hike

Thursday brought another adventure, prior to a workshop, in Mampuján. In 2000 the entire town was forced to leave their homes by a paramilitary group for supposedly aiding and abetting rebel guerrillas. There is no way to justify such displacement in any context, but to make matters worse townsfolk say that most of them never aided the guerrillas except for giving them food when threatened at gunpoint. Nevertheless, the townsfolk stuck together and established a new town by the side of the nearby highway, just a few miles from their original town. There, under the protection of the municipal seat, they have build a new life and some beautiful homes thanks to victims' reparation money from the national government. On Thursday we went to visit the old town, an eerily quiet ghost town with about ten inhabitants. We walked through houses covered in vines and bushes and pondered what it would be like to leave this ancestral home and start fresh. A humbling experience.

Then, on Friday, I was privileged to attend an inter-religious meeting over breakfast at SembrandoPaz. It really was a privilege – the religious leaders who were invited were genuinely interested in promoting dialogue and peace throughout the region, and they spoke with respect and eagerness to get something done. Ricardo Esquivia, ever the diplomatic leader, made sure to guide the meeting in a productive direction; in this case it was a forum, to be hosted at the largest local university with the help of a Catholic priest who works there. I was so pleased to see this small city starting such an open-minded and inclusive project: they have involved agnostics, Jews, indigenous shamans, Mormons, Episcopalians, Catholics, Protestants, Mennonites, and more. If all the world were capable of such meetings, many of our problems would be quietly resolved.

A peaceful evening with a fine group
of people, in El Carmen de Bolivar

But much of the beauty of Colombia has been its simple, gracious humanity. Just last night a sweet family offered me their biggest bed for the night while several of them slept in hammocks. Indeed, I've been treated like family out here many times, offered food or drink and called at the end of the journey to make sure I arrived safe. The other day I was riding in the back of a pickup truck with some friendly villagers; when I ask them what they liked about Colombia, without skipping a beat they said, "Everything." I love that pride – they know it's not perfect, but they love their home. I also love the fact that I could sit around with some friends the other night and talk about football/soccer for two hours, drying on every scrap of football knowledge I've gained since I started following it in high school. In fact, I have seen much that moves me here: memorials to village members who were massacred during the conflict, a young woman recounting how she felt like she had many mothers in the town because they all worried about her safety, a father who drives his bus home late from the big city to be with his family, a mother gushing about her daughter in the states and how much she misses her, youth determines to build parks in their communities (never knowing how much work it takes), and so much more. I have been offered much by people I barely know, for people here live the call to become brothers and sisters to everyone, to love like family. May I carry a portion of that spirit back to the states with me, and may it take root and grow into a towering tree of love and life.

17 May 2015

17 May 2015 - Sunday

Three blessedly cool days. The clouds have come and brought relief from the suffocating heat we sometimes experience. I am grateful for that.

Yesterday we taught our second youth workshop. I don't think I've yet described what they are or why we do them – it is about time I do so. We decided to base our workshop on a "Serious Legos" training that has been done around the world with business executives and communities. Several people at SembrandoPaz had been through it, and upon hearing about it we thought it would be excellent for the youth. Using Legos, they construct themselves, their community, and their future. Then, as a group, we reflect on what they've built and what it reveals about their wants and needs. The goal is to familiarize the youth with their region's wants and needs, giving them the tools to unite and launch projects across the region. I'm only here for the initial stages of the project, but I think we're starting an important process.

Then last night Lani and I attended a "quinceañero" (Colombian for quinceañera). It was so fun to see the combination of Black and Latin cultures in these people. The result was a not-overly-pompous but poignant ceremony for the girl's 15th birthday and coming of age, pounding Caribeña music, couples dancing everywhere, much alcohol, and a long night – many were there past 5am. I left much earlier, which I sometimes do even at American parties, but was very glad I had the chance to see a 'fiesta' down here before I left.

This morning we made the long trip back into the beautiful semitropical hills of the Alta Montaña, headed for another Lego workshop with a youth group in there. It's a younger group, mostly 10 to 18, which is a little outside what I imagine to be the prime age for organizing the youth in the area. But if they're willing to work we are willing to take them; youth need to support each other in positive projects at every age. And I am impressed at the spirit which prevailed in this little group when we met briefly to introduce ourselves – it is clearly built to make these youth better people, not for any outside benefit. They plan to learn guitar together, play foosball, and generally become more well-rounded and wise. I admire that. I hope it works.

I have been reading a book out here which has caused me to reflect on the creation of strong communities and governments. I have recently come face-to-face with the drastic implications of the nonviolent teachings of Christ through research for work and my own study of the Scriptures. He truly was the prince of peace, and I believe he meant for us to turn the other cheek, love our enemies, and never use violence or force – only to invite. But being here in Colombia, watching violence and anger and apathy slowly break communities down, I am reminded of another philosophy: Niccolo Machiavelli. Machiavelli wrote a brilliant treatise on the peaceful government of a republic, but his most famous work is 'The Prince', which instructs absolute monarchs on how to do their own populations. His idea seems to be that a powerful prince has to require people to behave, giving them a certain level of virtue before those people can take part in their own governments as a republic. In the novel I read, a king came to the same conclusion: he was trying to lead by example and invite people to do good, but he decided that he needed to subdue them and teach them forcefully before they would be ready to live virtuously.

In moments, I have wondered if some of the developing world has the same need as Machiavelli and this fictional King identified, strong-armed governments who instill a basic sense of civic virtue in the populace so that they can govern themselves well in the future. But that seems to run contrary to the universality of Christ teachings, our imperative to govern always bye love, humility, and difference to free will. Is it possible to be both strong-armed and Christlike? Furthermore, this idea forces me to re-examine my own cultures past of colonialism, both in the United States and Western Europe. Many of those colonists were sure they knew better than the people they encountered, determined to "civilize" them by strong-armed tactics (forced Christian conversion, imposing Western standards of dress and art, breaking down tribal councils and existing governments). And I look at the awful consequences of such overconfident reform in Africa, Latin America, Asia, and think: "Never again." There is certainly value in strength and in setting high standards, but it must never come at the cost of essential freedom for humankind. There must be a way to balance those needs.

One of my good friends, Jorge, next to a beautiful mural in a tiny town.

One last thought before bed. I was talking with a friend today about the apparent paradox between the giving spirit in these communities and their ability to work together toward ideals of order, cleanliness, and progress. He has been living in one of these communities for a while and suggested that much of the supposed problem may stem from the fact that the communities function more like families than like associations of neighbors. Most of us can agree that accomplishing something within the family is often more difficult than with strangers, particularly if it is a new or complex problem which needs to be solved. Financial problems are notorious and marriages and I've heard many couples who advise against going into business together after having tried it. Children can be pediment, spouses stubborn, grandparents bossy, uncles and aunts nosy. So if the family is even slightly dysfunctional, it can make accomplishing tasks very difficult. Well, these rural communities are often more like family than not: most are related by blood or marriage, they grew up together on the streets and in the schools, everyone knows the gossip about everyone. And I would not call these community-families particularly functional much of the time, for reasons outside of my ability to comprehend. So I think my friend had an excellent point. These communities love each other and are loyal to each other like families. They also fight like (somewhat dysfunctional) families. That makes working as an outsider a great deal harder.

PS The stars here in the hills are extraordinary. I spent a few minutes looking up at them through the palm trees as lightning bugs flashed around me. They are so bright, so near. Like friends. But the kind of friends you don't quite comprehend, despite your mutual respect.

15 May 2015

15 May 2015 - Friday

Today we walked over 12 miles gathering surveys from the youth in the area of Libertad. We are trying to get as much feedback as possible for our future project proposals, seeing what a good sample of youth from the region wants and needs. We had about ten youth walking with us, bravely approaching people – many older than them – and asking them to fill out a fairly detailed form. It was fun to watch them become more bold, more excited, and more willing to help. Youth is a wonderful time of life, with such desires to make a difference in the world and a willingness to do it in small contexts. I am blessed to be working with youth during this month.

A few of the youth we worked with on the long walk in Libertad -- Yeison,
María, and Paloma.

One other thing which made up for the long walk was the beach. The first town we visited was built on the beach, not within view of or overlooking the beach but on the beach – we entered the town through fields and trees and exited on the shores of the Caribbean. Fishing shelters dotted the shore and boats the sea, small outboard motorboats and little wooden canoes with fisherman leaning out and spreading nets into the sea. The waves were soft and calm, moving as if the warm climate left them just as dozy as the people onshore. And the warmth of the water – it made me want to fling myself into the welcoming waves and swim far from the shore. But considering my jeans, shirt, and long distance from a change of clothes, I decided that would be unwise. So I walked through the shallow waves instead, drinking in the salty breeze and watching the youth joke and laugh on the beach. I treasure those moments.

14 May 2015

14 May 2015 - Thursday

(Note: I've decided to just title my posts by the day they were written. Simpler and more true to the spirit in which they are written.)

The last few days have been nice. After a couple days of traveling and teaching in hot weather, we have been able to recover a little in the Alta Montaña and in Sincelejo. I had a really nice conversation with a Mennonite friend who is here visiting a college friend, an employee of SembrandoPaz, discussing religion and Brandon Sanderson and college and much more. I also had a nice long talk with Ricardo Esquivia, the director of SembrandoPaz. He was a little curious about Mormons, so we traded stories about our religions and then moved into international development, political philosophy, and other related topics. He is a wise man who has found a corner in life where he is both effective and happy. He has done such good things for the Montes de María region, a series of dozens of town on the Colombian coast which were heavily affected by the armed conflict. In addition, he lives just out of town on a farm and has time to work in the garden, direct the planting of rare or historical plants, and sit on the porch with his wife (who works with the organization as well). It is a simple yet powerful life.

In fact, I had the fascinating opportunity to visit Ricardo's farm yesterday. The major thrust of the farm is to develop a self-sustaining agriculture, which Ricardo feels is lacking in the modern capitalistic system. He has all sorts of trees growing there: mangoes, plantains, limes, Haitian limes, oranges, coconuts, and several which I have never heard of but which apparently provide great nutrition with less intensive farming than plants which must be replanted each year. But he also grows herbs and more traditional crops: several strains of corn descended from old indigenous plants, tomatoes, and the like. The entire idea is fascinating. Oh, and since the farm manager climbed a coconut tree I decided to try it myself. I only got about 5 feet off the ground and paid for it with several small scrapes, a hearty laugh from the manager, and a sheepish grin. Totally worth it.

Ricardo's farm, with some yuca plants growing. They are a root, and one
of the most common foods eaten on the coast.

Our First Workshop

11 May 2015 - Monday

I'm standing outside listening to the persistent hum of cicadas in every surrounding tree. Down the street someone is celebrating, a large band playing – mostly in tune – as the laughs of revelers float between notes. The warm night is a relief after the hot, humid day, the air less suffocating. It's a good time to be in Colombia.

Yesterday I was able to go to church again. It's funny how the whole city feels more comfortable now that I've come back home to it from a short trip, and that includes church here. It was nice to see familiar faces, to trade a couple of jokes, to give the closing prayer in one meeting. It makes me miss having a nice routine, but I came here for different reasons.

After church it was off to the Alta Montaña for our first youth workshop. A week and a half of sporadic planning have brought us to an unusual plan – the workshop is based on a set of "Serious Legos" that SembrandoPaz obtained a few years ago. Youth build models of themselves and their communities, then work in groups to build a shared vision of the future. Through this "hands-on, minds-on" tactic we strive to help participants and facilitators gain new perspectives on the needs and capabilities of youth in each community. Our goal is to get representatives from each area who can later come together and share what they learned in the workshops to build an over-arching project proposal for the youth organizations in this rural zone. It's an ambitious plan, but our small start should at least give an idea of its viability.

Our road into the Alta Montaña.

First, before we even began the workshop, our motorcycle ride there was glorious. We followed a winding dirt road that climbed and then plunged through forest and thickets, revealing layer upon layer of jagged hills covered in lush greenery. And riding through that country on motorcycle was somehow so freeing – wind rushing by, insect noises everywhere, the thick tropical air filling lungs and heart alike. I have rarely felt so alive.

The workshop itself, despite the unusual heat of the day, went quite well. (Note: I don't actually notice when one day is hotter than another because they all feel so stifling to me, so I rely on accounts from others for comparison.) The youth in Alta Montaña have been organized for a while, so they have several solid group efforts going and some beautiful goals, educational and otherwise. What struck me the most, however, was their vision of the intergenerational character of the work. They wanted to build so that others after them could continue these youth organizations. They wanted to build so that their children and grandchildren could build on the foundation. And as I listened to them talk, I was struck by the intergenerational character of everything that we do. We build on what our parents have given us, we never build completely anew; our children and grandchildren are likewise blessed and cursed. Real cultural change takes generations, but that is no reason to ease up in our efforts to change the world – indeed, it should make us work harder. If we can merely help cultivate a kinder, wiser, nobler view of the world in younger generations, the world will slowly approach God. "Shall we not go on and so great a cause?"

A picture from the workshop, with the youth working on Lego models of
themselves and their communities.

Day-to-Day Life in Colombia

10 May 2015 - Sunday

I've been wanting to describe the place I live here (or places, rather, given the extensive traveling we do). First, despite the fact that this part of Colombia (the Caribbean coast) rarely dips below 90% humidity and 75°F (hotter during the day), air conditioning is a rare thing. It's most a function of income, of course – that's a huge monthly expense and a big drain on an already stretched power distribution system – but some people here genuinely dislike it. They've grown to love the heat, tolerate the sweat, and take cold showers when it gets to be too much. I, however, will be glad to have air conditioning, cooler nights, and varying seasons back in the states.

The normal flow of water from

a Colombian showerhead.

At any rate, no air conditioning means fans are on constantly. Also, all houses are open to the air (cracks under the doors, holes under the eaves, windows in inside rooms) to allow for as much airflow as possible. That means houses get more bugs and dust than in the US, which rules out the possibility of carpet or many cloth furnishings. Furthermore, out in the countryside, running water and electricity are technically installed but go out often, especially the water, meaning we shower
with buckets or bowls much of the time (and wash dishes, etc.). Even if the shower does work, it's rarely a shower head – just a normal stream of water. And always cold – it's too hot here to be worth heating the water, even in the city. Finally, water here is rarely filtered so foreigners like me have to buy filtered water by the bottle (or by the bag, a common thing here).

It's hardly a complete description of living conditions here, but it's as close as I will get to trying. Just know that I am almost always hot and at least a bit damp.

Today I also made the long trip from Lani's little town back to Sincelejo. I started on motorcycle taxi, but halfway to our first destination we felt the beginnings of a torrential downpour. Luckily the driver was wise enough to pull over to a small shelter which housed over two dozen people like us, travelers escaping the rain – most were talking, half-heartedly gambling on a few old tables, or staring glumly out at the rain (see right). On the other hand, I was thrilled. It had been weeks since I wasn't hot and wet, and now I was at least cold and wet. We finished the drive as the storm turned to a drizzle, which left me soaked and a bit colder but still happy. The country was beautiful in the rain, and the post-storm climate was the least humid it's ever been during my time here. From that destination I caught a bus back into Sincelejo, and settled in for at least one night back "home."

On the way I was thinking about the pace of life in Latin cultures, especially rural. Anyone who knows me has probably noted that I like to move at a hundred miles an hour whenever I can, stretching myself thin and overcommitting myself to get as much done as possible. Latin people think that's crazy, at least many of be Mexicans and Colombians that I've spent time with. In Mexico I learned to tolerate the different way of life, starting meetings late and waiting for friends and rescheduling appointments as needed. But I didn't let it go through me – when I returned to the states, I quickly adopted the same hectic schedule as before. This time around I've been forced to reconsider that posture and make sure it is (1) healthy and (2) genuinely good in the long run. I was talking with a friend who lived her childhood in this slow-paced coastal region and her college/post-college years in faster-paced Bogotá, and she mentioned the unfortunate habit of many people with fast-paced lives to focus on products rather than people. It's a familiar attitude in economics, where labor is often reduced to a variable on par with with utilities or cost of materials. And that is not the way I want to see the world. So first, as far as the health part goes, I think there is something to be said for slowing down. But I am often much more fulfilled and emotionally healthy when I am "anxiously engaged in a good cause." If I also manage to sleep enough during those times, I usually feel physically great as well (or no worse than average). So as long as I pay attention to my emotional and physical well-being, I'm not too worried about the health of a rushed life.

The view on the way home to Sincelejo.

The issue of caring more about products more than about people is, however, a bigger one. There is certainly a balance to be achieved here – we must always care about people AND get things done. Indeed, not getting enough done can actually hurt a community in the long run. So the question I must ask myself is whether I am sufficiently watching out for people as I strive to get things done, or, on the other hand, if I need to take a page out of the Latin American book and care more about people. I certainly do a better job of that when there is less on the line – here with SembrandoPaz, I feel like I've been very relaxed and easy on the people I work with because I don't have to prove myself here. On the other hand, with school or work projects (especially in consulting case competitions) I have been less forgiving because jobs are on the line. During school, I often work from morning tonight on weekdays, though I have made a pretty regular habit of taking time out of my evenings if someone needs it. Weekends are much better – dates or friends Fri/Sat nights, usually some activity Saturday (sometimes schoolwork), visiting and worship on Sundays. You know, I feel pretty comfortable with that. It's not community-centric like the lives of people here, but it's allowed me to maintain some incredible relationships while achieving some very important goals. I will have to find a new balance during consulting – especially since weekdays will be even less free than during school – but I don't think I'm on the wrong track. I suppose I can only hope.