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.