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