Trick-or-treating, a baptism, and...Christmas?

This Christmas season started differently than most years.  For one thing, the rainy season that usually brings cooler temperatures and snow to the mountains overlooking Cochabamba has yet to be seen, meaning during the day the intense, high-altitude sun beats down, making 90 degrees feel more like 100.  Two days before Christmas, we went to a mountain stream in 80 degree weather and two young people from church were baptized.  It felt odd to play in the water and have a picnic instead of sing Christmas carols and drink hot cocoa.

A few days before Christmas, I started seeing large groups of young indigenous children going around my neighborhood ringing doorbells.  A friend of mine explained that it's common for poor kids to go to wealthy homes and ask for handouts, hand-me-down toys and even fruitcake.  He said it's kind of like a Christmas trick-or-treat... the wealthy know to expect them and the kids get a few free toys for Christmas.

On Christmas Eve I went over to open presents with my nephew and his mom Brianna, the only real family I have here in Cochabamba.  We put on Christmas music that Collin, my brother, recorded for Matias, skyped my family in the middle of their journey across Colorado to meet up with the rest of my extended family, and Matias opened his presents.  Or more like I opened his presents and he chewed on the wrapping paper.

I think a 9 month old has trouble really understanding the magic of his first Christmas, but I sure felt a little more Christmasy after putting on a Santa hat with him and pulling shiny wrapping paper off his gifts.


Later on Christmas Eve, we had a service at our church, singing Christmas carols, a short message, and then I prepared a special end to the service.  During the whole evening, kids were running around the church, adults were filtering in and out, gathering outside to chat instead of listening to the message or singing.  I felt frustrated; all that work and no one seemed to care.  But by the end of the service, I was able to get everyone to sit down, the kids to be quiet, and we turned the lights off.

I read:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  In him was life, and that life was the light of men.  The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.

I lit my candle. 

The true light that gives light to every man was coming into the world.

I shared my light with my neighbor and the flame bobbed down the pew rows.

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.  

Despite all the commotion and lack of interest in the service, we all finished the evening together, singing Silent Night and smiling at each other in the soft glow of our lights.

The church service got over after midnight, which meant lots of sleepy little kids.

Maria- a neighbor kid

Almost all my little neighbor kids came and seemed pretty engaged with the service.  When the pastor asked what Christmas meant, Liz almost lept out of her seat to yell "Presents!"  Deyvi, her brother, corrected her and said, "The birth of Jesus".  I was really grateful they all got a chance to see the real reason we celebrate Christmas.

Advent has been the one glue that held the season together for me.  We celebrated advent the four Sundays before Christmas, and then once more on Christmas Eve.  I used the advent program we used to use growing up as kids, so old that it was originally typed out on a typewriter!  The Scripture, the carols, and the stillness that the services brought were a balm to my soul.

On actual Christmas Day, I baked a pumpkin pie and hiked up the hill to eat Christmas lunch with Humberto and his family.  I arrived sweaty and hot to a Christmas meal of oven-friend pig, potatoes, corn, oca and Sprite, and everyone eating in shorts and t-shirts.  Not exactly turkey, cranberry sauce and stuffing, but it was special nonetheless.

Even though I was a guest, I immediately felt like part of the family.  It was hard to follow the conversation as most of it was in Quechua, but the smiles, laughter, and even the loud complaints of Humberto's toothless grandma were universal.  Despite the lack of Christmas-ness, it's the most at home I've felt in a long time.  It's amazing how much being with a happy family can lift the spirits.

And it's certainly not Christmas until you've made and flown a kite, right?  Humberto and I spent the afternoon fashioning a kite out of a plastic bag, thread and straw.  It flew beautifully when we took it out into his neighborhood, and I felt like a little kid again, running as fast as I could down the dirt road, pulling the string behind me until I felt the wind catch the kite and draw it upwards.

A walk thru Cochabamban markets

*Photos thanks to Ruth Kinney

                           Papayas, bananas, apples, star fruit, watermelon, grapes, pears, plums, raspberries, strawberries, kiwi, pineapple, cherries, chirimoya, pacay, peaches, oranges, grapefruit, mango, mandarin oranges, apricots... 

Fruit vendors sell slices of watermelon, pineapple,

and cactus fruit by the slice.  Yum!

Because of the beautiful range of cheap flowers available year round (Cochabamba is also known as the garden city), I've gotten into the habit of filling my house with them every week.  Lilies and sunflowers, freesia, roses, diablitos (little devils), strawflowers, cala lilies, daffodils...

Items are almost always displayed attractively, the bright colors drawing you in.  From flip-flops to yarn, every display is designed to draw the eye of the buyer in. 

Cheese is salty, crumbly, and there are few kinds of cheese you can get that melt well when heated.  Cheddar cheese is only for the rich at around $7 a pound, and I find that it's one of the top things on the list of foods I miss!  Despite all that, I really enjoy getting cheese that's fresh and made in the valley.

Bolivians love their carbs... pasta, potatoes, chuño (freeze-dried potatoes), rice... But there's also lots of healthy grains here and plenty of quinoa, you guessed it: CHEAP!

With over 2,000 kinds in Bolivia, most Bolivians don't consider food a meal unless it includes potatoes!  There's a saying here that you know you're ready to marry when you can peel potatoes well.  Very few Bolivian dishes include unpeeled potatoes, making potato peeling and essential skill.  Guess I better start practicing!

My average weekly budget for veggies is about $2.  That includes tomatoes (at 60 cents a kilo), broccoli, lettuce (at 10 cents a head), carrots, spinach, cucumber, green beans, etc!  Sure makes it easy to eat a healthy diet, but few Bolivians eat lots of vegetables as a regular part of their diet.

Maybe I missed this important step in the States, although
I have to admit I didn't do a lot of cooking with meat when
I lived on my own, but here in Bolivia you ALWAYS
wash your meat before cooking and eating it.  This picture
probably gives you a good idea why...

Wathia- A How to Manual

For those of you who have always wanted to know how to cook potatoes in the earth, look no further!

dig a hole
For Cochabamba day, I went with Humberto up into the hills above my house to do a watia:earth-baked potatoes.  Humberto's an expert, having grown up making watias with his family, so I assumed the role of observer/photographer.  To start your oven, dig a shallow, rectangular hole in the ground.

 build oven
The key is to collect dirt clumps that are cohesive enough that they will hold together long enough to hold the oven shape and withstand the heat, but that will also crumble relatively easy once beaten with a rock.  Start by making a sturdy door out of three rocks (flat is best).  Gradually build your igloo shaped oven around the hole and door, balancing the rocks against each other.

add firewood

Build a fire inside the oven until there's a good base of coals.  Carefully remove the top few dirt clumps of the oven and toss potatoes through hole onto the coals below.

adding potatoes
Push the remaining dirt clumps inward over the potatoes and smash the dirt clumps carefully with a rock until the dirt is mostly flat (see video below). Let potatoes sit under the heated earth until cooked (20-30 min).  Carefully scrape dirt away from potatoes with a long stick or pick until all the potatoes are uncovered.

For a more genuine experience and taste, brush the dirt off the potatoes (don't wash them) and dip potatoes in llajwa de maní (spicy peanut sauce).  Accompany your potatoes with a salad, traditionally lettuce, tomato, carrot and a little fresh cheese crumbled in, mixed with a vegetable oil and salt dressing.  Enjoy!

Llajwa de Maní

ingredients:

-1 cup raw peanuts (lightly toasted)

-salt

-1 tsp oil

-ground yellow ají (or red cayenne pepper) to taste

*Blend toasted peanuts with 1-1 1/2 cups of water until paste-like and smooth.  Add to a large pot (to avoid splattering and bubbling over) with 2-3 more cups of water.  Add 1/2 tsp salt to start, oil and spice according to preference.  Let cook for at least an hour, adding water if needed.  Final product should be a paste, not too watery to dip potatoes in!

Jhovana is the sweetest little girl in my classroom and her mom, Doña Venita, is just as sweet.  Doña Venita often comes to pick up her kids from The Center and will stand in the doorway to my classroom, waiting to flash me a smile before she takes her children home.  She stands just around 5 feet, her long, thick hair always meticulously braided and hanging down her back.  When she speaks, warmth radiates out of her and her eyes sparkle.

A couple weeks ago, Doña Venita came into my classroom as I was packing up, wanting to know how her daughter was doing.  As I shared how Jhovana was excelling in reading, her face lit up and she said, "She carries the Bible you gave her everywhere.  I asked her to leave the Bible behind sometimes so I could look at the pictures, but it goes everywhere with her in her backpack!  But," Doña Venita continued, "every night she reads me a story from the Bible before she goes to bed.  I can't read," she said, hanging her head a little, "but my daughter always reads to me from her new Bible and we look at the pictures of the stories together."

Jhovana

 Little Jhovana is sharing the hope of Christ with her mom, reading her stories of truth and grace before bedtime.  She also is sharing that same hope with her classmates.  I often catch her on the playground, her Bible open in front of her and little girls gathered around her, looking at the stories.  Jhovana's public school teacher in the morning even asked me if I could give her a children's Bible to read to the 40 some students in the morning.  I pray that the ripples of hope one Bible started will continue to spread throughout the community.

Each student in my class earns their own Bible when they reach a basic level of reading, thanks to a generous gift from a supporter.  Here are the kiddos who have earned their Bibles!

 Hernan

Jose Felix

 

 Nicol

Nathali

Norma

Cristian

Wilma

Monte Punku: door to the jungle

A few weeks ago, Collin and I took off southeast to go backpacking, precariously balancing on his motorcycle.  I had Collin's backpacking backpack strapped to my back and he had my day-pack hanging on his front.  We both had helmets and layers, but I still felt exposed and vulnerable to the twists and turns the Andean roads took.

We had initially hoped to go up a mysterious, alluring canyon right off the highway.  We turned off onto a bumpy dirt road and promptly took a spill into the mud.  As we were picking ourselves up and figuring out if the bike was ok, we looked up to see many of the villagers running across their fields towards us.  They spoke among themselves in Quechua, while some of them sized us up with deep scowls and hostile looks.

"Who sent you?" the scowling leader asked. "What is your business here?"

Collin explained we were from Cochabamba, hoping to explore their mountains if they would give us permission.

"No.  Not possible.  No one has permission to go up in these mountains.  We own them and it's not allowed," the man with the scowl responded gruffly.

I was ready to take them at their word, turn right back around and look for a place to backpack far away from their angry scowls.  I suspected they might have more sinister reasons to refuse entry, like a hidden cocaine lab, which is common in the mountains that border the jungle.  Collin was frustrated and wanted to see if he could sweet talk them into trusting us and letting us through.  I won.  We kept heading down valley on the motorcycle.

Finally, we reached Monte Punku, a recognized national park and relatively safe from cocaine activity and angry farmers.  We ditched the motorcycle in a hidden grove of trees and took off up through the potato fields that border the national park, grateful the fields were empty of farmers, angry or otherwise.  We hiked the border of the lush jungle and the desolately dry Andes.

It was unlike any backpack I'd ever been on, hiking most of the late afternoon and evening in swirling mist that rarely lifted enough to see the dramatic jungle below or the dry farmlands of the Andean highlands.  Within minutes we were wet, both from the damp mist that swirled around us as well as the soaking grass and vegetation that reached our waists in places.

We gained the ridge and were met with a harsh, bitter wind, blowing up from the jungle side but with the bite of the Andean cold.  After a couple hours of trudging through the wind, misty rain and tall, wet grass, we decided to look for a campsite somewhere on the edge of the steep mountain.  Darkness quickly approached and we decided to pitch our tent on the only flat spot we'd found, right smack dab in the middle of the trail!

We slept fitfully on the slopey, hummocky hill, dreams of the men with the scowls haunting my sleep.  I woke several times in the night, straining to hear noises outside the tent, envisioning a local farmer with his burro, stopped outside our tent, plotting how to best attack...  I found myself unconsciously praying out loud, turning the words of Psalm 91 over and over in my mind, the familiarity of the words bringing me comfort and putting my mind at ease.

 The next morning, the sun didn't break through the mist until late, and even then it was still just in little snatches that we got glimpses of the rolling valleys below.  We decided to pack up and try to hike through the mist to see what lay on the other side.

We never did really break through the mist, although we reached several summits.  But despite the disappointment of all that climbing and no sprawling views, we came across a couple little treasures in the alpine wildflowers and the wild horses we encountered.  And a little silliness when we were tired and cold helped keep our spirits up.

The rest of the trip down and then home was uneventful, other than my animated attempts to ask for water in Quechua and the 6 live sheep we saw strapped to the top of a taxi, driving down the highway.  Bolivia still holds mystery and intrigue for me, 4 years after moving here.  

¡Que viva Bolivia!

...lead me to the Rock...

Wednesday and Friday mornings, I pack a lunch and head up to the construction site at the new Center.  I spend the morning helping out with whatever needs to be done.  Sometimes it's just grunt work, and hard to feel motivated to be there because construction work isn't my passion, but it's also an opportunity to cover each brick and bucket of sand in prayer.

 

After work ends at noon, there's not enough time for me to return home for lunch, so I head up to the mountains for about two hours to eat my lunch until Center in the afternoon.  About a year ago, I found the perfect rock to sit on about 10 minutes up the river bed, surrounded by alder trees and high enough I can see a ways up the valley.

Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him.

He alone is my rock and my salvation;

He is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

My salvation and my honor depend on God;

He is my mighty rock, my refuge.

view from my rock

My time on the rock has been good for my soul.  It's a quiet place where there are no distractions and I can listen to His voice that I sometimes allow to be drowned out by the noises of music, internet and the million and one things always on my mind to do.  As a ministry worker, I often feel pressure to do to go to be busy and fill time.  But that's not my primary responsibility.  My first job is to be still, to listen, and to PRAY.  Time on the rock puts it all in perspective.

  Hiking down brings more reminders.  I hike through lovely patches of wildflowers, the Andean flowers bursting with color out from the hillside.  God's beauty is so evident in creation, but a lot harder to find sometimes in the classroom, just a few minutes hike down the mountain.  I usually pick a bouquet for my kitchen table to remind me of the beauty of the mountains and to look for that same beauty in my kids.

the hike down

Hear my cry, O God;
    listen to my prayer.

 From the ends of the earth I call to you,
    I call as my heart grows faint;
    lead me to the ROCK that is higher than I.

Psalm 61:2

looking up the river valley