Making the Move

I returned home to Washington on March 24^th. I think my parents knew something was up even before I said anything.

“I think I might be moving to Bolivia,” I said.

“I don’t like it,” said my dad.

“We figured this would be coming someday,” mom reminded him.

“I still don’t like it.”

I was on a disaster relief ship tied up in Port Au Prince, Haiti for my 27^th birthday. I wish I could find the email my brother sent all those years ago, but since I can’t, here’s my best recollection:

“Happy Birthday, Jake. I hope you’re having a good day all the way down there wherever
you are. You should come home and quit trying to save the world. Your nephew is going 
to grow up without you. Your family misses you and needs you. Love, Luke”

Those memorable words still blessing me, I was apprehensive about telling my brother, especially now that I had three nephews. Luke had changed in seven years, however, and when I told him my thoughts, he replied, “Well, you have to do what you have to do.” Wow, that was almost supportive!

I figured some people at the hospital might be onto me as well, but only one person talked to me about it. I didn’t have a solid offer from the school, so I couldn’t quit the hospital or give my notice. (I did that in the wrong order once, and it almost turned out very bad!)

I went to a hospital conference in mid-April. I love my job! There’s so much potential. I want to help build the new facility. Think what it would do for my resume! I could be a big shot. . .  maybe get a “C” in front of my title? I was a captain of ships – could I be captain of a hospital? What about my call to preach? But Bolivia – Jennifer, the kids at the homes, the kids on the streets, the kids at school. What’s more important: advancing my career or maybe having a positive eternal impact on a new circle of kids? Hmm, but I am already involved in the lives of quite a few kids – wow, it is going to be so tough to leave them!

Meanwhile, Jennifer and I were still writing. We talked on the phone a couple times. She is one in a million, one in a billion! Our philosophies of life are in agreement to a remarkable degree. She’s an avid reader, just like me. She started orphanages in South America – who does that! She appreciates my sense of humor. I appreciate her independent yet tranquil spirit. (My best friends have always been the quieter types – I’m the one who gets to be loud and obnoxious.) How could she be so comfortable leading and yet also desire so openly to be lead? For each of my advances, she responds positively. No red lights or red flags yet. . .

Friday, May 11^th: Ms. Alma, the director of the school, offered me the job in Bolivia. I had already done all my wrestling about it. I accepted.

I just knew he already knew, so his gasp when I gave notice the next week surprised me. I told my CFO that I had accepted a job as a science teacher in Bolivia. He was completely blindsided. Oh. Wow. Sorry, Bob. I wanted to exit well, so I gave nearly seven weeks’ notice. I sent an email to all my industry contacts, some 200 by that point, and it was from this email that we found our man. I was even able to participate in the interview process and then spend my last week completing a turnover with the new guy. Still I was torn with joy for the future and sadness for present. I did pray for discomfort to drive me deeper in my relationship with God. . . be careful what you ask for!

I flew to Tennessee to see Jennifer again and meet her family. Isn’t this too soon? Meeting her parents? We’ve spent less than a week together! Am I moving to Bolivia for the girl? Well, yes, but for more, too. What if it doesn’t work out? Back to sea, of course, always my default escape plan. But I really think this girl is the one. The widow is open to meet her parents, but only for a short time – I need to jump through it!

Ten pounds. I gained ten pounds in one week in Tennessee! Mr. and Mrs. Thompson own three cookie shops, and they’re very generous. The cookies are super tasty too, so that doesn’t help much. I was 21^st overall out of 232 racers in a sprint triathlon at the end of June. Upon returning from Tennessee, I was 78^th out of 80 racers in the Vashon Island X-terra triathlon. The flat tire on my bike and spare tire around my waist both conspired against me! I floated well, though, so I still swam pretty fast.

Oh yes, and the Thompsons were very nice. My Pappy always says, “You marry the mother. Get to know the mom if you can, and you’ll see what your girl would be like as a wife.” I especially enjoyed conversations and spending time with Mr. Thompson. By the end of the week, our truer colors were all showing, and still the good feelings persisted. Ok, I really think this is it! I found the girl I’ve been looking for since I was 13!

My final weeks at home in July were a whirlwind. I baptized three youth in Lake Chelan right where I had been baptized 25 years earlier. It was a tremendous honor. My final hurrah with the Youth Group was a rainy long weekend at the Creation Music Festival. I worked hard to pack everything I needed for a move of indefinite length and pared my heap down to 350 pounds in five suitcases. I sold one of my Persian carpets for a little extra cash to make the move. I had already sold my Jeep, and was driving a dented, noisy, stinky, rusty, multicolored old Isuzu Trooper. It’s just a car, right? Selling my Jeep was way harder than I felt it should have been, however.  It’s tough for a rich guy to enter the kingdom of heaven.

“Are you excited?” well-meaning friends kept asking me. Well, “excited” isn’t exactly the best word to describe how I felt in those last days in the States. I still could not believe what I was doing. I’m going to be a teacher? I’ve only been a substitute! I don’t know what I’m doing! Will it actually work out with Jennifer? No red lights, but I have to squint to see the green lights. This could be incredibly good, or incredibly bad. I’m bringing my cat – will he run away or catch some mysterious Bolivian disease and die? (He almost did.) Will it be quiet and peaceful where I live, a sanctuary like the cabin? I do know it doesn’t snow down there. I’m sad to be leaving my family. My dad will never be able to visit; his lungs won’t work at the altitude. Yeah, but Jennifer sure is cool. . .

God has called me, this I’m sure. He gave oh-me-of-little-faith so many confirming signs that I scarcely have room for doubt. Apprehension maybe, but not doubt.

So I flew south, way south, on July 25^th.

What am I getting myself into? 

New Tribe in the City

According to the X-ray, my ankle was not broken, but it sure did hurt! 

I was playing futból with the street kids, and rolled it sideways, even wearing my hiking boots. We were playing shirts and skins, and my team was chosen to be skins. What that actually means is that we were playing shirts and skins . . . and hair. Body hair being perceived as an indicator of toughness, if not intelligence, I acted like my foot didn’t hurt, tied the laces as tight as I could, and kept playing. It’s a good thing my ankle wasn’t actually broken, continuing to play in such a state might not have been the best idea.

Jennifer saw me shirtless. She accepted my t-shirt after I peeled it off over my head. No laughter, no pointing, no gagging or tears or shrieks of fear. Hmm, okay, well that’s a good sign. Other good signs include the fact that she’s a stunner. I really enjoy sitting next to her in the car as she drives and just staring at her. She’s gorgeous, her profile is fantastic! This is important to me – am I shallow? Looks aren’t everything, of course, so another good sign is our ability to converse easily. Words just flow, back and forth, like itty bitty little waves washing onto a beach, first one way, and then back the other. This is important to me as well, but I don’t even worry if this makes me shallow.

The next day, Thursday, we popped into Calvert – the Cochabamba Cooperative School. 

I had been looking on-line for English teaching opportunities in Cochabamba – just in case something developed with Jennifer – and Calvert appeared in my search results. I sent an email to the director in late February, but I never did receive a reply. We decided to visit anyway, and the reception was shockingly positive.

The principal invited me in for an interview. Her questions were primarily about my ability to live in a third world country with a different language, different diseases, and different culture. She said that the visa process would be interminable and frustrating. She said that I might frequently get diarrhea. She said Bolivians are not driven and hurried like North Americans. Was I sure that I could handle it? I mentioned my travels, my experiences with sickness and other cultures, and she seemed satisfied. They required a high school science teacher – would I be interested? I tried to conceal my excitement, as I could not imagine a position I would like more, and replied simply that yes, I would be interested. Monday was a holiday, but she invited me to return then for a second interview with the director.

Wait a minute! This appears to be more and more likely! Moving to Bolivia? Quiting my beloved hospital job and leaving the delightful cabin in the woods? Does it even snow in Cochabamba? Is God calling me here? I love the kids I know in Chelan! Must I leave them to serve other kids here in Bolivia?

Jennifer and I spent some time with the street kids since my arrival, the kids of the Coronilla. 

We spent Wednesday night with them and ate lunch with them on Friday. On Wednesday night, 15 kids jammed into the 7 passenger Mitsubishi SUV that Jennifer drives. I have to confess that my first impression was the smell. Mild body odor mixed with the strong scent of shoe glue. The kids were a little dirty, but not filthy, clothes a little rough, but not rags or shreds. Nearly each one clutched a small plastic bottle filled with a light yellow heavy syrupy substance. Periodically they would lift these bottles to their noses or their lips and inhale.

Jennifer tells me the kids sniff glue because it is cheap and available. It reduces their hunger pangs, dulls their heartaches, and even deadens the pain they feel from stab wounds or the beatings from the police. It also affects their judgment, however, like alcohol, and they are bolder when robbing or fighting. Over time they develop a tolerance, and must sniff more glue to get the same high. It affects their brains directly, purportedly causing lesions, and wrecks their nasal passages, throats and lungs. Long term users, if they live past 19, usually have increasing trouble walking.

On Friday when we arrived at their camp on the hillside, a large pot of chicken soup was simmering over an open fire. We walked down the hill to buy some cheap plastic bowls, so I had about twenty minutes to decide whether I was going to eat with them or not.

Jennifer did not think it was a good idea for me to stay in the local hostels, so I had been sleeping at night at the New Tribes Mission station. I had some fantastic conversations with a man named Bruce about the nature of a call, and what it might require. New Tribes focuses on sharing the good news of God’s forgiveness with the people living in the jungles of the vast Amazon basin. I couldn’t help but thinking of the kids of the Coronilla as a New Tribe of its own sort, and how I had ridden right into the midst of their camp on Jennifer’s coattails. How could I possibly refuse to eat with them?

Returning to the Coronilla with our bowls, I quietly said a short prayer and asked for the help that Mark 16:18 promises –  “. . . when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all.” I’m not about to go sipping arsenic just to make a point, but who knows what bacteria may reside in the meal I’m about to eat? If God wanted to validate the connection I was about to make with this New Tribe by eating their gift of food, He could protect me from any bad little bugs.

No one was talking. Faces were serious. All eyes were on me as I accepted the bowl and spoon. I returned their gaze and then took my first bite. It was tasty! They all relaxed and started talking again, smiling. I finished my first bowl and asked for a second. The leader of the group jumped up to refill and return my bowl. 

So I kind of think I might be in. Now what? Am I coming back? To them? For what?

I never did get sick.

Sunday night Jennifer and I went to the Casa de Amor volunteer meeting to fold newsletters and prepare them for mailing. The volunteers were almost all girls. They seemed to do a lot of giggling. After the meeting, as Jennifer drove me back to the New Tribes Mission station, we talked a little about our past relationships. She said a few Bolivian men had proposed to her completely out of the blue, as had a guy who worked for the US State Dept. She said no to all of them. Others had asked to spend more time with her as she helped the kids of the Coronilla, but she suspected their motives. I wondered, are these warnings to me? Does she suspect my motives? We were drawing close to the mission station, and I had time to get out two sentences, “Yeah, it hasn’t worked out for me yet, either. Either I wanted more in the relationship than the girl did, or vice versa.” Then we were there. So she stopped. So I got out.

On Monday morning, we went back to the school for my interview with the director. It seemed to go pretty well. The director showed me the salary details and how they would buy my plane ticket, help with moving expenses, and pay for my visa. She said I would hear from them on Friday.

After the interview I said to Jennifer, “Hey, getting heavy here, picking up where we left off last night.” She tensed a little and said, “Yes?” I said, “If I get this job at Calvert, what do you think about you and I spending more time with each other, getting to know each other.” She said, “I think that would be great.” In case she had forgotten, I reminded her, “I like to eat hamburgers.” (This is important because earlier she had confessed that she was a vegetarian. My response then was to say that if they made hamburger buns out of meat, I would be a happier man.) Jennifer then said, “I could learn to cook hamburgers.” Holy cow! Or should I say, Grilled Cow! A vegetarian would cook me hamburgers? Who knew there was even such a person! Okay, this is the best sign yet!

Before I left for La Paz on my bus that night, gravely I told her that in order to increase the likelihood of safe travel and my eventual return, there was one important thing we must do. Her face registered the concern I had hoped she would feel. “What do we need to do?” she asked. “We need to hug,” I said. So we hugged. It was pretty sweet. She said, “Wow, you’re tall. That was kind of like hugging my dad . . . but different.” Haha! I hope so!

Six weeks later, back in the States, and still I had not heard from Calvert. But Jennifer and I were still emailing. 

Bloqueos (Blockades)

The bus stopped at 6:00 am. Are we there already? I thought we were supposed to reach Cochabamba at about 8:00am. . . it's probably just a traffic jam. I think I'll go back to sleep.

7:00 now, and still we haven't moved. Ooh, and the bus is about half empty, too. A few people bolted as soon as we stopped, but I figured we would pass them pretty quickly when the traffic jam cleared up. I asked to borrow the cell phone of the man in front of me, and I called Jennifer. She asked where I was. I said the hills were green, the air was fresh and clean, and I could hear birds. I don't think that was very helpful. She asked how long we had been driving since Oruro – that's the big crossroads town between Potosí and Cochabamba and La Paz. Since I had been asleep, my backpack tied to my leg for safekeeping, I could only guess - “I don't know, four hours?” That wasn't very helpful either.

Finally, at about 7:45, being the second to last person still on the bus, I reluctantly decided to start walking. The luggage I brought was meant for airports, not hiking. It was heavy, awkward, soft, short, and stupid. Come to think of it, it wasn't even really meant for airports. One set of wheels for three bags – I had two big duffel bags and one medium backpack. The prospect of dragging these inconveniences across the Bolivian countryside was the main reason why I waited so long to leave the bus. I paid for delivery to Cochabamba, doggone it! Now I have to schlep my junk on foot for the next who-knows how many miles? Grrr!!!

30 minutes later, my bags lashed together in a heap, I stalked down the hill with a frown. It wasn't 50 feet later and my luggage heap toppled over. I retied the heap, tighter this time, pulling hard enough on the rope to hurt my hands. A line of parked vehicles snaked back up the hill, stopped bumper to bumper, both lanes packed. Drivers of parked buses and trucks looked at me and then at each other, eyebrows raised. Other passengers with luggage that actually rolled cruised past me. Some old ladies with huge bundles trudged by as well, bearing their burdens like mules, bent almost double under the weight. Well, I guess it could be worse.

There was a bridge at the bottom of the hill that crossed the dry river bed. A group of men had stacked a row of rocks across both lanes at either end of the bridge. What in the world is wrong with these people! The stack was three feet high and three feet wide, a loose pyramid of rubble that had stopped everything, including my bus! That I paid for! Well, that I was going to pay for, anyway. I hadn't actually bought the ticket – but still – someone paid, and they should get their money's worth!

I thought briefly about stopping at the heap of rocks and pitching them out of the way, but then I did some math. One Jake; fifty Bolivians at each end of the bridge; two giant heaps of stones – nah, better just keep moving. Sweat pouring off my face already, just dragging bags, not even pitching stones, I still glared with as much malice as I could generate at anyone who dared to look at me. Go ahead and say something, someone, anyone, just say something! It's probably good for my sake that they didn't. What dumb thing might I have done or said in my anger?

Stomping up the hill away from the bridge on the other side of the valley, I asked some of my fellow travelers how far we were from Cochabamba. I wasn't sure I understood correctly, so I asked again. About 45 km? That's almost 30 miles! And I'm dragging my duffel bags that far? Oh my goodness, I need some coffee.

There were a string of shops alongside the road, and I noticed that the shop owners had the biggest grins on their faces. Hmm, this isn't such a bad day for them. . . All these people who would normally be zipping by on trucks or buses are now stopping and spending money on coca-cola and bread and bananas. Perhaps this is just a matter of perspective?

I bought some bread, butter, jelly, and hot water. I poured the hot water over my Starbucks Via instant coffee – never leave the States without it! (I learned the hard way about Nescafe – gag me with a spoon!) As I sat at my little table having my breakfast, I decided to pray. I asked God to forgive my bad attitude and help me to have a better one. I realized that this was a test. I could not control what the road blockers had decided to do, I could only control my response. So far this trip had been an excellent one, especially the great people I had met along the way. I prayed about the next people I would meet, and thanked God for this latest phase of my Bolivian adventure. It's only thirty miles I have to go. One foot in front of the other, right?

Energized, animated, smiling now, I took one step and then another toward Cochabamba. I took some extra webbing and using my backpack like a harness, I pulled my duffels down the road like a sled dog. A few young boys walked alongside me for about a kilometer, and since they helped me pull, I gave them a few coins. Beyond the next line of stones a mini-van style taxi (called a trufi) was picking up passengers, and I managed to hitch a ride. The other passengers asked what I was doing in Bolivia, so I told them I sponsored a little boy in Potosí and was going to meet a girl in Cochabamba. We reached another line of stones in about ten minutes, so we all got out, and the trufi turned around to make another trip.

Marco was riding in that trufi with me, and made a point to chat with me as we walked though the countryside. My bags, having been untied to get them into the trufi, were not tied together again very well, and they kept tipping over. Marco saw me struggling and offered to help. I was reluctant to accept his help, prideful, independent North American that I am, especially considering how much older Marco was than me, but in the end, I yielded. He slung my smaller, but still heavy duffel bag over his shoulders like a backpack, and together we walked.

(This picture is of Marco just before we met Jennifer, taken once we reached the city.)

It turns out that Marco is a pastor and has been walking these hills for thirty years sharing the good news of God's love and forgiveness through Jesus Christ toward us willful rebels. He wanted to know more about the sponsorship program, where I lived in the States, and about this girl I was going to visit in Cochabamba. To walk 45 km for love is nothing, he said. I think he's right.

After about an hour of walking, we hitched a ride in the back of a dump truck. I helped some ladies climb in and lift their bundles. Holy cow! Heavy! Maybe they're just made of hardier stock down here? We cruised in style for at least five miles, the green hills and purple flowers zipping by in a blur. I reveled in the fresh air on my face, standing head and shoulders above the crowd pressed into the bed of the truck. We passed many people still walking – I felt blessed to among the few able to fit into the truck. When we reached the next blockade, the driver pulled to the side and everyone climbed out. Marco told the driver I sponsored a child in Bolivia, so the driver did not make me pay for the ride. These people are so generous!

We had reached Suticollo, maybe twenty miles still to Cochabamba? Marco finagled some space for us in a small station wagon with seven other people and their gear, and we took the dirt back roads toward the city. It was a fun trip, except for the part where my legs went numb. I learned that you should not eat the fruit of the local cactus, what they call “tuna,” with bread, or it won't come out. We almost became stuck a couple times, but generous use of the accelerator kept us moving – sweetness! This trip was way more exciting than a lame old bus trip would have been!

When Pastor Marco and I arrived in Cochabamba, getting out of the car in front of Adonai's Oil Change Shop, Marco's friend Eloi pedaled up on his bicycle. It was purely a chance encounter in a city of nearly a million people, if you believe in that sort of thing, as no one on earth could have arranged the timing so well.

Eloi talked for a long time with Pastor Marco about some Bible verses he had been studying, and then he stopped suddenly, looking at me as if it were the first time he had really seen me. He said abruptly, “God has a new work for you to do in this city.” He seemed as startled by what he said as I was. He appeared to think about it for a moment, and then convinced somehow that yes, what he had just said was true, he repeated his announcement. “God has a new work for you to do in this city, right here in Cochabamba.” He said that when I came back I should stay with him; he had an extra room and would not charge rent for as long as I wanted to stay. He wrote all of his contact information down in my notebook. I thanked him and said that I would definitely consider it if I came back to the city.

Eloi pedaled away and Marco and I walked toward the spot we had arranged to meet Jennifer. I pondered Eloi's words as we walked. I was thinking of doing something new, of service in the mission field, but was this it? Cochabamba? Bolivia? A new work? What in the world does that mean? Is Eloi crazy? Am I? So much of this is going to depend on how well Jennifer and I fit together. Is God bringing us together, or am I making this all up?

Ooh, there she is! I guess we're about to find out! Lord, help!  

To be continued. . . !

Blessings in Bolivia Part Two

Am I the only one who gets seriously grumpy on his way to church? I had arrived in Potosí at about 5:00 am and crashed to sleep in my bed at the hostel. It was Sunday morning and I really wanted to experience a Bolivian church service, so I set my alarm for 8:30. That should allow enough time to get a quick shower, gobble a hunk of bread with butter and jelly, gulp some coffee, and find a church, right?

Searching for a church like I was in a casino, making random bets on this street then that, I was still wandering around the city at 9:45 – and I was frustrated. Why did I think this was going to be easy? Potosí has many churches, but each one I had discovered so far was Catholic and closed. Grrr! Standing once more before a pair of massive doors bolted shut, I complained to God, “Lord, do You not see that I am trying to go to church today? I woke up without enough sleep because I want to honor Your day and find some fellowship, but I can't do that if I can't find a church! May I have some help, please?”

Opening my eyes, I turned around to see a man carrying a Bible under his arm. “Hey!” I shouted. Startled, he stopped and looked at me, eyes wide. In stammering Spanish I mentioned his Bible, asked him if he was going to church, and if he would be willing to take me along. He agreed, and hustling to keep up with him, we marched away from the church, around a corner, and down a big set of stairs.

Soon I heard music – singing – church! The man gestured that his church was farther along, up the hill, in the distance. Since we were at 14,500' above sea level, however, and I was out of breath following him down stairs, I begged off as politely as possible and thanked him for taking me as far as he had. He smiled and hurried away. I stepped into the church and slipped in the back completely unnoticed.

Oops! Telling a story about church, I shouldn't lie! Head and shoulders above the tallest person, white, hairy, and maybe even smelly, of course I attracted a bit of attention. After one more song, it was time for the visitors to come up to the front and introduce themselves. It wasn't a big church, maybe fifty people, but there were ten or twelve visitors. I didn't catch everything that everyone said, but when my turn came, I introduced myself the way I always do in Spanish speaking countries. They all laughed, which I love, and that's why I always introduce myself the same way. Here's what I think I'm saying:

“My name in English is Jake, but in Spanish I like to be called Hah-kay, Hah-kay Mah-tay.” (The letter “j” in Spanish is pronounced like the “h” in help, the “a” like the “a” in father, and “ke” together like “kay.”) The funny thing about Hah-kay Mah-tay (actually spelled jaque mate) in Spanish is that it means “check mate,” as in a game of chess. I'm not sure if everyone laughs because they think that someone calling himself “Check Mate” is clever or ludicrous, but a laugh is a laugh for me. In my introduction, I also told them that I sponsored a little boy here in the city through Compassion and had come to visit him on his birthday.

From what I understood of the sermon, the preacher was spot-on about the importance of godly masculinity and what the Bible says it looks like to be a good husband and father. Teacher, leader, not harsh or abusive, but loving, consistent, strong, self-sacrificing for his wife, working hard to provide for his family, and most importantly, faithful in his own relationship with God through prayer, Bible study and church attendance. Wow, cool. I would attend this church if I lived in Potosí!

As the service ended, I was hungry. Before I could leave, I think I was hugged by every person in the church. I figured my odds of getting invited to lunch were pretty good, so when the last person hugged me and still no one had invited me to lunch, I was a bit put out. Really? Dang! I'm hungry! I looked around the church one last time, a questioning, searching look on my face, and reluctantly took big, slow steps to the exit.

So began another roulette type exploration of a different part of the city in search of food and adventure. I wandered toward Cerro Rico, but then back tracked as the city petered out. I spied a tower in the distance on top of a lump of a hill and figured I might at least see something neat from the top.

In about twenty minutes I was at the base of the tower, but the doors were locked shut and it even looked abandoned. The hill itself did provide good panoramic views of the city, so I took a bunch of pictures and then sat down to think about what to do next. I ate a granola bar.

While I sat, a few cars arrived at the small parking lot at the base of the tower, and I recognized the people getting out of their cars. I overheard a little girl say, “Jaque Mate.” I turned and smiled – I had just seen them at the church. A few more people from church arrived, and dropping a big fat hint, I asked them if they knew a place in the city where I could find lunch. Here's the answer I understood them to give, “Oh, it's very hard to find lunch in the city on Sunday afternoon.” Sweet. Awesome. Great. Just the answer I was hoping I'd get. Doggone it, anyway.

So I prayed again, “Lord, it seems like there might be a pretty cool connection with this group, but I'm getting hungry. If You would like to bring something about between us, please do it. If not, I'm going to go look for some food. Thank You, Amen.”

I stood up and walked across the driveway to take one last picture of a flower before resuming my shot-in-the-dark search for chow.

It was then that Christian approached me and asked about my camera. “Is that an 18 megapixel camera?” “No, it's an 18X zoom camera, only 10 megapixels.” He had one that was 12 megapixels. We chatted about our cameras for a bit, and then someone called our names – hey, come on, the doors have opened, let's go get lunch!

The tower was a restaurant with a view! The restaurant revolved like the Space Needle. Over the course of an hour, we saw the complete panorama available from the tower – farout! The food was good and the company was great. It turns out there were so many visitors at the church because it was a family reunion. A few people had been living in Spain and had come back to Potosí to visit relatives. Just about the whole church was there for lunch, and they put me at the foot of the table. As if talking with them and getting to know them wasn't enough – they bought my lunch! We left the tower and drove to another place for desert – again they treated. Maybe when I go back, I can return the favor?

Wow, thank You Lord for blessing me so abundantly! This Bolivia is turning out to be a pretty great place. The people are so friendly! Two meals purchased for me already? What more might this trip have in store?

Before leaving Potosí, I was blessed again, very deeply humbled by another demonstration of remarkable generosity. In the coming days I was also to learn what is meant by “blockades.”

Stay tuned!  

Sheep or Goat?

Things to do in Bolivia: #1 – Ride down the World's Most Dangerous Road – the Road of Death!

Wow! Say no more! Sign me up! I booked my trip with Gravity Tours and met at the coffee shop in La Paz early in the morning. Brits, Danes, Yanks, Germans, Aussies, Kiwis, and a Paddy named Paddy – our tour guide – climbed into the bus for our initial ascent. 12,500' is just not high enough to start the ride, you see. We needed some serious elevation!

One by one, around the bus we went, stating our name, where we were from, why we were in Bolivia, where we had been, and where we were going. We were a diverse group united by a common wish, not a death wish, exactly, but a desire to tickle death perhaps, and walk away giggling? Some had been traveling for months or would be; one person quit his job to make the trip. Many had seen Machu Picchu in Peru, or that's where they were headed next. The list of sights our group had seen was cut from “1000 Places To See Before You Die!”

And I felt like the odd man out.

I've done a bit of traveling in my few years on this planet, and I've seen some interesting places. I hadn't seen many of the exotic destinations listed by this group, but I don't think that's what I felt. In general, there was a small buzz after each person introduced him or herself, a bus wide resonance with where they had been, or where they were going. Then when I spoke, it was crickets.

What did I say?

“I came to Bolivia to see the boy I sponsor through Compassion International. He lives in Potosí and his 8^th birthday is on Monday.”

Silence.

Big long pause.

“Okay then, well, how about you?” Paddy asked the guy behind me. He introduced himself. The buzz resumed.

I rode a rented mountain bike about 40 miles downhill on what used to be the World's Most Dangerous Road. It's one lane wide and super twisty with sheer drop offs. Drivers in trucks and buses and cars and carts used to careen, sometimes around the corners, sometimes off the sides. There's hardly any traffic now; the new road was completed in 2006. Today it's just a really long coasting trip on a bike. It was fun, it really was. I stayed in front or near the front the whole time, and now I can check that box off my list.

Just like all the people on the bus with whom I didn't really connect.

Am I going too far with this? I sensed a deep undercurrent of dissatisfaction in this group. There was always one more box to check, one more destination to visit. Crap, my list is not as long as hers! I wish I had more time to build a more impressive list! I've been to 30 countries, but he's been to 40! This is a different version of the American Dream. This funky little segment of society even scorns those poor people stuck in cubicle jobs, sweating to pay an overpriced mortgage on an upside down house, anchored in one place, trying to keep up with the Joneses.

Here's what I've discovered – only one thing in this life truly satisfies – giving myself sacrificially in the name of Jesus for the betterment of someone else.

Yamil, the boy I sponsor in Potosí, was the saddest child at the project. He walked with his head down, sat by himself when the other kids had play time, and did not even try to do his homework. His tutoras told me this in one of the letters I received from him.

But then he heard that he had a sponsor.

His whole world changed. He is engaged in school now. He smiles and laughs. He plays soccer enthusiastically. He's eating and growing and thriving!

Is there even a box to check for that?

I write him letters and he writes me. I send a little money each month. And I changed a kid's life? Really? That's not even a very big sacrifice! Especially with the reward of knowing him and seeing him grow. (He's at the age now where he's growing out in preparation for growing up – I'll see that too!)

I brought a soccer ball for his birthday. I brought candy. . . and toothbrushes and toothpaste. I brought balsa wood airplanes and towels and vitamins. We spent the day together at a dinosaur park (they're big in South America, it seems). We kicked his soccer ball around and ate lunch in the spinning tower restaurant. He smiled and laughed and sweat poured down the side of his face as he ran after the ball. He held my hand as we walked from the teeter totter to the big slide and then to go look at llamas. He just kept smiling!

Where are you looking for satisfaction? Are you waiting until you make just a little bit more money before you give some of it away? It's supposed to hurt a little! Don't give from your “extra” funds, money you'll never miss, but from that little stash you've reserved for that special treat you really deserve. You've worked so hard for it, after all! What difference could a few dollars possibly make?

$38 a month changed a kid's life, so you tell me what difference a few bucks could make.

It's about more than money, too. Give enough and pretty soon it won't be enough. You'll have to give yourself. Dare you take that risk!?

Now you know, but don't stop there. Jesus did not separate the sheep and the goats by how they felt about folks in prison, or hungry people, or the sick and hurting. He did not separate them by what they knew about poverty or sickness or being an outcast. He separated them by what they DID with their knowledge and feelings.

Will you be a sheep or a goat?

www.compassion.com

http://peruzings.wordpress.com/

http://hogardeamor.blogspot.com/

http://supplyingneeds.blogspot.com/

http://cgccostarica.blogspot.com/

http://www.worldventure.com/page.aspx?pid=570

http://www.friendships.org/

Blessings In Bolivia Part One

The big red block letters stenciled on the walls on both sides of the road, spaced at intervals of about 50 feet said, “NO TOURIST ZONE, HIGH DANGER FOR ROBBERY, TURN BACK NOW.”

I wasn't looking at the signs. I was staring at my feet, picking my way gingerly up the El Panecillo hill in Quito, Ecuador. Two-thirds of the way up the hill, and tantalizingly close to the statue on top, some construction workers stopped me. They gestured at each stencil, grunting with disgust to drive the point home. They warned me of “ladrones” and when they saw my slack face, they made a sneaky stealing motion with their hands, curling their fingers in a sweep, pinky first - “thieves.” Sighing, shoulders slumped, I took a last look toward my aborted destination, and slowly turned around to descend the hill I had just climbed.

I had ignored other signs too, before the red stencils. I exited the central church plaza in Colonial Quito on my way to El Panecillo and instantly felt very alone. The crowds of tourists and street vendors were close, but knew to respect the line I had just crossed. I think my little inner voice barked something, but I kept walking.

Two blocks farther a small police pickup was parked sideways across the road, blocking my path. I looked at the man inside the truck waiting for him to tell me to stop or turn around or go away. He didn't move, so I walked around his truck. Heck's wrong with that guy?

One block farther, at the base of the hill, a line of about twenty people stood looking up toward the statue. Officers and civilians stood mixed near a dark blue van. I didn't see what they were looking at, so I excused myself and squeezed between two people to continue on my journey. What's up with these people?

After the construction workers turned me around, I understood what everyone else already knew. Police in flack jackets and helmets, with assault rifles held at the ready, came bursting out of a building I had just passed and into the narrow alley with the red stencils. They had two men in tow, arrested. The police tucked the men into the blue van – turns out it was a paddy wagon – and drove away. I took pictures.

The newspaper the next day said something about an arrest in Quito of arms smugglers from Colombia. I scanned the pictures for my own face in the background, but couldn't find it. Quito is a big city. Maybe that was a different arrest.

In any case, I learned my lesson. Broken of my dangerous overconfidence, I walked around La Paz, Bolivia expecting to be robbed at any moment. I kept one hand in my left front pocket, on my wallet, and the other on my camera, slung around my neck. I stayed alert. I glanced backwards randomly to see if I was being followed.

That's why I was a little suspicious when Fernando first approached me in the San Francisco Church Plaza in La Paz. I had been resisting the sales efforts of a man with a fossil for over ten minutes.

“I have no more money to spend. No, thanks. I already have one. Yes, it's bigger and better. No, I don't want another one. Nope. No. No, thank you. Yes, I'm sure. Sorry. No. No, thank you. I don't have any more cash. No.” I asked him if he was a Christian, and found myself surprised that I had asked. I'm not usually so bold or direct in the US, but combined with limited language skills and nothing to loose, I thought I would ask the question. He said that he was, but kept redirecting the conversation back to his fossil. When he saw that I would not yield, he moved on to better prospects.

It was then that Fernando sidled over. He and I talked (in Spanish, mind you, so I use this word loosely) long enough for my buns to go numb on the cement step in front of the church. We talked about our families, our jobs – he was a magazine salesman from Lima with five stores in the region (only 29 years old) – politics, health, God, why I was visiting, where I was from, etc. He said that yes, he was a Christian, and showed me his Bible from within his duffel bag.

I have only ever been burned in foreign countries by taxi drivers, so you'd think a magazine salesman would be safe from my cynicism, and one who claimed to be a Christian at that, but I still suspected ulterior motives when Fernando suggested we go for coffee. “Here comes the sob story. He's going to want me to buy him dinner. And what else?”

Sure enough, as we walked, he said he didn't actually like coffee and maybe we could get dinner instead. I ordered some spicy quinoa balls, which were among the least expensive items on the menu – more like an appetizer – but still very tasty. Fernando ordered a full meal and I smiled and kept my thoughts to myself. Our conversation really was quite pleasant, and he was very patient with my elementary Spanish. The check came and I reached for my wallet. I gave myself a pep talk: “It's not going to break the bank. This is Bolivia we're talking about.”

Then Fernando surprised me. He insisted that he pay for the dinner. He said the conversation was so interesting, and he invited me, so of course he would pay. So I smiled again and felt very sheepish. I had misjudged my new friend and been pleasantly surprised.

It would not be the last time in Bolivia that I was blessed by the locals, and each time better than the last, at one point to the tune of hundreds of dollars.

But those are stories for my next posts.

(I am in the airport in Miami as I type this, moments from boarding my plane to South America. I am moving to Bolivia today!) 

The Trip Begins!

I forgot my passport at the house. In my black shirt. The one I was going to travel in. Suck bite chew! An hour away, I turned back to retrieve it. "Happy Birthday, Mom, I'm going to be a little late."

Simply a taste of things to come. Travel is meant to be an adventure, which is just another way of saying "responding to challenges." Sometimes I responded well. Sometimes I was grumpy. Missed a flight. Ate ice cream. Pedaled down the World's Most Dangerous Road. Nervous about getting mugged - even though I'm nearly twice the mass of your average South American.

Lima. Arequipa. Puno. Copacabana. La Paz. Yungas. Potosi. Cochabamba. . . :-) Arica

Ines. Scott. Micah. Chad. Bryan. Fernando. Yamil. Marcos. Jennifer. . . :-) Franz.

Details to follow. Pictures will be included. Stay tuned!