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.