No Place Like Home (10-18-2015)

There is no smell like home. Most people cannot describe what their home smells like, but when you enter into your home every fiber of your being recognizes the smell. My childhood is filled with comforting smells: grandma and grandpa Wild’s log cabin home, particularly at christmas time. Friends houses that have been second homes for me: the Heck’s, Jake’s, the neighborhood crew and all the cousins’. Each carries a particular scent that I know so well, but cannot put to words. Nuestro Hogar III holds one of those particular smells, except this smell is different, it has a name: garbage.

Today as the doors of the 51 bus opened I was greeted by the familiar scent. It was particularly strong today. The breeze helped carry it from the active trash dump that resides next to the neighborhood. Some days it is faint, like when you let the garbage go an extra day or two before taking it out. Today it was wretched. The smell of a rotten garbage can being opened again and again. The wind carried the stench directly into our faces as we headed toward the capilla.
We trudged toward the town center, squinting and sneezing, not because of the smell but because of the sand and dust carried by the wind. The only time Hogar III is free from thick dust clouds is after a heavy rain, which replaces the dusty landscape with trash filled puddles reminiscent of the liquid that flows to the bottom of garbage bags.
Today the smell didn’t bother me. Nor the dust. Today was a good day. The first confirmation to ever take place in the neighborhood. The streets were alive. People playing music, buying what they could from the few kioscos that line the road. Even the motos, which often are a source of fear for their tendency to carry thieves, were not threatening. It was a day of celebration.

We arrive to the capilla and are greeted by Lourdes and Martina, two of the more than 70 young people making their confirmation. Ale arrives shortly after and greets us with hugs and kisses. This is why I came back to Córdoba. To wish Ale a happy mother’s day and watch her two beautiful daughters be confirmed.

The celebration was not elaborate or over the top, a simple celebration of religion and family. I thought back to my confirmation, and even more to the confirmation of my brother Peter that I missed this past year. My mind filled with conflicting thoughts of the place I was in, and my home back in Minnesota.

In 2013 I spent a semester in Córdoba. Nuestro Hogar III was a huge part of that time. My decision to return to the city was fueled by my desire to return to Hogar III. The reunion has been beautiful. Also challenging. Sad. Inspiring. Disheartening. And filled with conflicting thoughts and feelings. Its taken a few weeks for me even to attempt to articulate these thoughts.
For Catholics, confirmation is a coming of age ceremony. It is the time when young people make the conscious decision to continue with the church. The culture of Argentina has been largely formed by the catholic church. It is often difficult to distinguish the lines between religion, culture and tradition. I will not speculate on people’s faith, but I will say that today is a celebration that transcends the church. For many of these families today was a celebration of life. The young people of Hogar III have no guarantee of adulthood.
I have resisted describing the reality of Hogar III. I have resisted describing it because of fear. I have feared that when I describe the filth, the insecurity, the severe poverty- when I explain that the community consists of people who settled here, on an abandoned landfill, because they had nowhere else in life to go- or that when I share the countless stories of young people dying of cancer, or the fact that people here are ten times more likely to develop cancer- when I admit that the water is toxic and that thousands of people drink it all the time, if I explain that the main source of employment is brick factories, where people are paid in bricks instead of money, or that people live in constant fear of being robbed of the few things they possess- I have feared that you will see these people as dirty, poor, illegally existing, cancer filled criminals. Not as people. Or worse, you may do as the government has done here, and write them off as less than human. For what government can officially label an area uninhabitable for human life and then continue to allow people to live there, feeding them toxic water and dumping their trash where people lie their heads at night. Introducing people in this manner leaves out so much of who they are and what their lives’ consist of. I also fear that it will perpetuate negative ideas about Latin America, and Argentina in particular as a dirty, underdeveloped nation. For communities such as Hogar III exist in the states as well. And there are certainly people living very well here in Argentina.
However, I have decided that this is precisely why it is necessary to share the reality of Hogar III. Every city in the world has “dangerous”, “dirty”, “illegal”, forgotten people. Every time I mention Hogar III here people tell me to be careful, that I will be robbed or become sick. The same happened when I told people I worked on the west side of Chicago. We fear what we do not know. But the problems of Hogar III far transcend negative stereotypes and the solutions are anything but clear. I am still struggling to understand how this place came to be, what it is like now, and how it will/ could look in the future. But to tell no story of the place, however incomplete, is even more unjust to the people.
Coming back has been a firm reminder that this situation is not temporary. My liberal education has left me with a naive hope that all will change. But when I return to this place and am greeted by wafts of decaying waste, clouds of dusts, and mothers younger than me dying of cancer I am forced to admit that these are the lives people are living, and for the time being will continue to live. I must be clear that I do not support this environment. No person should ever live in these conditions. But viewing their situation as temporary denies the lives that these people are living. Yes, things need to change, but in the meantime life goes on for the community. Ale wasn’t waiting for her daughters to be confirmed until they were in a nice house with clean water and a freshly painted fence. In fact, some people in the neighborhood could afford to live elsewhere, in a cleaner, safer neighborhood, but this is where their life is. Life continues here and now.
Today is a day of celebration. Much like the residents of the neighborhood, I do not know what tomorrow will bring. The period of uncertainty, feelings of confusing, and overall lack of understanding are far from over, but for the two hours we stood outside under the sunny, dust filled sky, breathing in the heavy scent of trash, it was clear to me why I had come back to Hogar III.

Bringing an iPhone into Hogar III isn’t the best idea, so I did not take any photos of the event. But Ale did, so here are her pictures. Eventually I will get some of my own..

A Look Back at Escobar (8-25-2015 : 10-2-2015)

I have Been in Córdoba for two weeks now so I figured its time to put up some pictures from Escobar.

“Squad” This was the crew of senior boys that Dan and I got pretty close with. Every time I curse, insult someone, talk to a girl, or complain about the Argentine government these guys get credit for all the necessary vocabulary.

Feriados – or holidays – are abundant, particularly in the spring (now). Today was a celebration of the Día del Maestra (Teacher day), there were several ceremonies but the kindergarten students made the photo stream. Parents came and the students prepared a video for the teachers. I was in charge of the sound/ video.

Recess from Dan’s perspective. – This photo was taken on Dan’s first full day in Escobar, his reentry into Spanish consisted of hoards of primary girls screaming questions at him.

GOOOOL! Handball is a popular sport in Argentina. This was the championship game that the senior boys missed school one day to play. They won and were awarded city champs. (They are the players in white, except the goalie, who is on the other team).

When I take photos it’s usually a practical thing: to remember… When Dan does its more of an art, so I will be certain to steal many of his photos and give him some credit from time to time. Here are a few from the Sunday asado (see post A Sunday in September).

Here are Diego and Dameon grilling the meat. I must point out the one of these guys is a top administrator for the school, the other is a maintenance guy. Most people there this day would not understand why I would mention such a thing, people are taken at face value- they are not defined by their job. When I take photos it’s usually a practical thing: to remember… When Dan does its more of an art, so I will be certain to steal many of his photos and give him some credit from time to time. Here are a few from the Sunday asado (see post A Sunday in September).

Here is La Boca, home of Boca Juniors soccer team. The neighborhood is famous for its Italian influence, particularly from the city of Genoa. Many immigrants lived there because of the port. Since our arrival the question we have been asked most is which soccer team we cheer for. After visiting La Boca and Nuñez neighborhoods (home of rival River Plate), I found my answer in Boca Juniors.

Photo credit to Dan

Also Dan

I actually took this one…

And this one.

Feriados – or holidays – are abundant, particularly in the spring (now). Today was a celebration of the Día del Maestra (Teacher day), there were several ceremonies but the kindergarten students made the photo stream. Parents came and the students prepared a video for the teachers. I was in charge of the sound/ video.

The selfie culture is still going strong in Argentina.

A huge aspect of Vicentian life is community, and nothing is more central to community than sharing meals. Today I made Spanish tortillas, thinking Gabriel (the older Spanish priest) might appreciate them. After his first bite he shook his head and said, “they’re better in Spain, the potatoes are undercooked.” Nothing like community living!

Another day I made Juicy Lucy’s. They received less complaints. Photo credit Dan.

We made a friend at an English institute Dan and I taught at (don’t worry I didn’t teach spelling or grammar, just conversation). She is a reporter for a local political radio station. She invited us to hear a speech by a candidate running for governor. She warned us that his speech would be difficult to understand because he is very dramatic and often yells, but in reality his message was perfectly clear. It was the same empty political promises you hear all over the world. Note: If you look closely in the picture of the political event you can see a sign in the background that says “Club A-“. This event took place in the gym at the club where I played basketball.

Our friend made sure to get a one on one interview with him after the charade.

This is one of the teams I played basketball for “Club Independiente”. One day I walked into the gym and told the coach I wanted to play basketball, he invited me to practice that night and from then on I was part of the team, could not have been more welcomed.

The coach and two of the veteran players.

This is Marcela and her daughter. She was the first woman (art teacher) to put me to work and welcome me into the school. This was a Saturday when she took us to the river with her daughter while her other daughter was at a birthday party. Great friends.

This was one of those first days with her art class.

A day with the young kids. Also happened to be the worst allergy day of the spring. A wonderful memory.

Turns out Fútbol skills do not translate to hockey

Our first major move could not have been smoother. The school happened to have a conference in a town outside Córdoba the weekend we were planning on leaving. We hitched a ride on the bus with teachers from all over Buenos Aires to Carlos Paz. We shared a final meal with Hugo, and then caught a local bus into the city for 20 pesos (less than two dollars). Not too bad for a 700km / 440 miles. This photo was taken as the priests, and all their holiness walked out of our lives…

…And then there was Dan.

Limitless (10-2-15)

I disagree with James Blake. There is no limit to love. I have never quite understood this song (and much less the video), but now I believe that Mr. Blake is misguided. Today Dan and I part from Escobar absolutely filled with love. Before writing me off as a naive traveler who goes abroad and falls in love with every person and every culture they see, professing the certainty of humanity’s decency and how they found themselves and realized they were not alone in the world, let me clarify what I mean by “limitless love”. 

Escobar is not Cancun. Escobar is not Rio de Jenero. Escobar is not a tourist destination. It is not a particularly poor place, nor is it very wealthy. It is not even within the city of Buenos Aires. It is dime a dozen middle class town/ city/ suburb within the providence of Buenos Aires. The entire time we have been here we have been unable to convince people that we were not here for an alternative reason. Some have hypothesized that we are: seminary students on our way to become priests, CIA agents, stupid, or just plain lost. After the initial confusion and moment of doubt, they always got over their suspicion and welcomed us with open arms. To be welcomed in a strange place is not something new for me, but there has been something novel to this experience that I have been unable to put my finger on. Tonight, among the many departing saludos (a hug and kiss on the cheek) it has become more clear. 

Since I have woke up this morning I have not been able to pass someone without receiving a hug, kiss, or both. I really do mean everyone- from the director of the school, to the group of women who clean, there has been no limit to my experience here. Relationships have met no boundaries. 

Perhaps this is a phenomena in small towns everywhere, but I have been taken back by the variety of people Dan and I have connected with. To give you an idea here are a few people we have said goodbye to today:

students from age 7 to 18, the group of parents from the school, the custodial staff, teachers, administrators, basketball teammates, women who volunteer at the church, a florist who plans weddings, maintenance staff, priests, cooks, etc.. You get the idea.

Today as I said bye too all these people and more ‘Limit to Your Love’ was stuck in my head, and all I could think of was that James Blake has never been to Escobar. Poor guy.

Running With Priests (9-20something-15)

It is impossible to conceptualize our time here thus far without acknowledging the fact that we are living with priests. More specifically Vincentian priests. One huge aspect of the Vincentian life is community. With that in mind, let me introduce our community:

    
  
Padre Hugo: “el Indio” – the indian

Padre Hector: “el doctor”

Padre Gabriel: “el Conquistador”

Dan: “el Judio” the Jew

Jake: “Pepe el semenarista” (future priest)
If my nickname is any indication, these labels have little to do with reality. They have been derived over many shared lunches discussing history, politics, religion, love, and sometimes less controversial topics (i.e. food, priest gossip, premarital sex, etc.). Its not hard to imagine that a 81 year old Spaniard (Gabriel), a 33 year old rural Paraguayan (Hugo), a 35 year old Argentine (Hector), a 22 year old- Jewish advertising major (Dan), and yours truly all share the exact same opinions on the afore mentioned topics…
In all seriousness this has been a great experience. The most important thing to express is that living here has been just like living in every other community – in other words: priests are normal people. 

Every morning they (notice the emphasis on they) pray together and then each goes about their individual day. At around 12:30 we all eat lunch together, invariably one or two of us have conflicts and eat later on. (Also note that lunch here is the primary meal, much like dinner in the states). After an hour of eating, arguing, priest gossip and hearing about the superiority of Spain we all go our separate ways. Evenings vary: Hector and Hugo are enrolled in English classes, I play basketball at a club, Dan and I have been invited to talk at random english classes throughout the city, we have gone to several families houses for dinner, and when none of this happens we go running. 

There is nothing more ordinary than jogging. We all agree on a time, and head out, walking a mile to a blocked off road that has been designated for running. These experiences have not been extravagant, but extraordinary in their simplicity. Some nights have consisted of ‘blowing of steam’ (a phrase Hugo quickly incorporated into his English vernacular) after stressful days in the school. Other days we have needed some encouragement to make it to the track, this usually consists of more name calling and trash talking than any actual words of encouragement. One time we went out to run and their was a huge crowd of families gathered to send their kids off on a camping trip. They were blocking the door and so we had no choice but to go right through it all. Never was there a stranger sight than a tiny Paraguayan priest dressed in athletic pants and a hoodie followed by a giant Yankee (as foreigners from the US are referred to) navigating a crowd of parents that were sending their children off for the first time. As we tried pass unnoticed, parents began offering hugs and kisses to Hugo, they were honored that the priest had come to send their children off. Nobody really knew what to make of the giant Yankee following him, laughing his way through the crowd.

With less than two weeks left in Escobar, I have begun to ask myself what this time has been all about. A integral part of this experience has been sharing it with the priests. They have helped humanize the institution of the catholic church for me. While my constant inquiries have led Gabriel to believe I have a calling towards the priesthood, this time has not been about ‘reconnecting with my catholic faith’. Instead it has been an open conversation about religion in our world, and in the lives’ of individuals. No one here minds that Dan is Jewish, or that neither of us have been to mass since our arrival. I do not have to hide the fact that I am not a practicing Catholic, or that my confirmation actually marked my renunciation of much of the institution of the church. 

The “confianza”, or trust, we have built up has allowed us to move past our different opinions, philosophies, background, beliefs, and share something much more profound, subtle, and transient in the human experience. Let running represent that shared element of humanity.
– I wrote this post two weeks ago and have been waiting to post it until I had a picture of the 5 of us. Between busy schedules, my forgetfulness and community “tension”, it has taken me until our last night to pull off this feat. Enjoy.