Shannon Costello

I didn’t really delve into what I was thinking about the ‘grito en tu silencio’.  It’s poetic, I guess, so it doesn’t say anything very directly.  I guess I think about quiet consulting rooms, where no one is making a lot of noise, but there is so much fear…or how my system is on overload trying to take in everything…think about squealing electronics.  

Have I mentioned that one is not supposed to flush toilet paper down the toilet in third world countries?  Though Frances did say we didn’t have to fish if we forgot. 

I forgot to talk about peoples’ clothes.  I think they must all dress up to come to the doctor.  So a man will come in wearing a dress shirt and dress pants.  But you may notice a hole in his shirt, or his pants will be stained and torn around the hem.  Women seem to not wear slips under their dresses. 

I think one of the hardest things for the doctors and nurses on this team is that some of them, like Melanie, only have North American hospital experience while others, like Jovi, have operated in all kinds of unbelievable conditions.  Jovi was in Indonesia not too long after the tsunami, for example. 

Ok, so now I can get into this weekend. 

First of all, we did a lot of riding in the ‘micro’, a small bus.  It made all kinds of scary sounds, and sometimes I wasn’t sure it would make it up some of the hills.  The roads here are in interesting states of repair.  Once there was a giant hole in the middle of the road- big enough so it would be some trouble to extricate a micro.  Both lanes of traffic just sort of split around it.  The speed bumps are frequent and huge.  It’s fun watching the bus in front of yours bouncing up and down to cross even though it has slowed down to a crawl.  There were some interesting drop-offs on the side of the road, but really nothing compared to what I have heard people talk about in other countries.  Oh, there was one huge boulder in the road- it had apparently fallen down.  It was about the size of a car window, say.   Big for the middle of the road.  We went around it. 

I’m sure I was singing ‘The people on the bus’ with Jovi at one point.  She is the other surgeon and is from the Phillipines.  I’m not sure that anyone else joined in.  This brings me to my title.  About a third of our team doesn’t have enough church experience to know songs like ‘This is the Day.’  We were entertained in a restaurant this weekend with a man playing a guitar and a set of pan pipes- a Bolivian instrumental combo, but he was playing American pop tunes.  Someone bought one of his cds, so we listened to it a lot today.  Some of the tunes- John Lennon tunes, for example, got a lot of people singing.  Wayne has the best voice of us by far, and he really got into it a couple of times.  I actually didn’t know all of them. 

We spent the weekend in what Wayne said was a ‘typical MMI vacation’- not top of the line, but still nice.  We drove into the mountains to Samaipata, a town at about 6000 feet in terms of elevation.  The place had a loose complex of buildings- we were in two of them, a very large garden, and a good sized flock of sheep.  There was also a macaw who could say ‘hola’ and ‘apurate’ (hurry up) besides shaking his head yes or no.  He made a lot of noise and even demonstrated with a twig what he could do to our fingers if we got close enough.  But I digress. 

Our main stop along the way was at a beautiful mountain house…we stopped to stretch our legs, but some of us were desparate for a bathroom.  A man took 3 of us down a steep path marked with large flat, slippery stones.  The outhouse was of the open, airy type, and the toilet, while the correct shape, was not designed to flush.  It looked like it was make of stones and cement, like one might see in the walls of a fancy estate.  I am very sorry I forgot to take a picture.  Still, any port in a storm. 

It was a rather long drive to get there, but the silence was sooo nice.  And we were surrounded by big green mountains.  In Samaipata, large flocks of parrots fly shrieking overhead.  They are green with red heads and tails.  I was startled this morning to see a large tail hanging down from a neighboring house.  It seems to have been a monkey (howler?) that had escaped from a nearby zoo. 

I shared a room with Melanie again.  It was large enough for two beds and a chair, not much else.  But it was clean and very nicely painted. 

El Fuerte was a fun little walk, after the bus groaned its way further up a mountain.  Frances and the other Bolivians with our team opted to stay down at the welcome center and rest, but they sent a tour guide with us.  He spoke enough English so that he could function as a tour guide, but his accent was hard to understand.  The ruins at El Fuerte are similar to what one might see at Bandolier National Monument in New Mexico, or Algonquin Park in Newburgh, NY.  Mostly they consist of foundations, though there are rocks with niches carved into them.  There were a lot of grasshoppers there- saltamontes, they are called in Spanish.  Oh, and Mom, you will be pleased to know that there were three kinds of snakes there- the rattlesnake, the false rattlesnake, and the corral snake.  We didn’t get to see any of them, sadly!  I learned how to say ‘path’ in Spanish on that walk.  It’s ’sendero’, for the curious. 

Our guide was Quechua.  When Wayne asked him to talk about the difference between the Quechua and the Aymarans (personality, customs, etc) he told us that the Quechuans were nicer.  It seemed to me another example of the way people of different groups tend to not like each other. 

We ate lunch at a pizzeria on Saturday.  At some point I noticed that the Bolivians were sitting at one table, the bus driver at another table, the older people at another table, the younger ones at still another table, and I was with the nurses at the final table.  I had fun circulating around and pointing that out to everyone.  (Ok, and maybe the nurses were talking a little too much about how big that last gall stone was…)  The Bolivians ended up inviting the bus driver to sit with them.  Part of the problem, of course, is that the Bolivians vary widely in terms of how much English they know, which makes it harder.  We did a better job of mixing in later meals.  I do feel like the group enjoys being together, even though we are so different. 

I slept pretty well except for the mosquitos.  I had nightmares about them getting in my hears and damaging my hearing, and dreams about hearing loss consultations.  That’s actually kind of funny. 

I finally went running on Sunday morning.  I greatly prefer morning runs.  I did go by myself, but I was told it was safe.  And I still abide by my ‘bad guy principle’- they are bad all night, so they have to sleep in.  I saw four people awake in town, all of whom I greeted.  The dogs were mostly sleeping.  I figured it was best to let them lie without a greeting.  I only ran 25 minutes, but it was very nice.  I saw a cool looking woodpecker and some other unknown bird. 

We were on the lookout for a church in Samaipata, so we showed up at the door of a small church Sunday morning.  I think we doubled the size of the congregation.  I wish I had noticed earlier that there was a men’s side and a womens’ side.  But then, I was sitting next to Andrew, who had brought along his Spanish Bible.  And it made me feel better that Frances was sitting on the womens’ side.  It was a beautiful little church. 

The pastor was all prepared to preach his sermon- in Quechua.  He very kindly modified his sermon and did alternating chunks of Spanish and Quechua.  Frances did a low-volume English rendition for those that didn’t understand Spanish, so we got along quite nicely.  The younger children (none from our team) left in two groups and didn’t come back until the end. 

The sermon was really, really good.  The pastor was talking about the importance of reading and studying the Bible for yourself.  He compared a Christian who is not spending time reading the Bible to a radio without batteries.  I related to that really well, since I had spent large chunks of last week talking about hearing aid batteries. 

Maybe my favorite part of what he said was that the Bible was written for us, regular people.  He didn’t quite say it that way- he was talking about how it was written for farmers.  City people may not have heard a cock crow, or understand the importance of not looking back while plowing.  It was nice to be encouraged to read the Bible, and it was nice to be reminded that God takes care of us on all kinds of levels, including giving us the Bible.  The pastor finished by making us memorize Psalm 119:11, which was not a big deal at first.  He asked if one of us could say it and Frances did it successfully.  But the pastor said that Frances probably knew it already in Spanish and that we could learn it in Quechua along with the congregation.  We said it a few times and then he started calling on members to say it.  Andrew and I convinced one of the members to lend us his Quechua Bible afterwards so we could copy it down.  At some point, by the way, we noticed that he was throwing Spanish words into the Quechua parts of the sermon.  Andrew dubbed this ‘Splechua’, which made he, Cody, and I have to fight back giggles.  When the other classes came back, everyone had to recite the verses they had learned, and the children’s groups also sang a song.  My favorite was the one about Samson.  I’ll have to try to find it online later on when I get back.  I thought that was a nice way to run church, though it would be complicated at a larger church like CPC.  Wayne figured the pastor could just call on random people to recite the verse. 

The pastor supports himself by doing stone sculptures.  We walked over to his property afterwards and looked at his work and met his children.  Wayne and Frances talked to him for awhile. 

We decided to walk back to the place where we were staying.  We stopped at a small grocery store.  At about this time I started taking pictures of signs, things that I can use for teaching Spanish.  I took pictures in the grocery store too, after first asking permission (we are supposed to do that in general, I guess).  We went through the market after that, which was quite busy.  They had flowers, vegetables, clothes, coca leaves (no, I didn’t buy any).  I was seriously considering having coca tea the other day, but it just feels so illegal, even though it is just the leaves and not a drug.  It fascinates me to see them, though.  There was a big article in one of the newspapers yesterday about the US not extending some trading priveleges to Bolivia because they aren’t happy with their part in the anti-drug war.  The US would prefer that Bolivia grow less coca, but it is definitely a part of life here.  Interesting conflict. 

We got in a real hike on the way back to Portachuelo- around a couple of waterfalls.  About 5 of us raced way ahead, up and down a big hill, and ended up at a larger waterfall.  It was pretty.  And I got to hang over the edge and splash Cody with a little water.  I didn’t get my feet wet, though. 

We stopped for pizza on the way back to Portachuelo.  The TV was flashing headlines about Honduras, a story I have been following with great interest.  I’m curious to compare how US media organizations are talking about it.  Sounds like there is plenty of unrest. 

The music we listened to- panpipes and guitar, was pretty haunting, especially as I am starting to see that our time is drawing to a close.  I will be doing very different work this week, since Dave is gone, but the week will end a little earlier so we can clean up and head back to Santa Cruz.  I told everyone I’d be willing to try the operating room.   Feel free to pray about that…and that things go smoothly in general…and that we find a song to sing!