Mennonite World Conference

Mennonite World Conference is the reason I came to Paraguay this summer. I came for many other and more important reasons, but my trip has largely been scheduled around the conference and it deserves a blog entry.

The global Mennonite church congregates once every six years. Ostensibly, it's the time that the leaders from different continents converge to make statements and decisions and talk about the direction of the church. But it's also an excuse for Mennonites from all over to do some world-traveling, learn some new songs, and add some Facebook friends. The conference this year was held in Asuncion, mere kilometers from where I had been staying (having family in the same city as Conference was too good an opportunity to pass up) and was hosted in an almost completed mega-church building.

Paraguay has a sizable and visible Mennonite population. Immigrating largely from Germany and Russia, they are known mostly by their light complexions and tendency to speak low-German. If, in the U.S., Mennonites are identified by their ethnicity, it's all the more common here in Paraguay. Being of light skin and hair, I'm automatically assumed to be Mennonite, but it's confusing to people that I don't speak German. This is even more problematic for darker skinned Paraguayans who claim Mennonite values and practices, but lack the genetic heritage that most Paraguayans equate with the denomination. One of the hopes of the conference was to make Paraguayans aware that being Mennonite is not a matter of pigment. I heard not a few stories of locals who were amazed to find that their extremely dark-skinned African visitors had come for the Mennonite conference.

The majority of Mennonite World Conference is spent sitting. In both the morning and evening are services with singing, sermons, and presentations from any number of presidents and secretaries general of other denominations. Then you get up and stand in line for twenty minutes before sitting down with a plate of rice and sauce in a dining room built for 5000. Afternoons (between the eating and singing) are spent attending workshops or concerts. For my part, I helped out each afternoon with the Alto Refugio workshop, a small part, but I met dozens of people later who recognized me as “one of the people working with AIDS”.

In the end, I decided that the value of Mennonite World Conference might be the same for me as for the Paraguayans: to personally encounter a larger picture of the church – one that doesn't only look and think like I do. While it's no news that the church holds a broad spectrum of beliefs, practices, and worship styles, there's no substitute for witnessing that in person.

Seating area number 1


And 2

An Introduction

I know that of the faithful handful of blog-followers out there, there's a small contingent that's wondering what I spend my days doing. This one's for you. Cheers.

For more information, please refer to the (newly reformatted) website here (http://altorefugio.org/en/). In short, I work at an AIDS ministry started by my relatives here in Asuncion. I might have let on earlier that I would be working at a clinic. That's because I was mistaken. Alto Refugio is, in fact, located across the street from one of Paraguay's main AIDS wards, but the center is drop-in only and provides for needs like clothing, medication, support groups, etc. As in many countries, AIDS in Paraguay carries a heavy stigma. Many patients who are found to have AIDS are disowned by their families and singularly discriminated against, leaving them with no form of familial support and little chance of employment. Many of these cases are single mothers with up to five or seven children to feed. The needs are great and Alto Refugio helps meet the needs of (I think) a remarkable number of patients each day. Still, like my work with impoverished families in Tucson, I find the days emotionally draining. There's always more need than one nonprofit can hope to fill.

My responsibilities at Alto Refugio range from chief of IT to chief rotten tomato sorter to floor-mopping underling. My latest project has been to revamp the website, which is really three websites, in each of English, Spanish and German. In the downtime (during the frequent internet black-outs) I've also been acting as the in-house carpenter, photographer, and lifter of heavy objects.

The day starts with devotions at 7:30. Being a project of the Canadian Evangelical Mennonite Church, the organization is faith-based and faith-permeated. (I should probably make some sort of claim here about my views not reflecting those of Alto Refugio or EMC) But what this often means for me is sitting in a circle of middle-aged women listening to a devotional (still outside the grasp of my language comprehension) and drinking maté. I could think of worse ways to begin a day, but I still laugh at myself when I actually describe it.

The rest of the day, until sometime between three and five, is spent trying to interpret what people are asking me to do. Recently, it's been spent in my own little world of web-design with the occasional interruption from kids who walk into the office and want to know what you call something in English. By all evidence, English is a hilarious-sounding language.

On other occasions, I accompany staff members on charlas: AIDS education presentations they give at schools, churches, even to regional sports teams and the military's top brass. Alto Refugio seems to average 5-7 presentations a week, even as they're turning down more requests. Let's see...if a normal presentation has 50-100 attendees, and the country has seven million people, that makes for a sizable chunk of the population. A charla includes some basic AIDS prevention information, anti-discrimination training and testimony from a current AIDS patient. But most striking to me is the challenge to prevent AIDS through abstinence and marital faithfulness...not striking that Alto Refugio would take an abstinence-only stance, but that they would be invited to present it to such a broad audience (like regional sports teams and military top brass). In a country where the prevailing theology seems to mirror the American “religious right,” such values, if not widely practiced, don't seem to be widely challenged.

I'm including a [clandestine] shot of a charla in progress (that's Dave, giving the presentation)

And also a picture of the school where this was held. Relatively speaking, this is a really nice school - the classrooms have desks, the blackboards have chalk and the bathrooms have flush toilets.

Supermercado, Hipermercado

So.
I just realized that for the past month (as of 8pm last night it's been four weeks since disembarking in Paraguay) I haven't used shampoo on my hair once. I've mistakenly been using conditioner. At first I thought it was just the high humidity that was giving my hair the full body and healthy shine that I hadn't experienced in the desert dryness. Then I began to think that since I'm washing my hair more frequently, maybe it's producing more natural oils... details aside, today I really began questioning whether I should have just packed my good old American made shampoo.
And this is when I looked at the bottle.
It's not like “acondicionador” is such a far cry from its English cognate. Perhaps it's that the bottle was sitting directly under (as in hidden by) the shampoo sign. Or maybe on my first shopping trip I was concentrating harder on deciphering what scent it was supposed to be (really, I don't like my hair smelling of coconut) than on the product itself. So this morning I went back to the supermarket and picked up an identical looking bottle at the other end of the aisle that was clearly marked “shampoo”.
Shampoo and a bottle of guaraná. Though it's becoming more popular in the U.S., I'm told that guaraná pop, along with churrasquerias (meat-spear smorgasbords) are really a Paraguayan (and Brazilian and Argentinian) distinctive. It's one of those things that, as a 4 year old returning from Brazil, stuck in my memory: guaraná pop, super-sweet guava paste, almost sickly sweet dulce de leche, and little juice boxes of chocolate milk...it's interesting note what a four year old remembers. So when I went to the store for the first time here, along with shampoo, I found myself some guava paste, a little dulce de leche, and some guaraná. And bananas.
I came in exactly the wrong season for fruit; a month ago there were still a few haggard looking mangoes, avocados, and papayas on the shelves. Now it's down to bananas and imported citrus, but fortunately for me, between the climate and a little pesticide, bananas grow in abundance year-round. And they're cheap. Really cheap. On my last trip I picked up a little over 3 pounds for around 60 cents. For that reason alone I would consider taking up residency in Paraguay.
But my favorite part of the supermarket is the little video screens you can watch while you're waiting in line (not to be confused the grocery store movie theaters; this week I went to a theater built into the equivalent of Safeway or Dillons). Evidently, the stores want to demonstrate that they're at least as modern as any American Safeway. So they have these video screens by the cash register where you can watch documentaries about factory-farmed chickens. From growth-hormone injection to the automated butcher machine, you can follow lives of your future chicken nuggets right up to their demise. I laugh whenever I see it. Any grocery story in the U.S. that showed how their chickens are raised would a) have PETA picketing outside the store and b) see their customers swear off chicken.

I'm including a picture of my hair, but it also includes my face, and one of my co-volunteers, Teresa. Sometime soon, I'll actually write about what I'm doing as a volunteer. So until next time...

Jogurt

If I knew one thing about the Mennonite colonies in Paraguay prior to my arrival, I knew that they were largely responsible for turning parts of the Chaco (a geographic region that stretches over several countries, and is by all accounts an un-farmable wasteland) into a productive agricultural enterprise. And if I knew one thing about the productive agriculturally enterprising Mennonites, it's that they have one fabulous dairy processing plant. Prior to my departure, I was actually told by one person, “if you don't see anything else, see the dairy plant. They're way more advanced than the U.S. They make drinkable yogurt.” Last I looked, the dairy processing plant wasn't on my itinerary, but I had planned on at least trying this famous drinkable yogurt.

● ● ●

Friday, June 12: I bought a bag of drinkable (bebible) strawberry yogurt. Yogurt, like milk and mayonnaise here, often comes in plastic bags, at least if you're buying more than 4oz. I find plastic bags to be ultimately sensible for storage before they're opened (store in cool, dry place, free of sharp objects) but ultimately a pain once you've cut a pour-hole. Each opened bag then requires its own pitcher.

Monday, June 15: I open my liter of drinkable, strawberry yogurt and enjoy it on a bowl of cornflakes and bananas.

Tuesday, June 16: Call the corps of engineers, we're in over our heads!

I'll back up a little. My stay here in Paraguay isn't exactly a vacation, since I'm volunteering at the AIDS foundation that my family started (the family I'm living with). There's a lot to be said, but what you need to know is that this foundation is staffed largely by volunteers, and is paid for largely by donations. In addition to other services, it provides meals for HIV/AIDS patients, along with bags of groceries to take home. With more than 2,000 total clients, that translates into a lot of food. And one of these food sources is the Co-op dairy plant (making no assumptions, I expect this might be the plant I was advised to visit) so every Tuesday they have to get rid of all the unsold and nearly-expired yogurt and milk and cream cheese and butter and dulce de leche that's sitting in their warehouse.

This Tuesday, apparently, was a bumper harvest. I wish I had a picture of the pickup full of yogurt that arrived Tuesday afternoon. Or a picture of the kitchen floor, covered in crates upon crates of yogurt that wouldn't fit into the three fridges. Or a picture of the hundreds of pounds of yogurt we sent home with patients. But this one will have to do.

Wednesday, June 17: Some might call this a fridge full of yogurt. I call this my new reality. I'd brought home a modest 6 liters of yogurt on Tuesday, but the Co-op called again and sent another 6 crates our way, so my fridge became part of the overflow plan. Somewhere back in there I think I still have some bread and eggs and cheese, but I'll have to eat my way in.

Thursday, June 18: Not sick of yogurt yet. Ask me in a week.

I'm not really a fan of product placements for large American corporations, but Tony and Sam and Mrs. Müslix wanted to say hi. I'm probably just behind the times, but I hadn't seen a cereal-yogurt combo package like this before.

And to Think That I Saw it on Mulberry Street

my regards to Dr. Seuss.

In my room there’s a window, where should be a wall

Open onto the street so that I can see all

That is passing by foot or by hoof or by wheels

A fantastic parade of all sorts of mobiles

And spectating there from the bed where I slumber

I’ve started to note all the wonders that lumber

‘Long pot-holey, narrow, and cobblestoned streets

And the list I’ve compiled, while far from complete

Is a taste of the traffic on mulberry street.

A horse is (of course, is) a good place to start

A regular horse with a broken down cart

Filled with branches and leaves

Or with trash or recycling

To take to the dump, if that’s what’s to your liking

Or if you’d prefer not to pay the for the dumping

The man on the cart will oblige you by thumping

The pile of branches, (just now and again)

As he drives by the neighbors’ front doorways and then

With a thump and a bump a small branch will fall off.

“Oh, it’s quite accidental,” he says, if you scoff.

But as soon as he reaches the dump he will see

That there’s nothing more left of his pile of debris

So he’ll go home, dejected, until the next day

When your neighbors will call him and ask, if they pay,

Would he please come and pick up some branches and leaves

That they found on their doorstep on Mulberry Street.

But piles of branches, a-flipping and flopping

And regular horses, a-clipping and clopping

Down Mulberry Street are but only a start.

There’s more to be seen here than broken down carts.

There are bicycles, too, with their tires running flat

From the trash on the streets and the weight on their racks

Cause the rider decided he needed to carry

A 3 meter pipe down the Street of Mulberry.

A bicycle plumber: he’ll fix all your leaks

If he isn’t run over on Mulberry Street.

For buses are bigger than bicycle plumbers

And scary to ride for the city’s newcomers

Who ‘spect they will die when the bus runs a light,

Or have their purse stolen (they’re probably right)

But the driver is cool, collected, contained,

As he talks on his cell phone and counts out your change

And swerves through the traffic on streets with no lanes

And no names and no claims to the concept of sane

But buses, I’m told, are a toler’ble scene

If you don’t try to ride to the futbol arena

They’ll lurch and they’ll launch you right out of your seat

And you’ll land with a thump, safe, on Mulberry Street.

And when all the horses and bikers and buses

And motorbikes, pickups, and big semi-truckses

Get lonely and go out to be where the crowd is

They jam in and try to see who honks the loudest.

Just go out and watch them; you’re in for a treat:

The symphonic arrangement of Mulberry Street.

I Believe in Miracles

I've decided my first blog post should thoughtfully encapsulate my first impressions of South America, the essence of what it means to find one's self a stranger in a strange land, and also pay tribute to the rich heritage and local culture. So, cliches be darned, I'm going to introduce you to my bathroom:

Don't drink the water from this faucet unless you grew up in Paraguay. Even Chileans come here and get very, very sick. I suppose it's just a matter of time until someone serves me coffee or juice (or milk) made with local water. Until then, hands are washed with this water, and teeth are brushed with bottled water.

please refer to the schematic (below) to reference the following quips.

1. The trash can. Yes, even men's bathrooms have these little guys. I'm not convinced that the kind of toilet paper they sell in S. America is stout enough to clog even an artery, but it still doesn't go in the city sewer system. I remember it taking a little time to unlearn that habit twenty-some years ago when I moved back from Brazil. It's taken a little time to get back into the habit now...my personal apologies to Sao Paulo airport if their sewer system backs up. It was my fault.

2. The eagle-eyed among you will look at the shower head and wonder why there's electrical tape. That's mostly to keep the water from coming in contact with the electrical wiring. I'm glad someone thought to put electrical tape on that junction because there is a stream of water coming off that plastic tube to the side. If you adjust it properly, it won't spray on the wire. Here's the benefit of a bathroom with no carpeting and a central floor drain: the whole bathroom is your shower stall, solving that age-old need to brush your teeth and shower at the same time. For all you home-modification fans, the shower's naturally ADA accessible with a built in multi-functional shower seat: the toilet.

3. That's right, read it and weep, my bathroom comes with a urinal. It's possible that's a byproduct of my bedroom/apartment being a former storefront. I understand not all residential commodes come with such high-brow plumbing. True, I have to walk outside to get there, but a urinal's a urinal. Sometimes you just have to go the distance to reap the rewards. Another byproduct is that I've found the words “urinal” and “miracle” apparently occupy neighboring registers in my brain. Whenever I walk into the bathroom I start humming “That was a miracle [urinal] too” from Fiddler on the Roof. More recently it's been “I believe in [urinals]”.

I guess these wouldn't generally be considered “stained glass” windows, but they do give the bathroom a little more of an ecclesiastic aire. I have yet to kneel at the porcelain altar, but as my system continues to adjust to Paraguayan bugs, I'm sure it won't be long.

New Year's Update

A couple years have come and gone since the last post...it's about time for a new one.

I typically have a few songs growing in my head and, for space and sanity, I occasionally take the time to transplant them into digital waveforms stored on magnetically charged disks. This last holiday season I made a more deliberate effort than usual, going so far as to give the songs names. While these recordings are usually just for my personal reference, I'm sharing this project for those people who wish to hear what's going on in my head. As far as I know, all these songs are original and, if it's not apparent, the project is completely solo. (If you want to download an mp3 version, you can right-click the title and save it)

01 God Willing / Fiddler's Groove

:: I think this song's about Winfield

02 This Fog Below

:: I woke up with this tune in my head one morning, so I gave it some words

03 Tin Can Life

:: Previously posted

04 Sailing to Marana

:: A new recording of a previous post

05 Monsoon in D

:: During one monsoon season in Tucson I spent most evenings on the porch with a mandolin watching the storms move through the valley. The three themes in this piece came from those sessions.

06 Phantom Trolley

:: Inspired by Tucson's (still functioning) 4th Ave trolley; mostly, I just like ghost train songs.

There's even cover art! (in case you had a hard time deciphering the video stills)