The Road to... Grand Bourg

On Sunday I accompanied my host family to a park, where there was a festival to celebrate the first day of Spring. There were loads of people, and we could barely find a place to park. Luckily, we found a nice police woman who told us to park in front of a line of cars. Slightly dubious, but eager to get to the park and enjoy the day, we did as we were told.

And enjoy the day we did. It was a huge park; the sun was pouring down and there were people everywhere. They laid out on blankets drinking mate while live cumbia music emanated from a large stage that had been set up for the occasion. I walked around with Manuel, my host brother, and before long he ran into some of his friends.

All was well until we got back to our car. As it turns out, we weren't the only ones who had decided to add to the line of cars; sure enough, someone had parked in front of us, so close that it looked like we would need a can opener to get out. However, I went to the Wold School of Driving in Wausau, WI, and my instructor, John Grass, was a master at parallel parking. So I sized up the situation and decided that I could indeed get us out of there. Sara handed me the keys, and I asked her and the kids to be my eyes so that I wouldn't nick the cars behind or in front of us.

Sure enough, little by little, I was able to free our little white Fiat hatchback from our parking space. Just I was beginning to feel triumphant, Sara and Manuel jumped in the car, saying 'Dale, dale!' (Go, go!). I looked in the mirror and immediately recognized what they were talking about: there was a brief break in the steady stream of traffic, and if we didn't leave now, we'd be stuck for another ten minutes.

So I threw the car into first gear and floored it, hoping that my manual transmission skills would come back to me as I ventured out into the crazy Buenos Aires traffic. And sure enough, they came flooding back as I swerved in and out of lanes--which is normal here--trying not to kill anyone (I'm not so sure how normal that is). But I soon got the hang of it, and managed to enjoy much of the sunny drive back to Grand Bourg. At one point, Katia (9), who until then had only seen me walking, observed with a tone of disbelief: 'Chris--you're driving!'

Yes I am, Katia. Yes I am.

The Road to Emmaus

Sorry my blog posts haven't been completely timely; internet access here is limited, and so I have to update when I can.

Anyway, I wanted to share part of the sending service we were blessed with last week before the five of us headed off to our individual sites.

Kate, our country coordinator, shared a very relevant message with us based on the story of Road to Emmaus (Luke 24: 13-35). In that passage, some disciples are walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus just after Jesus had been arrested, tried, and crucified. They had also heard rumors that he had been resurrected, but they did not seem convinced themselves. Anyway, Jesus appears and accompanies them on their journey, but they do not recognize him. As they walk, He asks them questions about what has just happened in Jerusalem--the disciples are amazed that he hasn't heard, but they tell him anyway. And then Jesus proceeds to interpret the scriptures for them, revealing things about himself. Though they still did not know who he was, they invited him to stay and share a meal with them, an invitation which he accepted. Only when he poured wine and broke bread for them did they realize who He was, at which point He vanished. After that, the disciples returned to Jerusalem to share the good news with the people there.

Kate used this story to draw several parallels. The first was with the Lutheran liturgy that I grew up with: Gathering (Jesus and the disciples walking together), Word (Jesus interpreting the scriptures), Meal (Jesus pouring wine and breaking bread for his disciples) and Sending (the disciples returning to Jerusalem). I had never made that connection before, and I thought it was quite beautiful.

In addition, Kate was able to relate this story to our year spent as missionaries abroad: first we Gather with the people around us (Jesus is with us, just as in the story); we share the Word with each other. With time, we are invited for to meals, where we break bread and share in fellowship. Finally, when our time is up, we head back to the U.S. (a political and economic power, just like the modern U.S.) to share our experiences with the people there. Jesus was with them through it all, just as He is with us.

It was really neat to see the connections between our experience this year and other aspects of the Church--both with contemporary worship as well as the experiences of the earliest disciples. I hope and pray that this year can be one of accompaniment and mutual encouragement for me and the people I meet in Argentina. And I'm already looking forward to sharing my experiences with the people I know and love when I return to the U.S. next July.

A day of firsts: Mate, Asado, and jokes in Spanish

Sunday was my host-grandma’s birthday, and after church, we went over to her place to celebrate. She is a wonderful lady with a beautiful house full of old books on theology and politics. As Victoria cooked, the house also filled with the smell of delicious bread.

As we talked before lunch, we passed mate (pronounced mah-tay), which is an herb that is mixed with very hot water in a gourd and then sucked through a metal or wood straw with a filter at the bottom. It’s very bitter and smoky, and normally I can’t stand it. But this time it was more palatable, and so I became part of the mate circle, which is very important in Argentine culture. Many people walk around with thermoses, and drink mate all day long. More importantly, at almost any meeting or social gathering, someone will bring mate and pass it to each person, one at a time. When they’re done, they say “gracias” and passes it back to be refilled and passed to the next person. It’s a very peaceful practice. I’m told that even if there is a disagreement at a meeting, there is still the friendly undercurrent of the mate, which is being passed among friends. It’s an act of community, and therefore I felt honored to be invited and included on Sunday.

And then the main course: my first Argentine asado. For an asado, you build a wood fire, place a grill over top, and then throw as much meat as will fit. And let it cook until it’s smoky and juicy and delicious. It was delicious, and every time I thought I was done eating, they would bring in another round from the grill—and somehow I would find room.

As we ate, we shared jokes. Here are a few favorites:

A man walks into a bar and orders three drinks. The bartender serves him, he drinks each one, and then walks out. This continues for about a week until the bartender finally asks him what it’s all about. The man responds: “This one here is for my brother, who’s in London. And this one here is for my brother in New York. This one is for me, and this way, even though we’re far apart, it’s like we can share a drink.” This keeps up for a few months, with the man stopping in each day after work. One day, he walks in and orders two drinks. Worried, the bartender asks, “Did something happen to one of your brothers?” “No, they’re fine,” replies the man. “It’s just that I’ve decided to quit drinking.”

Another:

A cowboy sits drinking in a bar. Suddenly, someone bursts in and says, “Hey, Joe! Your horse is getting away!” He gets up and runs to the door, but then realizes, “Wait a second. I ain’t got a horse.” So he goes back to his drink. About fifteen minutes later, someone else bursts in and says, “Hey Joe! Your father died!” Again he gets up and runs to the door, but then realizes, “Wait a second, I ain’t got a father.” He goes back to his drink, and about fifteen minutes later, someone bursts in and says, “Hey Joe! You won the lottery!” So he jumps up, runs to the door, and then stops as he realizes: “Wait a second… My name’s not Joe!”

ESMA and Madres

On Monday, we had a chance to tour the ESMA (Escuela Militar de la Armada), which was the most infamous of the clandestine centers where young people suspected of 'subversion' were brought after being kidnapped during the dictatorship (1976-83). Out of the estimated 30,000 who disappeared during that period, 5,000 were brought to the ESMA--and of those, only 200 survived. Most were drugged and thrown out of airplanes into the Rio de la Plata--if they were 'lucky' enough to survive their torture. The ESMA now stands vacant as a memorial to the atrocities that happened there; it also serves as an active crime scene with evidence for the upcoming trials for officials who are suspected of devising and ordering the abuse and killing of young people there.

Later that afternoon, we had the opportunity to meet several of the Mothers personally, and to hear their stories. It was powerful to hear them talk about their children--their lives, their jobs, their loves, their dreams. After they had shared their stories, Kate pointed out that many of their children were killed for doing precisely the kind of work that we have come here to do; working with those on the margins of society and walking in solidarity with them. This probably seemed just as right and just to those young people then as it does to me now; it's scary to think that following their hearts could have led them to such a terrible end.

Church Welcome

Sunday was our big day at Santo Sacramento, which is one of the congregations we'll be working with this year. We arrived early enough for coffee and medialunas (sweet croissants), and met the pastor (Ángel), his wife (Chevala) and several other of the parishioners.

Soon it was time for church--the first church service of our missionary year. It was amazing because I felt pulled in so many directions at once. On the one hand, they used the same Lutheran liturgy I had heard so many times back at Saint Andrew. On the other hand, it was all translated into Spanish--which was neat--and the hymns were all new to us. On top of that, Pastor Ángel gave a very fresh sermon about the letter versus the spirit of the Law. It was a quality sermon, to be sure, but what fascinated me was the interactive environment--people would speak up from the pews with questions or comments that came to mind as they listened. It was refreshing to see that kind of give-and-take, which was made possible by the small, intimate setting.

Right before the end of the service, Kate introduced us to the congregation, and we each said a little bit about our specific assignments for the year. Then, we broke out the guitar and drums for a song that we had prepared the night before (Truly I Believe). It went over really well, with people approaching us afterward to shake our hands and meet us.

After the service, we were greeted 'officially' by a feast of empanadas (meat-filled pastries) and pizza, which are two very typical Argentine foods. We got to meet more of the parishioners, who were very warm and happy to share stories. We performed a couple more songs, and ate empanadas until we were about to explode.

When it was finally time to leave, we were exhausted but grateful to our hosts. It was great to feel so welcome in a place that can often seem so foreign.

Madres de la Plaza

Our driver, Adrian, navigated fearlessly through the mess of smog and traffic. While he drove, he also gave us a quick rundown of current topics in Argentine religion and politics, and I marveled at his thick (though accessible) Porteño accent.

We eventually made it to ISEDET (Instituto Superior Evangélico de Estudios Teológicos), which is the seminary where we are staying during this first week of orientation. We were weary travellers, and it felt great to drop our bags. Kate and David welcomed us with water and snacks, and we had a chance to call home. (My parents were happy to hear from me, and my mom remarked that I sounded like I was 'just down the street'.)

There was no rest for the weary, however, because after lunch it was soon time to head downtown. It was important to go on Thursday afternoon, because that's when the Madres de los desaparecidos do their weekly march in the Plaza de Mayo. We couldn't take the subway because it was closed, and the bus driver warned us that there were protests in the city center. Even though we had just been told at orientation to walk away from protests, we quickly found ourselves on a bus that was rapidly hurtling toward them.

Not to worry, however; if there were protests downtown, we didn't see them. We made it in time to see the mothers, whose dedication is as impressive today as it ever has been. Their sons and daughters were abducted, tortured and killed during the dictatorship (1976-83), and they still march carrying pictures of their loved ones who 'disappeared'. As they marched around the plaza in their characteristic white headscarves, it struck me that this is not ancient history; in fact, I was alive during the final years of the dictatorship. These things happened during my lifetime. Let us not forget the horrors of unchecked power and institutionalized paranoia.

Arrival at Buenos Aires

After we had grabbed our luggage and cleared customs (which consisted of putting our bags through a scanner that nobody was watching), we ventured out into the humidity of Buenos Aires (which translates as "Good Winds"). They are just coming out of their winter here, and were experiencing an unseasonable heat wave.

As we walked out into the transportation area, we looked for Kate (our country coordinator), whom we had met at the discernment event in April, and who would be the only familiar face in the crowd. We didn't see her immediately, however, and I found myself being approached by a bearded man who somehow knew my name. This mystery man, it turns out, was Kate's husband David, who is the other coordinator of our program here. Our flight had arrived at the 'old' terminal, and he had come to collect us as Kate hurried over from the other one.

Once we had that all sorted out, we piled our things into (and onto) a couple of cars and headed out into the labyrinth of Buenos Aires traffic.