When I told one of my dearest friends that I was finding it hard to jump into Bolivian culture again after six sweet weeks in the States, she consoled me well:
“Cara, it's like getting into a freezing lake. It's not bad to ease in.”
Huh. How absurd! See, my general attitude towards the freezing lakes that I have swum in throughout my life is that it would be an insult, a positive affront to the sanctity of the lake to ease into it. How ridiculous to spend painful seconds, or torturous minutes, easing into a cold pit of despair when you could dive into a millisecond of pain and adrenaline and come up gasping and sputtering and laughing.
But I'm getting old. Culture used to be something to dive into–to eat on the street until I was sick and swarming with parasites (which usually took about 2 hours); to chatter in bad Spanish to every taxi driver or street seller that would talk to me until I had promised to help 15 people with their English; to experience simply to experience, weddings and quinciñeras and funerals and tea-times. I would binge on culture, but true digestion and integration was never necessary. I'd be in another country, city before long, binging on the richness of the new.
But coming back to Bolivia, I'm easing. It's cold here. Not metaphorically either. And after the delicacies of friends and family in the States this summer, the small, shaky community I've managed to forge here wasn't tempting my palate.
I read Bruchko on Saturday. I could have visited any number of Alteño friends. I probably should have done some laundry, or reviewed subjunctive Spanish verbs. But instead I spent a few hours with one of the most amazing, incarnational missionaries I've ever encountered. And I was thrilled to know that for years that Bruce Olson lived with the Molitone tribe, he was bored, unmotivated, and friendless. I've only been in Bolivia a year! I could have months of boredom and inmotivation stretching ahead of me! Something to look forward to, surely.
I suppose it's natural to ease back into things. Especially after the beautiful time I had in the States. Michigan was a blur of tubing and Grandma's homemade blueberry muffins. Charlotte was cram-packed full of parties and swing dancing with my best friends in the world, and a few delicious days with family. The Staff Retreat in Nebraska was more renewing than I dreamed, the last time I'll pray surrounded by oak trees and sparrows for a long, long time. And California was as sunny and swim-worthy as the stereotypes.
So when I first got back to El Alto, it took me a few days to recollect why I've chosen to make this place my home. But the selling points are coming back to me slowly: the fresh juices you can buy on the street for 20 cents, the cloudless warm afternoons, the elation of Spanish worship.
And I've been slowly reminded how much I love our community, and the girls. I walked into the center last week for the first time in two months, not quite ready to be back at work. Our cook Feliza gave a whoop that would be mistaken for a war-cry in any other setting. She grabbed me into a death-grip of a hug and pulled me down to her waist-high level to slather me with kisses. Even as my back started to ache from bending down so low, I couldn't stop grinning.
Something else lovely transpired during my absence. Our friend Ana left prostitution about a year ago and began a little juice shop in her hometown. In the last couple weeks, her niece has combined her savings with a loan from us and begun her own juice shop, leaving prostitution to support her four children with this new income. Better yet, she's set up shop on the street in front of our center. Which means, fresh carrot juice for breakfast every day!
For everyone I saw, had coffee or lunch with, allowed me to share a little of my Bolivian life and community with while I was in the States, thank you. My time with you could not have been better.
In Christ,
Cara Strauss