The Arduous Life of a Missionary

I became a nurse because I thought that helping people physically would open the door to helping them spiritually as well. I also became a nurse under the condition that I'd get to work outside (what?). Hey, I was sixteen at the time I decided to be a nurse. I had the romantic image of myself giving injections to skinny little malnourished children in the jungle; that was real nursing! It took me the first three years of my career to find it, but it is nursing... in Bolivia!

Hospital Esperanza is a 25-bed hospital snuggled in at 8000 feet in the foothills of Mt. Tunari in the Bolivian Andes. There's a guesthouse out back, a sprawling one-level affair equipped with front and back verandahs furnished with hammocks, planter boxes of herbs and flowers and a prolific bed of calla lilies. The backyard is the domain of a pair of lovable mutts, and just over the adobe fence there is what appears to be some sort of commercial rose garden operation. Sure, we'll bite the bullet and live here for a month. So our arduous missionary life began.


Having arrived at the end of Bolivian rainy season, we found the yard a jungle of 5-ft tall grasses, sunflowers, and a burgeoning metropolis of wild guinea pigs (also a Peruvian delicacy). Patrick was able to clear quite a swath of it in his time here, uncovering a pack of stray dogs who spent their time napping around the property. In addition to the hospital, there were a few outbuildings scattered around the place, as well as the living quarters for the Bomberos (firefighters) which featured the obligatory soccer field that probably got more use than their fire trucks.

In the morning, I'd jump into some scrubs and head over to the hospital for morning rounds with my fellow volunteers, a couple nurses and a group of PA students. We would follow along with the cloud of interns, nurses, and aides that hovered around each patient, taking turns presenting them to The Doctor. Think chain-of-command, old-time hospital environment where the Length of Your White Coat Matters. It was cool to see; very different than my uber-informal Seattle workplace.

After rounds we'd head back to the house for breakfast. Here's the cast of characters around the table:

Leta- the capable, conscientious, Kansasan. As volunteer supervisor, she was responsible for organizing the many details, big and small, of what makes this place go. So what if it gives her hives? She has the singing voice of a Disney princess.

Shelly- A bright and funny nurse from Colorado. Drank yogurt like coffee. Her heart is in Plaza San Sebastian.

Rachel- An exuberant Mountain guide-turned-nurse from my own Seattle. College buddy of Shelly. Famous for her mustard salads. Her heart is also in Plaza San Sebastian

Breanna- alias "Breannita" (because at one point she was the younger of two Breannas here) In Bolivia for several months, aspires to live 'in the ghetto' and work with kids back in Prince George, Canada, her home sweeeet home (like the song?). Has a thing for Reese's PB cups.

Miranda- buddy of Breannita and fellow Prince Georger, studying medicine. Nikon SLR always at the ready.

These were the permanent players. We got a new shot of life when different volunteer groups cycled through, but these were the people we spent the most time with and had the most laughs with. Seriously, such a remarkable group of women! Patrick barely minded he was the lone male, or "house-Dad," for most of his time here.

After breakfast we medical-types would take the scenic 15-minute walk to the nearby village to do some physical exams at the school. All of us "doctoritas" walking into the playground and setting up our clinic under a chirimoya tree caused quite the stir during recess. We found ourselves mobbed with children braiding our hair, asking us questions, begging for toothpaste & toothbrushes. Eventually we'd establish some order and we actually found that some of the kids there were darn sick. April is flu season in Bolivia, and of course you have to think about things like parasites, Dengue fever and Chagas disease (a.k.a. African sleeping sickness), diseases I always gave as much effort to learning about as bubonic plague: "Oh yeah, they're bad, I'll never see them..." Hah! Our bread and butter in Bolivia.

In the afternoons we might visit an orphanage for a couple hours to help out, do check-ups or play with the kids. Some days we'd do another free clinic in a different village. Sometimes we had down time and Patrick and I would walk the dogs, one of whom was recovering from a broken leg (car vs. dog, the hospital traumatologist had made him a doggy-body cast at one point). Throughout the village and surrounding countryside, we were a hilarious spectacle for the locals who stared and laughed at the gringos with dogs on a leash! They seemed to think dogs were more like rock-magnets than pets. We saw a couple Cholitas (usually feisty women in the traditional garb of Bolivia) chuck rocks at mongrels with laser accuracy. When mobbed by strays on our little excursions, Patrick and I only had to mime a throwing motion and those dogs were outta there.

Fridays were pretty much dedicated to going to the Plaza San Sebastian to work with the glue-sniffers. In the morning we'd prep their lunch, do a Bible study, then work in the plaza in the afternoon. We'd treat wounds and other problems, give them lunch, read from the Bible, pray with 'em, and just chat with them. It was really hard working with these guys, because they're usually high and you were never sure if you're getting though to them. the idea is, treat them with love and respect (no one else really does) and let the healing love of Christ do its work. Fortunately, Rachel and Shelly are really passionate about long-term work with this group. Their eventual goal is to open a women's shelter to help them transition from street to society.

Saturday's activities were considerably lighter: Kid-washing! Another org. from the states actually sets up a couple tents in the main plaza in Cochabamba, and they bathe street kids ages 6 and under. We got a sort of assembly line going, usually their mothers were there helping, and we'd strip'em, scrub 'em, dry 'em, dress 'em, and braid 'em (if girls). I learned that I am painfully inept at braiding girls' hair, especially Bolivian girls whose braiding standards are astronomically high, given that their mothers wear about 2 meters of immaculate braids which are carefully re-strung daily. After the kid-wash we'd meet up with Patrick and maybe sample some street food at our favorite place.

We had so much fun in our little guesthouse community; we hiked in the mountains together, played Wally (the world's best game; eat your heart out, volleyball), hung out with our Bolivian buddies, celebrated birthdays, even had a Bolivian prom for Breanna, who missed hers back home. It was so nice cooking and eating together, praying and reading and singing together. It was really encouraging living with Christians again, especially fun ones, in such a joyful house.

The Golden Rule...

Our time volunteering has ended. After 18 hours of buses we find ourselves in the scrubbed-clean and breezy town of Arequipa, Peru. It's a wonderful change of scenery after nearly three months of Bolivia. Though contrasting heavily, it seems to make the last month of living in Vinto, Boliva stand out more vibrantly.

We were working with Hospitals of Hope. It's a Christian medical mission organization with a fully functional Hospital in Anocoraire, Boliva. They also have part-time clinics in Haiti and Liberia. My duties were mostly limited to maintenance and repair of the guesthouse. There was a long list of what I called "man-duties" awaiting our arrival. (I prefer "man-duties" to their calling it "non-medical and somewhat menial tasks.") So as I would cut the grass and fix the internet, Tara would go to clinics at schools and orphanages with other nurses and doctors. They would do check-ups on kids and treat all the ailments they could.

However, one day a week our duties would converge. We would go into Cochabamba and work with the city's homeless, glue-sniffing population of Plaza San Sebastian. These guys are pretty gnarly. They rob, steal, stab and terrorize the citizens of Cochabamba and, thus, most Bolivians have turned their back on them. In fact it goes beyond turning their back on them. The citizens actually beat and attack the glue-sniffers. The police tend to use them for nightstick practice.

In fact, one day Tara & Co. treated a girl who had been terribly beaten by the police. Nobody is certain of why, but she had broken ribs, a bruised, bleeding and swollen face, and was barely able to walk. Add that onto her life as an underage-prostitute and, well, it's an unspeakably bad situation.

Most of the glue-sniffers here have run away from abusive homes.  There are some who enjoy the homeless life of robbing and getting high. Others were simply born into it. They are usually refused medical treatment at hospitals (though it's illegal) so our visits seemed to help a bit.

Their current home in the plaza is essentially a giant toilet, filled with garbage, stray dogs, toddlers and the glue-sniffers themselves. The smell of human waste is only surpassed by that of the glue fumes. You get lightheaded if you're sitting in a group of them. Once I saw a gentleman run off over by some flowers, dig a hole, and bury a plastic bag filled with soup. Another time we saw the police come in, grab a kid, shove him into the trunk of their car and drive off. Tara and I once had a 30-minute conversation with three glue-sniffers about the various qualities of current and past WWF wrestlers. We see frequent visits from local gangsters coming to pay the glue-sniffers for whatever crimes they were hired to do. 

Once Tara was treating a 1" deep by 4" long cut on a woman's arm. Tara asked, "What happened?" The woman responded, "He cut me," referring to her 20-year younger boyfriend who was sitting next to her, seemingly quite concerned with her horrible wound. Ironically, this is the norm. Most of their wounds were caused by those closest to them.

This one guy has a broken leg and is using crutches. One night, his buddies beat him up with said crutches and broke his arm. The next day they are helping him get food. The lifestyle is somewhat of an oxymoron.

Everyone living here is absolutely covered in ridiculous scars. One dude has a 12" pentagram carved into his torso. The pentagram seems to be crossed out with yet more scars. Most men have multiple 6" scars on their faces and necks.

The women have it especially rough. They will try their best to partner up with one of the guys in the hopes avoiding being ganged up on. I guess being with one violent person is better than 10? And the prettier girls confusingly seem to sustain even more trauma through their work as prostitutes.

My role was pretty much that of "male presence" with the mostly-female Hospitals of Hope workforce. I would just chit-chat with some of the dudes and get some of their stories. They were usually pretty high, but every now and then they would seem to have a moment of clarity and just break down crying. This happened multiple times. It's very difficult to understand what they must be going though. Seeing this place once or twice a week just boggles the mind as to how terrible their home-lives must have been.

Are they a product of their environment? The bulk of society down here calls them animals. Are they treated like animals because they act as such? Or is it vice versa? Do they act like "animals" as a result of their treatment? To what degree does society's interaction with these people affect their actions? I can't quantify an answer, but what I do know is that we were loving and kind to them and they treated us with nothing but respect and courtesy. And sure, we were holding an egg sandwich and a B12 shot, but human to human interaction resulted in just that.

They are humans. They are often treated badly. They often behave badly. And yet, they often behave nicely. Sound familiar? It's a story any human can relate to.

During this time, we've become very good friends with two nurses working with Hospitals of Hope, Rachel and Shelly. They are going to start working full time with the glue-sniffers. They've got an ambulance to run a clinic out of and to be a sort of "glue-free zone." Hopefully, by being a daily presence in these people's lives and building stronger relationships with them, their message of hope and change will sink in. There are options and resources available these guys, they just need to make a choice to live outside the comfort zone of their friends, family, and protectors in the plaza.

Most die on the streets before they're 30. But some do move into a shelter and learn a trade. More often than not it's temporary, but sometimes its permanent. Some souls are even saved. The volunteers aren't going anywhere and as they forge stronger relationships, perhaps their promise of a safer, healthier, more comfortable life will be better understood. Perhaps things will get better.  Perhaps...