Entering Holy Week...

by Emma Buckhout, IWM serving in Santa Fe, Mexico City, Mexico.

When I started writing this blog entry it was Thursday of Holy Week, but then I was sidetracked by a rather busy series of events to remember and celebrate Easter. Now that it is Monday after Easter, “entering” might not be as appropriate a title. However, by “entering” I meant to refer not only to the timeframe, but also to entering into a new series of traditions and celebrations in the Mexican Catholic culture of Santa Fe. People had told us the rough outline of events for Holy Week, but I knew it was something I was going to need to experience for myself.

 After four years of trying to celebrate Easter at a secular university that held classes all the way through Good Friday, spending Easter in Santa Fe was a welcome change. Most people get all of Holy Week off of work, and almost everyone gets Thursday to Sunday off. Public schools are closed both Holy Week and the week after Easter. The guardería was closed for vacations all of Holy Week, so that meant a break for both Tara and me.

It was definitely advantageous not to have to go to work at the guardería this particular week, because I`m not sure how I would have seen everything else going on! As a missionary, it doesn`t feel as though I`m ever on vacation as long as I`m still in Santa Fe-- mission is a whole-life thing, not just about the hours that I spend at the guardería. However, Tara and I tried to strike a balance this week between taking some extra time for rest, our usual activities and responsibilities, and taking in the Holy Week traditions and extra activities at the parish.

The highlight of our resting came on Wednesday as Tara and I ran up to the mall in the beautiful sunshine for an errand to the phone company, but then treated ourselves to a fresh salad feast. We walked the hour or so home as well, chatting about US and Canadian political structures. I then spent the late afternoon wandering around parks with Jessica in the neighborhood called the Condessa, a half hour bus ride away. Salads and parks are a rare treat in life in Santa Fe and I definitely counted it as a day of celebration.

Tara and I spent Tuesday taking our grupo juvenil on a picnic to Chapultepec, the largest park in Mexico City, for some extra bonding time. Fifteen of us gathered at the parish, made sandwiches, and then trekked off on two different buses to arrive at the park. There we found a quiet spot to spread blankets and did our weekly reflection as guided by the Jesuit group materials. Then we shared a meal together, played some games, spent an hour on paddle boats on the lake, stopped by the traditional Mexican "voladores", and then hopped the buses back to the parish in the late afternoon. It was great to spend some time in green space and a valuable community building experience to share time outside of our normal space with a special boating treat. 

As for parish activities, my original blog writing intentions were interrupted by a series of reenactments performed by the parish group Gregorio Lopez, made up of community members of all ages, and the traditional masses. Gregorio Lopez has been practicing nightly since January for this week`s representations. It is an impressive feat. They began on Palm Sunday, enacting several biblical scenes of Jesus` life including the Samaritan woman by the well, and the multiplication of the loaves, during which everyone in the huge crowd of people at the parish (including the children`s choir that I was helping practice before mass) received a small loaf of bread. Then, in conjunction with the Triduum mass schedule, on Thursday the group began to act out the Easter story.

I will try to give as brief rundown as possible of the weekend’s schedule:

Thursday evening began with the mass of the washing of the feet, during which parish ministers washed the feet of most of the gathered congregation, including Tara and me, a beautiful and humbling experience. Then from 8 to 10pm Gregorio Lopez began their weekend by performing the scenes of the Last Supper and Jesus appearing before Pilot.

The morning of Good Friday Tara and I did a Stations of the Cross focusing on indigenous people in Mexico with the Parish ministers. At noon we joined the thousands of people that crowd inside the parish gates to watch the beating and sentencing of Jesus performed by Gregorio Lopez. The Roman army then took Jesus and the two thieves on what looks like a parade through the neighborhood as he carried his cross. Around 3pm they returned to the churchyard to perform the crucifixion. In an understatement, it is a hugely powerful presentation. Popular religion is, well, very popular in Santa Fe and Good Friday’s representations probably bring the largest crowd to the parish all year. An evening mass for the adoration of the cross and then a silent procession with images of Mary in mourning and the wounded Jesus concluded our Friday at about 9:30pm.

Saturday was relatively tranquil, leaving us time to plan youth group events until the candlelit Easter Vigil at 8pm, which was followed by a celebratory meal in the parish kitchen.

Resurrection Sunday was celebrated with the normal eight mass schedule, but included a special corn-planting ceremony based on indigenous prayer traditions and again, celebratory meal in the afternoon. There is a small plot of land behind the parish that Father Salvador has designated as a small corn field to celebrate Mexican indigenous roots and promote greater conscience of our connection to God’s creation. (I should also mention that the parish has acquired several chickens, ducks, and rabbits, so we celebrated Easter with real bunnies this year.) We concluded Sunday by watching Gregorio Lopez’s final reenactment of the resurrection, Jesus appearing to Mary, Mary Magdalene, and the disciples, and the coming of the Holy Spirit. My favorite part was the prayer that the man playing Jesus led for the whole crowd at the end, concluding in an Our Father.

All in all, it was quite a week. I am thankful for new ways of reflecting on the meaning of Easter, experiencing its sorrows and joys through new images and new celebrations with our community in Santa Fe. And I am also going to get a few extra hours of sleep today! J

New experiences

by Nicole Tardio, IWM serving in Mongu, Zambia

A Zambian soccer game, being sick with malaria, and a youth day of recollection...do you know what all these things have in common? These are some of the new experiences I have had in the past couple months here in Mongu. Some more positive than others, but all part of the journey none the less. I have found this experience of living in an unfamiliar place so far from home very enriching and fruitful. I feel like each day presents a new opportunity for learning and growth.

In Mongu there is not too much to do in the way of entertainment. So when my friend Nancy invited me to go to a soccer game where her university was playing a team from a neighboring town, I was so excited! The soccer field was right on the edge of a pretty big compound (which is a housing development). Everyone came out for this soccer game and all picked a team to win. It wasn’t just the people who knew the players that were playing who had come to watch, but rather it was a community event and everyone enjoyed. There were drums for the cheering sections; refs being yelled at by enthused fans, coaches, and players; kids playing on the field at halftime; and the air was full of the competitive vibe. All important components of a great soccer match!

Once I was back on my feet the most common thing I heard after having malaria was: “welcome to the club”. Malaria is such a common illness here and the treatment is so readily available that people often don’t even miss a day of work for it. Well I was a little different! I was down for a couple days, and wasn’t really back to normal until about a week later. But none the less life did go on - I can now empathize with the majority of the population and have a better understanding of what a lot of the patients I am taking care of are going through.

One Sunday in March the youth group I belong to took a day outside of Mongu for a “day of recollection”. It was a unique experience because it was geared towards African youth. It focused on the daily struggles they face. It opened my eyes to a reality of hopelessness they face everyday; with that in mind the retreat focused on finding hope and perseverance in life. Some of the themes that were emphasized upon included responsibility for your actions, working hard, and loving others. The place where this sharing took place could not have had a more perfect backdrop: it was overlooking the plains with the waters slowly filling them. Over all the day was refreshing and truly renewing.

Each new experience I am blessed with I am thankful for the opportunity that is presented. The opportunity to connect with people and to learn more about a culture and its people.

¿Qué?: Daily dialogues from Perú

A typical day`s occurrence in the life of an Incarnate Word Missionary serving in Chimbote, Perú.

by: Kelli Nelson

I’ve decided to share some exchanges with the children I’ve come to know and love here in Chimbote.  Just like children everywhere, their curiosity and view of the world never fails to entertain, warm and break hearts.

“Hermana, is it cool in the United States?” asked Adrian.  “Well, yes, I would say so,” I responded, “but I think it’s pretty cool here too, don’t you think?”  He sat for a few seconds thinking, then shrugged his shoulders with an “I guess so, Hermana.”

“Hermana, do you know how to add and subtract?” Otilia asks with a smirk hand on hip. Always my student with an attitude I can count on her little 7 year-old challenge. “Of course I do, I’m teaching you aren’t I?” I asked smiling back at her.  “Let’s see, Hermana, two plus three?”  “Five,” I say.  Wide eyed she smiles and says, “Wow, she knows.”

“I don’t know what it’s called.  It’s like a punto and a comma put together,” I said, dictating a paragraph to Jefferson in Spanish not knowing the word for semicolon.  He looked at me puzzled and then laughed, “Oh, Hermana, it’s a punto comma.”  “Ah, gracias,” I said, “What would I do without you?”

One day, two of the young girls I work with were clearly arguing about something in hushed voices during class when one looked up at me, “Right, Hermana, you’re from the United States? And, you know English?” The other then asks, “Say something in English, Hermana, please.  If I finish this whole page of addition problems can you teach me something in English?”

“Why are you so tall, Hermana?” asked Madalein looking up at me.

“Hermana, why do you have so much blonde hair on your arms?” Melanio asks while pulling at my arm hairs in awe at the difference in comparing it with his.

“Hermana, do you have family?”

“Does everyone have money in the United States, Hermana?”

“Hermana, are there poor people there like there are here?”

by: Marcelle Keating 

It is no secret; I struggle to communicate in Peru.   Knowing that music is THE universal language, I was more than excited to begin teaching flute lessons for a youth orchestra in Chimbote.   The youth orchestra is the first and only one of its kind in the city.  The program is geared towards children eight to fifteen of all economic levels.  The music stands and instruments are all donated as well as the service of about five music professors who come in from the larger metropolitan town of Trujillo which is 2 hours up the road.   We meet twice a week for three hours of rehearsal.

The Peruvian culture has such a strong tradition of playing by ear; I have found it to be the main reason the students have learned so rapidly.  They only have to hear it once to have it.  Their fingers instinctively find the right keys to play the right notes.  Teaching them to read music and count has been more of a challenge.   I have had to be resourceful in finding a common bridge for the technical aspects of music which has also proven to be somewhat humorous. 

As I said, they have learned rapidly.  A year ago they were just starting on recorders in the class room and now they are practicing the Blue Danube by Strauss in a full orchestral setting.   As the difficulty in music has progressed, I found myself having to explain more of the methodology in counting.  Learning this is important because it is what enables you to look at a piece of music and not have to ask, “How does this go?” You already know.  Knowledge is power.

Music is the universal language but I was getting some blank stares when I started using American syllables for counting rhythmic patterns.  A series of four sixteenth notes in the U.S., might use the syllables “one-ta- te-ta” or “one-E –and- ah” for counting.   I still have not found the most satisfactory method here but after asking a few of the Peruvian music professors, I settled on using “ta-ti-ta-ti.”    It takes a lot of concentration on my part not to revert to the method I originally learned.

One syllable that did not make the cut was another option the Peruvians gave me for a series of four sixteenth notes,   “pa-que-ti-to”,  but after counting out a passage of a doted eighth followed by a sixteenth note,  I realized I was repeatedly saying “pa-to, pat-to” which is the Spanish word for duck.  Another bridge I had to find was for the musical pattern of the triplet.  In the States you could use “trip-a-let” or “one-la-li” but I finally settled on “Chim-bo-te.”  It worked and it was easy for them to remember.    I love music, especially in Peru. 

by: Emily Ruskamp 

Every morning summer classes began with an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and a teacher’s lecture, the latter of which was usually something about finishing all the food at lunch and not getting up from the table until all the courses were served.  One day, the lecture started with the pool, as the kids had been allowed to swim the session before.

“Niños, nobody gets to swim today because somebody had lice and spread it around.  You all need to go home and ask your moms to check your heads, and if you have lice you need to wash your hair and ask your mom to de-lice you.”  I knew that at least one of the teachers who swam the day before had gotten lice, but imagined pretty much everyone had gotten it.  Later that afternoon, requests from some of the older girls to check their heads revealed my suspicion to be true.

“And we don’t say de-flea.  Animals have fleas.  You aren’t animals, you’re people.  We de-lice people.”  I happened to glance at the head of Nayeli, the 8-year-old girl sitting on my lap, and noticed that her hair was full of little white nits.

“Another thing: don’t defecate or urinate in the showers.  Yesterday the women cleaning discovered that one boy had defecated in the showers.  We have bathrooms for defecating and urinating.  The showers are for washing only.” I felt a little itch on the back of my head but chose to ignore it.  The lecture was becoming more interesting every moment.

“And niños, somebody left their underwear in the shower, and we found it.  It was dirty.  Niños, you have to change your underwear and clean your intimate parts every day.  When you don’t, it starts to smell, and it smells bad.  Yeah?  You have to change your underwear every day.”  I kept a serious expression, not wanting to undermine the teacher and knowing that many of the kids dressed, bathed, and fed themselves, but inside I stifled a little laugh.  The teacher continued.

“You have to learn how to clean yourselves.  I know your families are poor.  We’re all poor here.  But that doesn’t mean we have to be dirty.  I don’t care if your shirt is full of holes.  Don’t be ashamed!  If it’s clean, you will look good.”  I suddenly felt self-conscious.  My thoughts jumped to all the moments when I have judged someone as poor or not poor simply by the way they looked.  There are too many to recount.

“Wednesday afternoon the pool will be available again, but we’re going to check your heads first, and the boys or girls who have lice will not be allowed to swim.”  I glanced again at Nayeli’s head.  I knew a little bit about her family and doubted her mother would have the time or interest to adequately remove all the lice.

“If you do all do your work nice today, Emilia’s going to teach us some English before lunch.”  The kids all started chattering and looking at me excitedly, their eyes wide.  I snapped back into the moment, smiled, and nodded in agreement. 

“But first we’re going to work on communications.”  Nayeli hopped off my lap to sit in her own seat for the lesson, though she couldn’t read and usually copied from her neighbors.  I made a mental note to write down that morning’s lecture when I got home, not sure what my reaction was but knowing I wanted to remember it. 

I heard a yell from the other table.  “Hermana!  I can’t find my pencil!  How do you say pencil in English? Does everybody speak English there?  Do you speak fast in English like we do in Castellano?  Can you help me with this?” I stationed myself at that table and the morning lesson began.

Passion is energy.

by Elle Vatterott, IWM serving in San Antonio, Texas.

Oprah Winfrey preaches that “Passion is energy,” and that we should “feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you.”

I would not say that I am not a huge Oprah fan, but I enjoy her impressions on Passion, even more now that I made a point to take time to reflect on my own Passions as a mini Lenten objective.

My own “Passion enthusiasm” began when I started noticing the wonderful progress made by one of the children I tutor, PJ.  As mentioned in a previous blog entry, PJ is a spunky 9 year-old boy with dyslexia that I have the privilege to tutor. Like many other children with Learning Disabilities, his lack of reading progress is the product of his poorly funded public school district. But a lot of things have changed since I last wrote about PJ. In fact he has a new woman in his life, Sister Kathleen. 

Three days every week Sister Kathleen, a retired teacher of nearly 50 years, visits  our  ‘Visitation House’ to read with PJ for an hour after school. It’s a lot of work, especially because he has never been consistently pushed to read. Truthfully, I anticipated PJ thoroughly resisting the whole idea of extra tutoring. However, it appears the loads of encouragement and praise he receives from Visitation House staff is having the desired effect.  PJ’s self-esteem is growing,  largely due to Sister Kathleen’s efforts.

This experience - watching the interactions between Sister Kathleen and PJ - has taught me that a person serves others with the greatest results when they enjoy the task assumed.   It is so admirable to me, that after such an extensive teaching career, Sister Kathleen still has the energy and enthusiasm to take on such a challenging task. She is patient, kind and totally committed to this child. This is her passion.

PJ ends each of his reading sessions with Sister Kathleen with a gigantic smile. (I wish that PJ’s sisters could develop the same joy!)  PJ, for the most part, has never experienced the gratification that comes from excelling in school.  Sister Kathleen’s presence has truly reawakened the child. She has a calming effect on PJ that has significantly decreased his reading anxiety. He now can see he IS capable of educational achievement, and the thirst for more is growing. 

My guess is that this may be a major turning point in PJ’s life. The gift of having a tutor with the patience and skills to guide a child in taking control of a learning disability is invaluable.  Good teachers have the ability to erase a child’s frustration of feeling alone in their difficult journey.  I know because I too had a "Sister Kathleen," who gave me the tools to finally succeed in school. 

It is energizing, inspiring and downright fun to be around passionate people.  I feel blessed for this opportunity to work and live among such passionate women.  It has the power to bring about major change and strengthen our spirits, even when the change we work for cannot always be seen immediately. Being around examples of passion strengthens one's - my - faith.  

Discovering my own passions and incorporating them into a fulfilling career of genuinely helping people is not as simple a process as I would like, but I continue on that journey of discovery. I guess you could say that PJ and I are both being reminded - day in and day out - that nothing really worth having in life is easily obtained! 

Reflecting on Ash Wednesday

by Tara Hurford, IWM serving in Mexico City, Mexico.

Almost three weeks ago, I was blessed to be able to take part in the Ash Wednesday observance here in Santa Fe Colonia.  The morning began with Mass at 9, except this day, it was attended by 200 or more people.  But this was just the beginning. 

Emma and I had decided to invite our Youth Group to join us in our little chapel, Señor de Cañita to distribute ashes.  Actually, to call it a chapel is a bit of a misnomer as it once was a full-sized church.  About fifty years ago, when they widened Vasco de Quiroga (the avenue in front of our house), they destroyed the front of many beautiful old houses, as well as the church – which is well over three hundred years old.  All that is left now is the tabernacle and a colorful life-size statue of a scourged Christ the King, complete with crown of thorns and scepter of sugar cane, of which the entire statue is made.  This little chapel was one of the eight sites around the colonia where people could receive ashes.

 As most of our youth group is in school in the early hours of the day, Father sent a group of ladies from the parish to help out in the morning, as well as Oscar, a man with whom I am working on his reading every Wednesday.  Alexandra, a single mother of three from our youth group, also came over after she dropped her children off at the Guarderia.  As there were several people in the chapel, I decided to make pancakes for the volunteers.  My grandmother, who was like a second mother to me, always used to make pancakes for Mardi Gras, or what she called "Shrove Tuesday," when I was a little girl.  So I decided to continue the tradition (even if a day late!).   Alexandra and I went to pick up a few ingredients and a stereo from the parish so we could have a Taizé CD as background music in the chapel, and then we set to work on the pancakes.  The several people that were there came in to eat in shifts, and when our youth group started to show up, I made another batch.   There were about ten from our youth group in total, and it was great just to spend some time with them talking and laughing, as the people stopped by for their ashes.

By the time 7pm rolled around everyone was getting hungry again, and as the Ash Wednesday fast ends at 1 pm in Santa Fe, we decided to order pizza for the group from a little shop down the road.  Again we ate in shifts.  It was not until then that I distributed ashes, as I thought it better to give our youth group the opportunity.  In Canada, I was used to receiving ashes from the priests thumb, but here in Santa Fe they do things a little bit differently.  Every team received a number of wine corks with a cross cut into one end along with ashes.  These produce perfectly shaped crosses on people’s foreheads (or at least perfectly shaped Xs, if you are not careful!).  However, for the first little while I felt like I was stamping people in an assembly line to be shipped off to their final destination.  I soon found a way to make the process feel more sacramental by putting my other hand on their shoulder or on their head as I gently pressed the wine cork to them and repeated, “Arrepiéntete y cree en el Evangelio.”  After a while of doing this, I went into the kitchen for some water and to see what the rest of our youth group was up to.  To my surprise they were cleaning our kitchen for us and doing the dishes that had been piling up (admittedly for a couple of days)!  Protesting proved useless, as they responded that we had fed them and they wanted to return the favor.  Who knew that admitting you were a sinner and helping others to do the same had such great benefits?

All joking aside, Father estimates that close to 15 thousand received ashes that Wednesday.  Between the hours of 10 am and 8:30pm, we received close to 800 people of all shapes and sizes (and levels of sobriety) in our little chapel alone.  Apparently, this was about twice the number that came the year before.  Emma and I wonder if it was the presence of so many vibrant and joyful youth, but one cannot be sure. We blessed tiny little babies with ashes, saying “Dios te bendiga,” as well as youth,  their parents and the elderly.  Whole families would come, and others would pull over in their cars, hop out to receive ashes and leave as quickly as they came.  We even had the opportunity to visit and give ashes to the house-bound parents of one of our close neighors who runs a convenience store on our little street.   

Reflecting back on it now, I am incredibly touched by this mass acknowledgement of humanity and witness of humility (well,  except for one elderly gentleman, who must be up for canonization, as he kept insisting that he had never sinned!). For me,  someone who is often quite self-critical, it was comforting to share this experience of admitting one´s weakness and knowing I am not alone - not only in my human wretchedness but also in my desire for conversion and change.  

A trip to Kalabo...

by Nicole Tardio, IWM serving in Mongu, Zambia. Here Nicole shares a bit about a recent trip she took to a new part of this mid-east African country.

This past month I had an awesome opportunity to travel to Kalabo, Zambia, which is a village about 50 Km from Mongu. This time of year with the rains the only way to get there is by boat - about a 2-3 hour trip. I traveled with a volunteer nurse from South Africa, 3 people from Mongu who work for the church here, and 2 nursing students from Canada, so we were 7 in total. We all met at the harbor of Mongu at 7 am monday morning to begin our adevnture - by 1 pm the boat was full and we were headed across the plains. It took about 1 hr to reach the Zambezi river then we had another hour winding through the plains on the other side to reach Kalabo.

Monday afternoon we settled into the parish where we were staying. I got to spend some time with a good friend from Mongu who had recently moved to Kalabo. Tuesday morning we were up bright and early to get the day started. I took a walk at sunrise - I was amazed by the beautiful vastness of the surroundings. Kalabo is a village with not one taxi and very few cars, it was just a beautiful calm all around.

That morning we went to the hospital and the clinic in town to find malnourished children to enroll in the feeding program. I learned a ton about what to look for in children, because often a baby's chubby cheeks and round belly can be deceiving. We spent lunch time at the market getting accustomed with the local foods, and figuring out what would be practical suggestions to provide to the families for a balanced diet. We spent the afternoon doing various educational pieces for the caregivers that will be running the program, so that they can in turn teach the mothers when they bring their children in for weekly meetings.  The day was full and productive, and we rested up that night for the full activities of the next day.

Wednesday we ran the feeding program in the morning. We registered 9 babies in the program, gave an education talk on hygiene and milk preparation, and distributed food for the children for that week. Each week the parents will bring the children for weekly weights, education, and to receive the food. The children in the program ranged from 1 year to 8 years old. All were moderately to severely malnourished and can definitely use the additional support. They are admitted to the program until their goal weight is reached and maintained for a time period.  In the afternoon we geared up for home visits. The parents brought their children from the surrounding villages, and a team of three of us set out across the river and into the plains around 1 pm to visit the village of Simbi where two babies admitted to the program lived.

This trip to Simbi was definitely the most exhausting thing I have done so far in my time here in Zambia. We walked through the water at times up to our chests, also through the sand, and across the plains in the afternoon sunshine. It took us three hours to reach the first village, just to find out the other baby still lived about an hour further. The families were so grateful for out visit they gave us gifts of corn and cassava: crops grown by the villages. I was amazed by their generosity, seeing how little they had but their offering it to us without even knowing us. The walk back was equally challenging, but as we passed each person along the way I was reminded that this is a daily reality for many people and I can certainly do this once. We arrived back at the parish around 8pm very tired and wet from our swimming/ hiking adventure to Simbi and beyond. I have not ever fallen asleep as fast as i did that night!! :)

The next morning marked our trip back to Mongu. We got the Kalabo harbor around 9am after making one more stop by the hospital to make a visit. We got the last seats on the boat back to Mongu for that day, arriving back around lunchtime/nap time for me! It was a whirlwind of an adventure blessed with experiences and friends I will never forget.

Because food is always better when shared...

from our IWMs serving in Chimbote, Peru

by: Kelli Nelson
“Gracias a Dios por estos alimentos... Danos energía para ser luz en este mundo… Amen. Desayunamos?” The big hungry eyes on either side of me nodded.  “Okay, then.”  I reached for a piece of bread in the middle of the table and two little arms of my company for breakfast followed.  I held it in my left hand and grabbed my knife with the other to cut it open, they followed.  “Hermana, how are you doing that?” 11 yr. old Jose asked.  “Like this.” I showed.  His brother Jefferson (9) followed with a smile excited to do something he’s never done before.  I then went in for the butter, spreading it thin on both sides of the bread with two sets of curious eyes watching.  When I finished, I set the bread and knife down to find two pieces of bread being handed my direction ready for butter.  “Hermana, please?”  “Sure, do you want a lot or a little… a lot?  Okay.” All three equipped with breakfast, I picked up my bread, they picked up their bread, held it to my mouth, they did the same, and at the same time we took a bite all three looking at each other.  I smiled at them, and they smiled back.
 A regular morning to Centro Amar for English class with Hermana Nancy turned quickly into an intimate moment of sharing food, life, and stories with two young boys from La Balanza, a marginalized neighborhood in Chimbote known for its violence and drug abuse. Jose and Jefferson are in our prevention program for the children of women who have been or are involved in prostitution.  We visit them 2-3 times a week with other children in the same barrio for academic reinforcement and character education. Sister Nancy invited the boys over for lunch at 1pm that day, but they arrived at 9am and couldn’t remember the last time they had eaten.  We set the table, and while Sister Nancy ran some errands, we ate together.

by: Marcelle Keating
I am very thankful for food.  It is a topic I can get a lot of mileage out of in a conversation.  I enjoy cooking, as do most Peruvians.   Peruvians are very proud of their regional dishes and are more than happy to tell you everything that goes into preparing one.  A conversation may start by someone asking what your favorite Peruvian dish is, and from there you may discuss a recipe, where to buy the food in the market or even how to grow it.  It is a wonderful way to share in the culture.   I have gleaned many a new recipe from my Peruvian friends and coworkers and look forward to sharing them with friends and family back home.

Something I noticed early on in my stay here: food is very communal.  If you buy anything as a snack at a local corner store, personal size is not for personal use.  It is considered proper etiquette to offer it to all in your company.  A small personal size soda bottle, Halloween size bag of chips and even an individual serving size of an ice cream bar, all germs aside, is expected to be passed around.  You may only get a taste of your purchase but that is of no great consequence.  Filling your belly is not the objective, sharing is.

The same goes in the work place.  Since I have been working inside hospice, the staff all takes a break mid-morning together. We wait until after the doctor has made the rounds with the patients, then we retreat into the kitchen for a mini-potluck.  Hot tea and sugar, bread, butter, marmalade and sometimes a fried egg is on the menu.  Everyone brings something.  I usually pick up bread for a sol on my way in.  Others may bring the eggs, milk, butter or lunch meat.  All is shared.  It is the essence of what builds relationships.

by: Emily Ruskamp
I never know if I should laugh, be disgusted, or feel accomplished when my economic lessons find their way into my everyday thought processes.  It happens often, not surprising considering the extent to which our community revolves around the exchange of goods.  Three mornings a week I head off walking to Casa LENTCH, an academic and social support program for children who work in the streets of Chimbote.   I have come to enjoy my 20-minute walk as a time to mentally prepare for the chaos of the classroom and soak up the sights, smells, and sounds of the neighborhood. 

One morning a couple blocks before arriving, I encountered two of our boys, brothers, about 13 and 7, buying food at the corner store.  They each bought a small package of crackers and an Inca Kola.  I waited but walked a bit ahead of them, as they walked slowly, probably wanting to finish their breakfast before arriving.  The older of the two opened his crackers and offered me one.  I immediately thought, I can’t eat his breakfast, especially not knowing when he had last eaten.  Still, I smiled, thanked him, accepted the cracker, and took this small act as an opportunity to enter into conversation.  “We came from San Luis,” he said.  I had visited San Luis, a neighborhood on the south side of Nuevo Chimbote, at least a 45-minute trip.  “There probably won’t be many kids here today,” he continued.  “It’s Valentine’s Day-- they’ll all be downtown.”  I hadn’t thought of that, but of course, with so many people out shopping for gifts, they would want to take advantage of the increased business.  I mulled with that as I thought, ah, but you are still here because your utility curves provide that the benefit of studying and eating at LENTCH outweighs the opportunity cost of the money you could be making downtown.  We approached the open gate.  “How good that you are here, though,” I told him, and he nodded.  We entered and casually parted ways. 

As I walked toward my classroom I took note of which students were present, wondering how they decided upon the best way to spend the day, a classic example employed by economics teachers when teaching opportunity cost.  Should a seven-year-old boy spend his summer day doing cartwheels at stoplights for money or learning how to add and playing soccer?  Applied economics in action, but I’m not sure if I should feel accomplished, be disgusted, or cry.