Did you think I had forgotten about my rock collection? Some rocks are shiny and pretty. Others have mesmerizing coloring. This particular bit broke off from bedrock. It is a foundation piece and as I pull it out to show it to you I am reminded of who we are and why we are here.

View from my front porch as I thought about these things this morning

“She is completely changed,” were the words of the social worker upon dispensing with the greeting ritual. She watched my daughter climb from one lap to the other happily playing with her new family. Notes and comments were made about everything from Kaitlynn’s countenance to her behavior and disposition and even her skin. Deep changes had taken place quickly. Just shy of two weeks and a formerly familiar face was a welcome, new stranger in this little two-year-old’s home. Kaitlynn could not even recall the name of this woman who she used to be with quite regularly for over a year.  The pleased social worker was sure she wouldn’t need to come back for a second visit after observing for less than half an hour.

Kaitlynn has been affected. She is not the only one changing, though. As she has assumed a new name, begun speaking differently, and adapted to a new way of life we have also been affected. This exchange of change has not been without it’s challenges, yet other things have taken place without deliberation and almost effortlessly. Transference to and fro taking place in our home is a micro-unit displaying what happens on the mission field.

A missionary comes from a different lifestyle. Because the adult is far less adept at change the adaptation is arduous at best. Disciplining the tongue, training the digestive tract, forcing the new rhythms of living to become natural requires intensive dedication. All the while the man, woman or family changes. They are adopted into the country. As they absorb the culture the culture also becomes tainted by their lives. Truths are introduced, forever changing the eternity of the people. The affected in turn becomes effective. This melding, meshing and mixing is a beautiful thing.

The view from the other side just moments after the first picture

Today, I revel in the marvel of the merging our seven lives. I am also grateful that God has placed me in the nation of Bolivia to become affected by the culture. I have been affected to be effective.

If you liked this article you might like:

“Acquainted”

The “Culture Collection” archive

Deliberately. Intentionally. Unequivocally. Quite simply, I am Mama.

Five little ones (well, two are little, two are medium and one is now just an inch shorter than me so she is a big kid) have the privilege of calling me mama. I have discovered, as well, that the benefit is reciprocal because I am honored to be called mama. I did not conceptualize how deeply I treasure this title until I was denied the sweetness by one of my own.

Truth: Kaitlynn lived from one year old to two years old in a home where here dear caregivers were affectionately referred to as Aunt (Tia).

Truth: I am now Kaitlynn’s primary caregiver.

Truth: In her mind, and more importantly her mouth, I am more often than not referred to as Aunt.

Truth: I didn’t think it would bug me, but it has.

Truth: I just gotta deal with it. So I am. With a smile, nonetheless… most of the time.

We are super blessed to have a very verbal child. I know she will get it. I really can’t complain about it. I wasn’t even going to post about it until another odd thing in the name department came up. The first time it happened I thought the other person was just weird. (Forgive me.) Then when it happened a second and third time in very distinct settings I had to chalk it up to just another thing in the Bolivian cultural that shocked my system.

People greet me. They greet my daughter. They do their coo-coo cutie cute noises and then they start to converse with the girl. First question while pointing to me: Who is this? She answers: Mama. (Yeah!) Second question: What is her name? She answers: Mama. (Double yeah!) They respond: No, not mama, what is her name? She answers: Mama. I give the person who wants to “teach” my child the correct answer a funny look and quickly change the topic.

Is this normal? Am I the weird one? Are they doing this because I am not her birth mother so they want her to call me by my given name? Is this a practice that they do with Bolivian mothers who have Bolivian 2 year olds? Help me out here!

Personally, I cannot see myself expecting a 2 year old child to know the names of their mom and dad. As a side note, they don’t do this with DaRonn when he is holding her and talking with others. Then, the fact that she has been in our home for less than a week, added to the annoying title of Aunt that she calls me most times I feel like I want to walk around with a sticker proudly plastered to my chest in Spanish that says: Hi, My Name is Mama. That might be taking it a bit too far, though, eh? That might border on the offensive just a tad, right?

So, I should probably hide the treacherous Sharpie marker, bite my lip and force a grin. Patience, lady, patience.

In other name news we were sooooooo happy to hear her telling people at church yesterday that her name is Kaitlynn. Bless her! She is working really hard. I am so very proud of her.

Signed:

Have you seen the carpenters pants replete with loops, pockets and crannies for all sort of tools? Those are the pants I am wearing today. All the crevices are filled with my stone collection; my culture stone collection that is. Today I am pulling out a rough rock that has many cracks and forced holes full of dirt and dust. It was picked up from a construction site. Allow me to tell you about it.

Crowded streets lined with shops, vendors, wares, and shoppers with their bags stretching over blocks as far as the eye can see in any direction is what would surround you if someone plopped you down in the middle of the ‘Cancha’. Cochabamba boasts of having the largest open market in all of South America. Cancha means field. Conservatively it is the equivalent of 12 city blocks by 12 city blocks squared. That is 576 blocks (when you count all four sides of the 144) at least of pure market. The scents are distinct as you move through the layout. Spralling blocks of tomatoes, potatoes, bananas, peaches, apples, onions, oranges, all fresh, all rotting, toppling and orderly, juices, bins and tarps. Merge now to the tiny restaurants where grease crackles filling your nostrils with too much meaty fried smell.  After passing by the dozens and dozens of eating places you come upon the housewares district. Repeating content over and over you walk and walk. So on and so forth with all kinds of goods, clothes, linens, spices, bicycles, trinkets, yarn and on and on.

If you want to buy a tool you ask someone where to get it. They tell you the Cancha. Then comes the meticulous explanation of just where that tool can be found. You maneuver your way through and find the sector of tools. Every shop looks the same. A fraction of a difference in price. Already the greater part of an hour has been spent searching, asking, looking, comparing. Finally you find one item on your list. Hopefully the rest are close by, even though you haven’t seen them yet. More walking. More traipsing. More hunting. More shoving. More crowding.

At the end of the list your hands are sore from grasping the plastic bag handles with sweating hands. Your feet are worn and you don’t want to even begin to guess what manner of goo you have stepped in. Your mind is overloaded from stimuli supreme.

This is what it requires for you to gather the items needed for maintenance. Rarely are the items expensive. If you contract someone to fix or make something then you understand why it takes them a day and a half to just get all the stuff they need together before they can even start the simplest job.

This tedium might explain why many times materials and tools are invented on the spot with scraps of things they have on hand. Why go buy a rake when this dried branch works fine? Why try to keep street cleaning vehicles in good working order when these bent ladies can use a bundle of straw instead?

This also might explain why daily the dumpsters are dug through for usable items. More than once I have been scolded for throwing out perfectly good broken toys, shoes with holes and (horror of horrors) disposable cups, flatware, and all manner of jars, butter tubs, carry out containers, etc. Everything can be reused. It is good for the environment, if nothing else.

Big machines, proper tools and quality materials can be attained. The price will be higher. The chance that you can find someone who knows how to use it properly is slim in comparison. The fact that you will have to oversee the project to prevent misuse and theft is just something you are going to have to accept. The hardest part with insisting on durability over the cheapest option is the mindset that it seems wasteful and foreign, thus rejected at every step.

Just think, buildings are made completely of: bricks and mortar covered in concrete. Not just the basement or foundation, but the whole complex no matter how many floors there are. People from North America are fascinated to stare at a construction site because of how rare it looks to them.

I could go on and on. Better to show you two very specific examples of around our property here.

Eight years ago we packed 13 Rubbermaid bins with our stuff to make the transcontinental move to Bolivia. Since we first unpacked our things these bins have been used as: end tables, seats, kids bathtubs, moving boxes more than once, storage units and now mainly as laundry baskets. Even the lids are used as serving platters for big events. My helper took it upon herself to repair the much abused tubs. You can see her handiwork in the images.

We added a concrete soccer / basketball court to the property. Between the square slabs the workers poured black tar. As you can see, they made a little fire place with stones. The grate for the tar cup are two old pieces of iron bar. The cup itself is an old tin can. It’s handle an old piece of wire twisted and wrapped around about.

The finished project looks great. I am impressed.

Here are some gloves I saw on the work site one evening. To the right of them are some unmentionables, to the left of them is a bundle of empty bags of concrete mix ready to be reused for another project of another sort.

I find these elements of culture intriguing. Hope you do, too.

My pockets bulge with a odd collection of stones. Some are tiny and smooth. Others are bulky and awkward. I have made a point of collecting bits and pieces of the Bolivian culture. They are tucked away in my life. Every once in a while I pull one out for display.

Today the piece I have chosen is hopping around on my hand like a hot potato. It is singeing my finger tips and fills our nostrils with sulfuric smoke. Though it burns it must stay in the collection. It is the devil himself.

Oh, I know this is a touchy subject. I know the deep darkness is not a pleasant conversation starter. How can I avoid talking about it? The idea of the devil, and dare I say it, the devil himself, plays a role in our daily reality.

Potosi is a city on the mountains of Bolivia. It claims the highest altitude in the world at 4,100 meters (13,451 feet). I have been there, more than once. It used to be filthy rich. Now it’s depressing poverty and lack of green vegetation just give it the look of filth. The silver mines were stripped bare after the conquistadors raped and pillaged the land. All that is left is some meager spelunking tours and an ominous statue of the Devil’s Uncle in every cave. Residents visit the caves regularly to sprinkle on the statues coca leaves, cigarettes and other items to pay homage to this image. His endearing nickname is Tio. His visage takes many forms and is proudly displayed throughout the shrunken city. A friend of ours was staying in the hotel room next to ours. In the morning he told us, “I slept under the Devil’s Uncle last night!” His blanket had a huge Tio face on it. We preached the gospel in that place.

The Bolivian ownership of the devil does not stop there. A recent dispute caused by the actions of a Peruvian pageant contestant has had leaders claiming that the ‘Devil Dance’ belongs to Bolivia alone. It’s name in Spanish is ‘Diablada’. The dance, which interprets the fight between good (the arc angel) and evil (the seven deadly sins), has colorful and dramatic costumes. The steps involve wild flailing of the arms and jumping around. The whole dance leaves a deep impression on the onlookers when done properly. This was the intention of the Jesuit choreographers desiring to send a clear message to the tribal people of the land that would one day become the Peru, Bolivia and Chile we know today.

One lady said to me once, “I am a Christian. I am not Catholic. Though, I do think that is important that we observe cultural traditions so that our children can proudly carry on the Bolivian culture to the next generation.” She said this to explain why she practices the first Friday of the month ritual called the Q’owa during which elements are burned so as to fill the house or establishment with a smoke of blessing. Oftentimes the elements include coca leaves, tiny sugar statues and even dried animal fetus.

Are these traditions harmless? Does custom turn meaningless? Is there real danger to my faith in the observance of these rituals from a purely cultural standpoint?

Maybe. Maybe not.

If I could delve a bit deeper I might ask a more personal question. Are there ‘good’ traditions I maintain that have become void of power because of my attitude accompanying their practice? When I pray? When I sing? When I attend a church service?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Is there harm in continuing on for the sole intention of maintaining Christian tradition alive?

I would love to hear your thoughts or response to any of the material presented here. Feel free to leave a comment below. For further reading I have taken some of my information from three articles that can be accessed online by clicking these links:

Peru, Bolivia Lock Horns over Devil Dance, MSNBC

Diablada, Wikipedia

Bolivia Cultura

These are some household products that we use here in the Washington house in Cochabamba, Bolivia. Click the image for a closer look and a witty little description (well, not all of them are witty, but some are).

My Culture Collection is like a pocket full of interesting pebbles found along the way. Geology is part of the reason we are in Bolivia now, but that is a story for another time. In a geology class scientific terms for specific rocks are taught. A familiar one would be fossil. A not so familiar one would be diluvium: accumulations of gravel and loose materials. Interesting, right? My point is that names are extremely important, even when it comes to rocks.

Timid introductions when we had first arrived in Bolivia were usually followed by a confusing question: what is your other last name? At first I thought it was odd because I assumed that they were asking about my maiden name or my middle name. Why would that matter? Until I learned that Bolivians have two last names, and that is just the way it is. On all legal documents there is a blank for the last name given to you from your father and the last name given to you from your mother, and that is just the way it is.

When I would tediously explain that when we were married I took the last name of my husband and legally had all my documents show my new last name I was frequently met by retorts of disgust. Most people considered it rude on my behalf to denounce my ties to the people who had raised me and appalling that I  would disown the heritage that tied me to centuries past. I was informed that I was ungrateful.

For my Bolivian born son to have dual citizenship he first had to have a Bolivian birth certificate and then he could register for one from the States. In the registrar office we had two options: a. my son has only one legal parent (me) thereby having a solitary last name or b. my son has two legal parents thus two last names. We chose the latter. My son’s Bolivian name is: Tyler Cole Washington Washington. I may be disdained for my singular last name but I am praised for having a son with a duplicitous last name, because that is just the way it is.

A famous Bolivian artist has created vibrant paintings reminiscent of the ancient times when earth and creation were worshiped. He captures the life of the nation with his marvelous images. His name is Mamani Mamani. His parents just so happened share a similar last name and they decided to don their son with the matching names. Sometimes children will have different last names to honor all sets of the families. So a girl could by Maria Eugenia Santos Saurez and her blood brother with the same parents could be David Miguel Flores Torres. The parents decide, and it is just the way it is.

(Image show is “Luz de Illimani” by: Mamani Mamani)

My culture collection is like a pocket full of interesting stones I have picked up along the way going about my life in Bolivia. The stone I want to show you today is as a bedrock for the people of this country.

The daily siesta is ingrained in the existence of every Bolivian man, woman and child. If I say “normal office hours” to a person with a Western mindset immediately Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 song starts playing in their head. Here the office hours are: 9-12 and 2:30ish or 3 – 5. Do the math; that is roughly five hours a day making for a 25 hour a work week. There are some businesses that have longer hours, but they are the exception, not the rule. The middle of the day is called the siesta (translated: middle of the day rest time or nap). Most people use public transportation which naturally makes getting from here to there take longer than those that move about by taxi or in their own cars. So part of the siesta is dedicated to transportation. The rest of the time is for sitting down with family and close friends to eat the biggest meal of the day, usually three courses and a dessert.

Sunday afternoons carry a separate sacredness. Every commercial locale has shortened hours or doesn’t even open at all. There are hardly any cars on the roads after two. The people rest. It took us a solid year to become accustomed to this switch. Instead of thinking that I could get some quick errands done before the hustle and bustle of the week started I had to retrain my brain and tell myself that whatever it was could wait. It really revealed to me how consumer minded I was. Now that we are approaching the seven year mark I wouldn’t dream of doing anything outside the home on Sunday afternoons. When foreign visitors come they want to make the most of their every minute (and rightly so). When they ask us to do something Sunday afternoons it is the most exhausting day of the trip. I am thrilled spend time with them; it is just that I have gotten very used to unplugging on Sunday afternoons.

I was talking with a missionary friend here recently and she said, “Aren’t Sunday afternoon naps the best?” Yes, they are. Then today I read a blog by someone that has the mindset that Sunday afternoons are made for wandering. I like that idea. Yesterday as I was lounging on my bed I realized this forced rest that I have come to love has saturated me. It is a good thing.

What do your Sunday afternoons look like?

In my pocket I have a stone collection from my journey. Each rock is a bit of the culture that I have attained. Some of these bits have been searched out with great care and paid for at a high price. Others I have stumbled upon and have surprised me with their beauty. The one I am going to show to you today was tossed at me with a carefree holler of, “Think fast!” Good thing I had my wits about me to catch it before it flew right over my head.

The list glared at me. Talking on the phone is ranked right up there with shopping on my list of things to avoid at all costs. I’ll do it if I have to and this was an obligation I couldn’t delegate. I had decided to do a tea at my house for the gals wanting to help with womens ministry. I had planned to make cheesecake. It was going to be so fun.

But I had to call to let them know about the meeting. It was the day before the tea. I trudged down the list. Everyone was called and I breathed a sigh of relief. I wondered how many would come.

The next evening as I set the teapot on the table there was a knock. On time? I could hardly believe it. Only two were not able to come, but they had told me that on the phone. Everyone else showed up! So why was this time different? In the past only a few would come. The only difference I could tell was that the time lapse between the calls and the actual event. In the past I would make the calls with one to two weeks of anticipation. And this time with only a day. Ah ha! That was it! They only had a day to not forget about the tea! The key was the urgency.

Bolivian people operate well under the pressure of the urgency of the moment. Countless times I have received a call from the people in the office on the first floor under our home telling me that there is someone downstairs who wants to see me. Unless they are friends of mine I tell the receptionist to please make an appointment. The appointment is made but rarely kept by the individual. Spontaneity is often transmitted as urgency when in all truth the matter could wait until I am finished with what I have going on already. The promised meeting length of “two little minutes” usually turns into about 45 minutes of talking.

At times I can use this tendency towards urgency to my advantage. But most of the time I try not to get sucked into the anxiety of tending to every perceived emergency presented.

(You can type ‘culture collection’ in the yellow search box on the nagivation bar of my blog to read other posts about the Bolivian culture.)

One by one the stones have been carefully selected and pulled out of my pocket so that you can enjoy the look and feel of the tiny little bits of the culture I live in. For the stones that have been displayed already you can read my past “Culture Collection” posts. The stone that I am going to show you today is not the shiniest. It is not the one I am most proud of. Actually, this dirty rock was shoved into my pocket unsuspectingly. Still, it deserves to be shown because it is something I see every day.

We have a saying, “Just Another Day in Bolivia”. It sounds pleasant and sweet but it is code. There is a habit that some Bolivians have that require signs like these:

translation: urinating prohibited

And, as we found necessary due to the ‘going native’ behavior of one of the members of a group that came to work with us in the pueblo outside of town, there is the occasional sign posted in English here in Bolivia:

Don't Pee!! Here

When you are walking down the street or taking a leisurely (not!) ride in a taxi you will probably see someone relieving themselves in public; if you are lucky they will wave at you as you go by. We signal this to each other by saying, “Just Another Day in Bolivia.” Men, women and children alike. Number one is simple, number two gets a bit more tricky. The courteous ones bring a plastic bag and tie up their package and then toss it up on the nearest roof. One time a couple from the United States was at our house and they were looking out the kitchen window at the roof of the market below. The wife asked, “What is in all those plastic bags on the roof.” I try not to notice as I am washing my dishes.

It might have been that my dear family sensed the calling I had to minister in this nation at a very young age. They even documented my early missionary training on a road trip:

Yes, that is me

Well, it was some kind of training at least.

For those of you who have been following this thread my dear husband suggested that “Just Another Day in Bolivia” be the title for the list posts about bits of my life. Do you think I should give him veto power?

Arriving fashionably late is the Bolivian lady’s permanent accessory draped haphazardly across heaving shoulders as she enters rushed, appearing as though it was simply unavoidable. The charming smile and friendly kiss on the cheek is penance enough to pardon any tardiness. Be it a tea, a party or a wedding, unimportant is the nature of the event, inevitably there are some that will show up late. Punctuality is simply defined as presence. Though they dwindle in upon commencement you can be assured that the departure is a corporate event. Not five minutes will separate the moment when the first woman rises to take her leave until you have kissed the final fair maiden farewell.