On Friday afternoon all the volunteers left Orosi for their respective teaching sites. All 24 of us were heading to the farthest corners of Costa Rica to check out our sites, drop off supplies, and meet the families that we will be living with for the next year. We would only stay for a day (or less in most cases) and then return to Orosi. This would give us a chance to figure out what else we might need to bring when we return to our sites permanently in two weeks.

My own trip started on an uneventful bus ride from Orosi to Cartago. Another volunteer heading the same direction happened to board the same bus and we probably looked like a couple on our honeymoon with our seventy-pound suitcases. Our bags were not stuffed with tropical print shirts and kitschy souvenirs but teaching supplies, books, and a few other personal effects we planned on leaving at our teaching sites.

We switched buses in Cartago to go to the capital of Costa Rica, San Jose. We were supposed to take a local bus that would drop us on the outskirts of the city and near our hostel for the night. We of course did not pay attention and boarded the direct bus. Thirty minutes later we arrived in the middle of one of San Jose’s less ¨attractive¨ neighborhoods as night fell. After a phone call or two we had the hostels address, hailed a cab, and arrived at the front door of the hostel. It should be noted at this point that most places lack what North Americans would refer to as an address. Most addresses are simply the person’s name, the town, and how many meters their house is from the school, church, or cantina. Sometimes the house color is given for extra clarification. Our hostel address for example was described as being 50 meters east of a well-known restaurant. For the record it was also beige.

San Jose is a central starting point for travel across Costa Rica and about fifteen volunteers congregated for the evening. We ate dinner at a restaurant across the street and like many restaurants in Costa Rica it was complete with a dance floor. This particular venue specialized in hits from the 60’s and 70’s so we gave the Ticos a lesson or two in various forms of antiquated American dance.

The next morning I awoke at 5:30 to catch a cab to another bus terminal. In Costa Rica, the bus system is completely decentralized and switching buses usually means switching bus companies and traveling to completely different parts of any one city. This was very confusing at first but I managed to get myself to the right place at the right time. I left the Tracopa bus terminal around 7:00 am and began the middle leg of my journey to Buenos Aires. For four hours our bus slithered back and forth along mountain ridges so high I saw clouds in the valleys bellow. Once we reached one peak we would descend back down another and start the process all over. I enjoyed taking in the view but soon the sun was beating down on me and I had to pull a curtain to keep from frying in my seat. With nothing to see and a curvy ride my stomach began to turn. It mattered little, however, I quickly passed out and drooled onto my travel vest.

At around 11:30am I arrived at the Flor de la Sabana restaurant just outside of Buenos Aires. I went inside and asked for a phone number for any local cab company. Rather than give me the number the cashier asked me where I wanted to go and then called a cab for me. Three minutes later I was racing at a somewhat uncomfortable speed towards the sandlot that served as the bus terminal for Buenos Aires. Luckily, the bus to Boruca was late and I would be able to catch it rather than wait around for two hours for the next scheduled bus.

While waiting at the bus terminal in Buenos Aires it became clear that I was entering a different world. The air was much hotter than in the central valley and a fine dust hung in the air. The Hispanic faces I had become used to in Orosi were few and far between. I found my gringo self and overstuffed suitcase surround by a large group of people of clearly indigenous descent bringing back a combination of groceries and the things they did not manage to sell in town earlier that day.

After waiting for a few minutes a loud coughing and groaning could be heard around the corner. A mass of people surged forward and while I was not sure what the rush was for I knew that it was imperative that my seventy pounds of dead weight and I stay in front of the mass. Seconds later the bus limped around the corner with the sound of an elephant blowing its nose. It met the crowd of people in the middle of the sandy lot and a few moments of frenzied activity ensued. People crammed themselves in the door two or three at a time with bags of vegetables, bananas, pineapples, and handicrafts. Things were passed from one person to another to speed the process; people shouted rapidly in Spanish arguing over the best way to fit a bulging bag of cucumbers through the door. A random retired gringo (common to Costa Rica but not this region) spotted me and helped me throw my bag into the back seat. He was excited to speak to another English speaker and promptly started a conversation. It didn’t last long however because he noticed some French girls on vacation from college and decided he would rather talk to them. I sat myself down next to a Tico who tried to start a conversation with me. He quickly grew tired of my labored Spanish and instead spent most of the ride inspecting the chicken wire he had sitting on his lap. Later, I would remember this as being exceptionally odd because the chickens in Boruca roam the town’s streets like mobs of bohemian youth eating garbage and signing badly. I have since concluded that the man used the chicken wire for something else than actually creating an enclosed space for chickens.

The bus-ride started by driving past the restaurant I had been dropped at half an hour earlier. Efficiency in bus scheduling is not something for which the Ticos strive. Initially the trip was easy and I began to think that the stories I had heard about this road to Boruca were extremely embellished. As I started to grow comfortable the bus squealed and came to a stop. It then turned into what I initially thought was a pile of dirt but soon realized it was actually the road to Boruca. The bus pitched up as it began to ascend the mountain causing sacks of fruits and boxes of who knows what to slide down the isle straight at me. Once I was securely encased by produce, my suitcase, and the Tico contemplating his chicken wire I began to bounce and sway like a tourist on a Universal Studios movie ride. The bus creaked and rattled over ever bump, rock, and dip. The driver attacked the road like he was driving a Sherman Tank. Of course, he was not actually driving a multi-terrain military vehicle but a 1980’s era school bus. I found it necessary to keep my jaws tightly shut in fear of biting off my tongue on an unexpected jolt.

About this time I noticed that my eyes were beginning to sting. I looked down to shield them and noticed that my black bag and black shirt were now a light brown. The bus was kicking up a plum of dust from the road that it poured in through the open window. I began to notice that the locals all had towels that they would periodically use to wipe their faces, possessions, and seats. Lacking this I put on my sunglass and resigned myself to finishing the bus ride looking somewhat like Pigpen from the Peanuts series.

After an hour and a half of bone rattling while taking in epic mountainscapes through my filmy sunglasses I arrived in Boruca Centro. As far as I could tell, Boruca Centro also included Boruca uptown, downtown, and outlying suburbs all with in a 200 meter radius. Regardless of my exact location I wanted to get off the bus so I quickly dragged my luggage and myself down the bus’ steps. Immediately, the tunes of street roosters butchering Dylan classics greeted me. To my relief, my host mother Jeanette was also waiting at the bus stop.

Jeanette guided me across the street to the house and I entered the place that would be my new home for the next several months. It was a far different arrangement than my home in Orosi. The house was rather spacious but seemed to be a hodge-podge of building materials and construction methods. While unconfirmed, my guess is that as people were born into the family new rooms were added to the house with whatever materials were most easily available. This gave the house a certain Frank Gerry flavor that I started to admire after the initial shock and loathing began to wear off. Most importantly the light switches worked, the toilet flushed and my door closed so I had little to complain about. Additionally, I had to dig the very Latin American decor. Over every bedroom door was either a Virgin or a crucifix and on top of the television sat a picture of Ché.

I tried speaking with the family for a little bit but it was very difficult. The accents in this region are very different from the Central Valley and I had to labor to understand even simple things. Eventually, we hit a communication brick wall. After a few minutes of awkward silence my host father, Oscar, suggested we go on a car ride. We all jumped into the family truck and bounced down the road. This time we took another road down the mountain. It was a major short cut from the road I had arrived on and we were at the bottom of the mountain in less than twenty minutes. I learned that despite its shorter length it was impossible for the busses to climb it and that’s why the public method was so much longer.

We drove down to the much steamier town of Rey Curre and met the eldest son of my host family. He is the high school English teacher in Rey Curre and I was able to get a lot of information from him by conversing in English. Boruca, Rey Curre, and the surrounding area are a historically indigenous region. According to my new host brother, for most of Costa Rican history his population has lived on the outskirts of society and was largely regarded as being separate and non-Costa Rican. I had picked up on this separation when I told my host family in Orosi that I was going to Boruca. They seemed concerned for my comfort but also did not miss the opportunity to tease me about living in a thatch roof hut with blowgun yielding neighbors. (None of which I saw during my short stay.) Apparently, policy shifts in the past 10-15 years have helped open some opportunities to the indigenous community and contact with the outside world has increased. The internet came to Boruca about two years ago and I received the impression that this was a minor revolution in Borucan culture. Despite this new openness, a desire to preserve and pass down elements of the traditional culture remains strong. This is what I gathered from one conversation and I look forward to exploring the local dynamics more in depth over the next year.

For the rest of the afternoon we drove back and forth the Interamericana running errands and meeting locals. After several hours I arrived back in town and sat down to dinner. While I was drinking some fresh squeezed pineapple juice I was startled by a bright flash and deafening boom. I jumped and poured most of my pineapple juice all over my pants. My host mom informed me that it was just fireworks and a few were being set off as part of a closing for a local festival. I was relived to know that it was just fireworks and not the Panamanians invading. I was somewhat less excited about my soaked pants.

It wasn’t long before exhaustion overwhelmed me and I was fast asleep. Periodically, I awoke to the sounds of howling dogs and crooning roosters. It mattered little because I was so exhausted but I made a mental note to bring several sets of earplugs for the future.

The next morning I awoke at 5:45 and was back on the bus down the mountain. It was slow going as many people brought produce to sell. The stops grew longer as people climbed the roof with bulging bags of plantains. My situation improved little on the bus from Buenos Aires to San Jose. It was completely packed and I stood in the aisle for four hours until a seat became available. Other than my aisle surfing the trip back to Orosi was uneventful and long.

Once I arrived I treated myself to some helado and shuffled back to my house. After showering off the fine layer of Borucan earth glued to me with sweat I laid down for a nap. It was a short one, however, because the next day the English camp was starting here in Orosi and I had planning to do for my class.

Click here to read the AP article.
Click here to read the Baltimore Sun article.
Click here to read the Frederick News-Post article.

When a child is born in Namibia they are brought into a world of few opportunities and a future of hardship. One in twelve will die during infancy, about one fourth will be orphaned, few will receive an education pass the elementary level, and at least in the Caprivi Region nearly half will contract HIV/AIDS. The kids at the Children of Zion Village had become a tally mark on the paper chronicling these grim figures and had they not come to the Village they probably would have been written into other columns and rows of statistics.
There is finality to numbers. They are concrete, predictable, and we take comfort in their stability. They order our world. 2 +2 will always equal 4, π will always equal 3.14…, and when the problems people face around the world get quantified to numbers we tend to accept the inevitability of their situation. It’s in the numbers, can’t change them. When some courage is mustered and solutions are explored they seem to take on a mathematical quality as well. Add dollars, subtract despots, add medications, multiply investment, add schools, divide cultural taboos, add hospitals and the numbers will change and problems will be solved. When the numbers do not change or shift in the opposing direction we tend to think of it as an error in mathematics. Apparently, we chose the wrong formula or plugged in the wrong values.
Statistics are revealing but they do not give understanding. Behind every tally mark, decimal, and pie chart is a child. For each figure there is someone who walks, runs, climbs trees, sings songs, skips stones, draws pictures, squishes bugs, laughs, and cries. Until you meet these people and live in their community you will not understand. They will be numbers and words; they will be pixel arrays flickering on a screen or ink smudged photos in the world section; they will be characters in someone else’s story. This does not represent some sort of moral deficiency but simply how people are. Our understanding only goes as deep as our experiences. The great misunderstanding about the poor in Namibia (and the rest of the world) is that we seem them as problems to be fixed and not as people.
The people at the Children of Zion Village, the Minks, the volunteers, and the staff do not look at the kids and see problems to be fixed but see people; we see family. These kids will never receive the love of their parents again but they receive the love of everyone who passes through that village. While the kids receive better living facilities, healthcare, and education than most of the kids on the other side of the fence it is the nurturing through love and faith that separates the Village from other aid programs striving to adjust numbers. Love and faith are the most important things invested in these kids and this type of investment is what will bring solutions to the problems that face the people of Namibia. It is an investment that does not simply keep the kids alive but will give them the opportunity to choose lives. If they choose to be it these kids are the solution not because we simply fed them, clothed them, and taught them but because we loved them and believed in them.
Upon my return, I have had many people express some form of admiration to me for the sacrifices I have made to serve at the Village. I have felt that it is rather unwarranted as I do not feel that I have sacrificed anything. What I gave up here was repaid ten fold while I was at the Village. It was certainly not paid in any material sense but in love and understanding. These things are eternal and treasures that cannot be depleted. If God calls us to sacrifice it is not to demonstrate some token of belief or penance. It is because He understands where true wealth lies and wants us to partake in it.
I thank everyone who has offered their prayers and support over the past couple of months not only for me, but the kids and staff at Children of Zion Village. With out them this opportunity may not have been possible. I know I will cherish the relationships I formed and the experiences I had for the rest of my life. If any one who reads this feels called to lend their support and build a relationship with the people of this unique place I greatly encourage you to pursue that call. Who knows, maybe I will see you there.

I hope people will continue to visit for the next couple of weeks as I post pictures and update people on some of the work I hope to do for the village here at home.

• “Coach, are you giving us the running today?” (Nervousness before a long running practice.)
• “Uncle Kevin, I’m having the blood!” (Someone got a paper cut.)
• “Leave me.” (A common phrase when a child is growing annoyed with one of their peers.)
• “Haaay!” (Usually expressed in a high pitched exasperated tone. Indicates frustration or embarrassment.)
• “My leg is having the pain.” (Shameless attempt to get out of running practice.)
• “My goat is needing the milking.” (You can figure that one out.)
• “I dun’t know.” (A somewhat overused phrase in my opinion.)
• “Whaty, Thaty, etc.” (Many words that end in “T” are then given an additional “Y” on the end.)
• “Me/I” (One child has yet to fully grasp when to use the subjective versus the objective form of the first person personal pronoun. Thus they use both for all situations. Ex: “Me/I would like you to give the pencil to me/I.”)
• “See me?” (Asking to see the picture I just took of them on my camera.)
• “This one!” (Used to refer to another person. A translation of the Lozi word “Bwena” which means you. They use it to call the attention of someone. Apparently, there is nothing impolite with saying, “Hey you!” all the time.)

“The greatest injustice done to our poor is that we fail to trust them, to love them. How often we just push and pull.” -Mother Teresa, Total Surrender

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