Soy Viajero. Deme Aventura.

Up to Date!

2008-11-03T09:15:00.001-05:00

Alright, I suppose it’s time to bring you all up to date on the happenings down here in the tropics.

First and foremost, I should mention that Bogota certainly doesn’t feel as though it lies within the tropics. October and November are unofficial “rainy season” here (the closest thing we get to a season of any type). As I type this, my neighborhood is recovering from a rainstorm that took place earlier today, the intensity of which goes unparalleled to anything I’ve ever seen before.

Secondly, since my 2 week, mid-year holiday in Peru, things have changed a bit at the ol’ Luz y Vida. After the whole Colombianita fiasco, there was a huge vacancy both at the school and at the kindergarten also run by the ministry. We were down to 3 children, and twice as many staff. Not that I’m complaining. Those were some of the most peaceful days I’ve seen in that building.

However, it was obvious that something needed to be done. The ministry threw about possibilities of working with new neighborhoods, a process of trust-building with the residents that can take months. The prospect of spending several months without children in the school was not an attractive one, but fortunately, neither was it one we would have to face.

Within a matter of weeks, we had completely repopulated the school with new children. I say we did it, but what I really mean is that the school was populated. We actually had very little to do with any of it. They seemed to find us.

Many of the kiddos hail from a neighborhood ironically named Paraiso, or “Paradise”. This was a squatter settlement up in the mountains that, by way of the squatter’s laws here in Bogota, was legitimized some years back. They now have streets, water, and electricity, but for all accounts and purposes, they still live in essentially the same economic situation as before. Therefore, they have the very same “problems” as children would who were living in a non-legitimized squatter settlement such as Colombianita.

Some other kids come from my neighborhood, Santa Fe, (For those of you who are curious, that translates as “Holy Faith”) and some are from various other parts of the city. All told, there are about 16 kids… when they all show up, that is.

This new population is markedly different from the last one. Whereas the Colombianita kids were mostly younger girls, the students we have now are primarily older boys. With the change in demographic comes a change in the way they are dealt with. Gone are the days of affectionate smiles and hugs and kisses on the cheek. With these boys, you are doing well to convince them not to hate you. They certainly present a different set of challenges. Whereas before, the focus was on overcoming learning disabilities and lack of proper education, we now spend most of our time and energy dealing with behavioral issues. Many of the children are strikingly violent and the phrase “swift to become angry” would be a gross understatement.

That is not to say, however, that there are no benefits or blessings. Many of the students, and particularly the older ones are extremely bright, and teaching them new concepts is any teacher’s dream come true. The visible results of your efforts are instantaneous. Also, if the old trade-off of affection is no longer the norm, it has been replaced with the far more difficult, and yet rewarding trade-off of respect and admiration.

Everyone who works with children knows the gratification that comes with a hug. The child sees you as someone loving and safe, but few know the joy of having one of your oldest, most hardened students- a student who, at the age of 12 is already the primary breadwinner of his fatherless household, a child who has stabbed one of his classmates and threatens to do worse, a student who lives and thrives on the streets of one of the most dangerous neighborhoods of one of the most dangerous cities of one of the most dangerous countries in the world- when that student stays after school just to talk to you, to invite you to his house to watch movies, that child sees you not as just a loving person, but a father figure. The powerful emotions and responsibilities that come with this type of relationship scare me, to be perfectly honest, and dealing with these in the States is something I am not particularly looking forward to. But, that is precisely what I am here for.

Things have also changed a bit at home. Most notably, we have two new additions to the Torre Fuerte. For those of you who read Adrienne’s blog, you should already be somewhat familiar with Jorgito. For those of you who aren’t, Jorge is a 3-year-old little boy with perpetually rosy cheeks, unruly curly hair and a tragic/comic tendency towards self-injury. For the time being, Jorge’s mother has decided that she cannot take care of him, and so he has come to live with us. However, due to our impending departure, and the concern that little Jorge needs some consistency, neither Ryan nor I are the primary caretakers. Enter Rebecca, a volunteer from New Mexico who has accepted the challenge of looking after the little guy. This means a whole new set of responsibilities for me, but I thoroughly enjoy their company.

Possibly the greatest change in my life, however, has been the unusual spike in the good-friends-Tyler-has-in-Bogota chart. Allow me to explain.

Wesley McKain has once again graced this longing continent with his presence, for which I am eternally grateful, but this time he is not alone. A few months ago, I received an email from an old friend I had met while living in Costa Rica. He had been living in Bolivia, working with the Mennonite Central Committee, and had recently accepted a transfer to where else but Bogota, Colombia. Upon hearing this most serendipitous news, I inquired as to which of the million neighborhoods he would be working in once he arrived, wanting to begin making transportation arrangements as soon as possible. As it turns out, those arrangements would never be made. Of all of the thousands of churches in this city, Steve would be working at my church, right down the road from my house, and literally 1 block from my school.

As if all of this weren’t fortunate enough, both Wes and Steve needed a roommate to split the rent with. Having never actually met each other in person, I vouched for both parties, and before I knew it, I had partially inherited a ninth-story apartment as my second home. Living with those two, augmented by the occasional visit from Ryan and Luke, feels strikingly similar to my days in the Old Oak Apartments at Olivet… just in Spanish.

Finally, for those of you who are interested, my time here is on the wane. I decided long ago to wrap things up at the end of this school year (the school year is reversed here, and class ends in December). With that in mind, I purchased my ticket home for December the 15th. Needless to say, I will miss this place and the people I’ve met here very, very, very much, but the prospect of spending Christmas with my family is at times overwhelmingly pleasant.

Well, I should be able to get one more of these post-things in here before I leave, at the rate I’m going. So, until next time,

Tyler

Peruuuuuu!!!

2008-09-09T18:48:00.003-05:00

Lately, I haven’t truly deserved the title “viajero” unless you count the simple fact of being outside of the United States. The rest of the world would not accept this criterion, and neither do I. In fact, I was getting a bit of “the itch” come summer time, and there were certainly days during which it felt as if my next adventure couldn’t come soon enough.

This adventure did in fact come, and it came in the form of pure, unmitigated tourism. Now, this is something I haven’t done in a while. I am always working, visiting someone, translating, or playing tour guide, but in this instance, it was sight-seeing plain and simple.

Last May, a very good friend of mine Ms. Laura Broyles, graduated from the University of North Texas, and as is customary in the Broyles household, she was offered a trip to Europe. After several attempts to plan said trip, she finally decided to redeem her free trip in another location. She had studied pre-Colombian art in college, and thought it would be nice to go see some of the Incan and pre-Incan sights in Peru. I could not have agreed more. So, around the end of June, I once again packed my bags and headed for Lima, to meet up with a friend I had not seen in some time.

As the Spanish-speaker, it was my job to organize the trip and make the bookings, etc. Not to spoil the ending or anything, but planning for a trip in a third-world country is sort of like planning to win the lottery…in every state…simultaneously.

Note- if you would like to follow along with pictures, they can be found here: http://flickr.com/photos/7139276@N03/
Just go to the last page, and work backwards.

We arrived in Lima, where we spent the night in a really bizarre hotel with tons of dark, religious iconography. Our first day, we visited the ruins of Pachacamac, waded into the Pacific ocean (a big deal for both of us), and explored the catacombs of one of Lima’s oldest churches. The next day, we boarded a rickety old bus on its way to Huaraz.

It was only a 9 hour bus ride, but by the time we had arrived, I had a fever, and my wallet was gone. Not the best start to the trip, but in the morning, I felt back to my old self, and things with the wallet were more or less worked out. We took a scenic trip past snow-capped mountains and 4,000-meter-high lakes to Chavin de Huantar, one of the oldest ruins on the continent. Here, the priests built an elaborate system of underground mazes for disorienting any visitors. These labyrinthine passageways, combined with the darkness, smoke, and hallucinogenic substances that the residents were forced to take before entering, would conjure a sense of otherworldly mystery surrounding the cult activities. Laura and I refrained from the drugs, but the temple was pretty impressive, nonetheless.

Then, it was on to Trujillo, a quaint little colonial town near the coast. There, we hit up the Huacas de La Luna y Sol, which belonged to the extremely violent Moche people. Archeologists worked all around us as we admired the elaborate murals (usually depicting horrific acts). We also visited Chan Chan, the largest adobe structure in the World. The only had about a 10th of it open to the public, but even that was enough to occupy us for several hours.

We proceeded even farther north, ever more off the beaten path, to the town of Chachapoyas, famous for very little other than the massive ruins of Kuelap nearby. We left at 5 the next morning in a tiny van headed to Kuelap with a handful of other tourists, winding up and around countless mountains, admiring Peru’s beautiful landscape. The ruins were built on the summit of a mountain, with a steep cliff face on one side, and a tall, hallway-like opening, only wide enough for one or two people to enter the city at a time. The sheer size alone was impressive, and the view only added to the breathtaking-ness of it all.

The next day, we were packed and ready to leave, when our hotel clerk informed us that the highway was closed from 6am until 6pm. This is precisely where our master-plan delineated, and consequently, never recovered. We decided to make the best of the free day, by trekking to the third tallest waterfall in the world, Gocta. As a note to all you fellow travelers out there, when travelling from sea-level to 12,000 feet, allow time to acclimate before making a 7-hour trek through the mountains. We survived, but not happily.

We took a 22-hour bus to Lima, and crashed in a hotel. Taking it easy seemed like a good idea, and it was the Fourth of July, so we celebrated by venturing into the super-touristy parts of town, eating something other than Peruvian food (Chinese) and catching a movie.

The next morning, we began our second half of the trip, into the southern parts of Peru. Our first stop was Huacachina; literally, a desert oasis. We rode a dune buggy into the surrounding dunes, and attempted to board down the massive slopes of shifting sand. It’s a lot like snowboarding, for those of you who are curious, but the sand does not melt in your mouth. In fact, it does somewhat the opposite. For anyone interested in traveling to Peru, this is a must. I cannot remember having that much fun. Ever.

We took a quick bus to Nazca, where we had scheduled a flight over the famous Nazca lines (Google it). Through some pretty shady dealings, we fell victim to a classic tourist trap, and ended up paying way more than we ought to have, but we counted it as a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing, and went ahead with the flight anyway. Plus, we wanted to get back on the road and make up for some lost time, so waiting until the next day was out of the question.

Next stop, Arequipa. Thinking that this would only be a one-day stop, we visited the important museums, the famous city monastery, and the town square. We ate a traditional Peruvian meal of fried guinea pig and alpaca (llama) steaks, and planned for the next day’s travels. These plans, however, would not come to fruition.

Unbeknownst to me, the following two days were slated as ‘paro’ or ‘strike’ days in the calendars of everyone in the entire country. Now, I have seen Colombian demonstrations, and as powerful and sometimes frightening as they are, they are nothing compared to what was about to take place. The whole country shut down. Massive boulders and fire-walls blocked every road and highway. People took to the streets in droves, carrying signs, rocks and sticks. Any business that dared to open its doors was promptly ransacked.

We were stuck. There were no buses to anywhere, and flights out filled up within seconds. Fortunately for us however, some outdoor sporting companies were able to continue as normal, so we spent the next two days mountain biking and white-water rafting. All in all, it was quite fun, but we were way off schedule, and a sacrifice needed to be made. We had reservations to visit Machu Picchu that needed to be confirmed in person on the 10th, and there seemed to be no feasible way to get there by that time. We checked at the bus terminal one last time, just to be sure, and miraculously, there was a bus leaving for Cuzco that night. We immediately bought the tickets and ran back to grab our things.

We had to bypass Puno and Lake Titicaca, which is regrettable, but we had no choice.

Arriving in Cuzco, we took a taxi to nearby Ollantaytambo (say that one three times fast) and settled down. We had made it, and everything was going to be fine. Our celebratory mood, however, dampened a bit when Laura fell ill. We visited a small Inca site, and rested for the remainder of the evening.

We saved the very best for last. The following morning, we entered into the granddaddy of all pre-historic sites on the American Continents; Machu Picchu. This will sound obvious to many of you, but it was absolutely enormous. It took us 5 hours to explore, and I am certain we did not see everything there was to see. Words cannot describe the majesty of that place. I was in absolute awe.

We concluded our trip by gallivanting about Cuzco, buying a few last minute gifts, and flying on to Lima, and then Bogota (Quick fact: We spent a grand total of 89 hours on buses, and no, that was no a typo). Laura spent a week in Colombia with me, seeing the sights and familiarizing herself with my life here in South America.

All in all, I had a great time. I think my wanderlust has been satiated for another little while, so I’ve been able to focus more on my work here in Bogota, but we’ll discuss more of that next time.

Hasta la proxima,
Tyler

Colombianita

2008-08-24T19:07:00.004-05:00

As promised, I will now proceed to give an account of the loss of the Colombianita kids, according to my point of view. I will not, however, claim any sort of objective authority for my statements. I am greatly uninformed much of the time, and heavily biased the rest.

From the moment we arrived in Colombia, it was made known to us that the Bogota municipal government was threatening to destroy the long, narrow city block of hovels known as “Colombianita”. At that time, this threat seemed far from immanent. As is somewhat customary in Latin American politics, the government issued a statement of intent with no visible signs of immediate, or even eventual, follow-through. Tentative dates for the destruction were consistently pushed back 4 month intervals, until no one really believed that anything would be done at all. This was, at least, my perspective until I was called upon to translate for a gentleman named Julian who had been with the ministry for some years.

After his lecture, I sat down with him over lunch, and began to share my skepticism concerning the issue when he interrupted me by saying, “Oh, it will be destroyed, be sure of that.” I enquired as to the sources of his confidence regarding the government’s ability to complete its promises. He proceeded to tell me the story of an infamous barrio ten times the size of Colombianita, called The Cartucha.

According to Julian, this is where the ministry really began its work. It was an enormous urban labyrinth of poverty and wretchedness that spanned several city blocks in the heart of downtown. Upon hearing its exact location, I confirmed that I knew the area, mentioning its proximity to an equally enormous, treeless park on First Avenue. “That park used to be the Cartucha.” He responded solemnly. My mind reeled with the thought. I had heard countless stories, seen photos…I even knew many of the children who were rescued from that area. Its new name is Parque Tercer Milenio, a well-groomed hectare of grassy hills and winding pathways, a harrowing monument to the government’s ability to eliminate anything it deems an eyesore.

It was not long after this blow to my optimism that we received the news. The government had issued another warning, but this one came attached to a work order. I am unclear as to all of the details, but it seems that, even though the residents of Colombianita were illegally squatting, the government offered to build them houses in the southern part of Bogota, an offer they accepted as recompense for the destruction of their current homes. While this seems to be an unusually altruistic gesture on behalf of the government, there were many factors involved, and a large chance that many of the families would, in fact, be worse off in the neighborhoods in the South.

When that time came, I would be mentally prepared for the move. I made plans to spend every free minute of the day in the neighborhoods where they were moving. I would rent a building to house an after school program, I would start my own school, I would stay as long as it takes, I would move down there, I would do anything. I was absolutely committed to making sure that these children had everything they needed. I thought long and hard about leaving the ministry, and staying with the kids for an indeterminate amount of time. I had found my purpose for living for at least the next several years. Meanwhile, I was enjoying my last few weeks with the kids as their teacher at Luz y Vida.

The move was scheduled for the end of May. May 30th came and went, and my kids were still here. My hopes were buoyed by the thought that this might be another empty threat, but there was to be no such luck. Early in June, the dump trucks arrived, ushering in the beginning of the end. Asking the children about their new homes, I was informed that the government was not going to be giving any homes, after all. They were receiving only a small government stipend. Frantically, I made phone calls and emergency visits to anyone who might have information concerning the future of these families. I found out that the government had grown tired of waiting for the houses to be completed, and that the atmosphere around Colombianita had grown violent in recent days. I went immediately to an internet café to find the telephone numbers of every newspaper in Bogota. If the government wanted to clean up the streets, I wanted everyone to know at what cost. I prepared a statement in Spanish describing what was happening, when, where etc., and read it to anyone who would answer the phone.

The next few days, Colombianita was slowly dismantled, and family by family, our kids moved away. Everything was falling apart. No newspapers covered the event, no answers were given as to the future location of any of the kids, and my great and virtuous plans for purpose were crumbling before me. I was heartbroken. Concerned parties with only the best intentions tried to offer me advice; they told me that there were thousands of children in Bogota who needed my help, that I had planted a seed in their lives, and that someday they will remember what I taught them and how it will help. They told me it was in God’s hands now, but none of that seemed to help. The truth is, my life is essentially relational, and abstract ideals like poverty and theology -while still appreciated- will always be overcome by the people that embody them.

A few months have passed, and I still have no idea where any of my children are. I doubt I ever will, but circumstances have forced me to move on. New kids are arriving (literally) every day, and, true to the given advice, they need Luz y Vida as much as every child who has passed through these doors. This fact, however, will never negate the love I had for my kids: Willie, Natalya, Angie, Didier, Andres, Karen, Jessica and Dayana.

Tyler

La vida no pare...

2008-08-15T21:17:00.001-05:00

So, in an attempt to catch you guys up on the happenings here in Colombia, I offer up a post with no discernable rhyme or reason. These are a few of my memories from the fast few months.

The Mercy School
Every year, around springtime, when the birds begin to sing, and the flowers bloom, Formando Vidas mercilessly imprisons several international students within the confines of the Administration building. It does so under the pretense of hosting a special school that deals exclusively with Children at Risk. Hours of lectures, impossible homework assignments, and nightmarish practicums, and some people actually PAY for this. Weird, I know.
Actually, the Escuela de Misericordia (say it out loud, and you will understand why we sometimes call it the “misery school”) is really a good experience for the people that attend. Many of them stay on to help long after the classes end, and you get the chance to meet the most interesting people. I was (somehow) added to the list of official translators, so I was afforded the chance to learn from the speakers as well…in two languages.
For the month of Practicum that follows the class sessions, the illustrious Skip Bachman moved into one of our spare rooms, and became a temporary third roommate. Ol’ Skipper is a real cool dude who is starting his own street kids ministry in Cochabamba, Bolivia…a task not to be taken lightly. You can check his progress here:
http://skipbachman.wordpress.com/

Gerhart and Rosemary
So, every Sunday, I attend this quaint little Mennonite Church in my neighborhood. I quite like it. The Mennonites are known for being very active in the so called “social issues” of justice, poverty, and most of all, peace. This emphasis is made all the more intense by the very fact of being a Colombian church. (Remember, folks, there is still a civil war going on here.) But besides doctrinal issues, I also appreciate the simple, non-extravagant services, and the relatively small congregation. There are only so many people there, and one would find it quite easy to get to know them all, creating a wonderful “church-family” atmosphere.
One could…but that doesn’t mean I always do. Actually, I generally find post-service small talk somewhat awkward. For this reason, on most Sundays I simply greet those I do know, and make my way to the door. I know, it’s not the best attitude, and I’m not proud of it, but that’s the way it is.
Well, that’s the way it was until Wes showed up. He is much more intentional about meeting people in the church than I, so, after every service he would make me wait and stand with him while he schmoozed it up with the locals. Normally, I would slowly edge him to the door, but one Sunday, he and I got to talking to and elderly couple that were visiting from the States.
Their names were Gerhart and Rosemary, retired professors from the Mennonite University in Goshen, Indiana. We began talking, and they mentioned that they were here in Colombia to organize the Seminary’s library. I had no idea the Mennonites had a seminary in Bogota, and I was even more surprised to find that it was housed in the very same building in which we stood. Gerhart led us downstairs through a few sets of doors to the “Secret Mennonite Library”.
Browsing through the books, Wes and I both began to realize that much of the already impressive collection was in English! We ogled over books for about half an hour, and then Rosemary and Gerhart invited us to lunch. Wes and I bombarded them with questions about Goshen and the Mennonites and politics and anything else we could think of, and when we walked them home, we made plans to stop back by the library before they left. When we finally did stop by, Gerhart and Rosemary helped us buy glasses for one of our kids, and proceeded to show us even more incredible books at our disposal. Just one more reasons why the Mennonites have got it right.

Mundo Adventura
For those of you who translate my little Spanish phrases in some free online translator, the title of this paragraph will come out “Adventure World”. Hardly…but it IS a theme park, however meager compared to States standards. This past spring, we were allowed to take all of our kids out for a fun day in Mundo Adventura at a highly discounted price. I will say, even though some of the rides were laughable, it was the best theme park experience I’ve ever had. The kids were beside themselves, literally sprinting from ride to ride, and I was more than happy to be running alongside.
There was one moment in particular that stays with me to this day. Liz (one of the volunteers from the United Kingdom) and I were responsible for 4 children in particular, and we were forced to split up. Three of the kids wanted to ride on a toboggan ride that would result in soaked clothes for all involved. Leidy Katerin, one of our students who has recently been adopted into one of the ministry’s foster homes, was not too keen on the idea of being wet on a cold, overcast day, so she and I rode a pendulum-space shuttle ride instead. There wasn’t much of a line, so we rode it several times in a row. After about 2 or 3 rotations, what was once a thrill ride, became quite relaxing. Looking down at the child next to me (still screaming like a maniac in fear) and catching brief, rhythmic glimpses of the Bogota horizon against the blue-grey sky ushered in a spiritual sense of peace. It was difficult to think of the imminent departure of my children, but the thought was made sweeter by the simple pleasure of enjoying a piece of life they would not be able to experience otherwise. As they reveled at the marvels of their previously inaccessible playland, I tried desperately to soak up every minute of their bliss.

Colombia’s cold war
I’m not sure how much you, the reader, keep up with foreign affairs (frankly, I’m not even sure who reads this) but a little while ago, Colombia found herself in somewhat of a sticky situation, politically speaking. Apparently, we went 1 kilometer across the border into Ecuador to pursue some of the FARC guerillas. Ecuador saw this as an infringement of national sovereignty, and they mobilized troops toward the boarder. Now, that might have been a slight over-reaction, but it was nothing compared to what came next. Hugo Chavez, of Venezuela, in all of his infinite wisdom decided to do the same. While all of this was happening, Colombian troops had discovered a laptop belonging to one of the FARC’s head honchos, and it proved that Chavez himself was, in fact, funding this pseudo-Marxist guerilla army.
For those of you who are either lost or simply don’t care, I will summarize things. Everyone is mad at everyone, and we are on the brink of being invaded from two sides. It was a tense few days. Those from England were almost sent back home, and I was left trying to imagine what it would be like to work in a country involved in both a civil, and international war, simultaneously.
Well, a conference was held, the president of Argentina cracked a few jokes, and by the first recess, all the presidents were hugging…literally. Such is Latin American politics.

23 on the 23rd.
This goes down as the second birthday I’ve had out of the country, and they just keep getting better. The morning of April the 23rd I woke up, and made my way to Luz y Vida, just like any other day. I ran upstairs to the computer to check some birthday emails. Apparently, the bus that picks all of the kids up from their homes broke down a few blocks from the school, and Adrienne was forced to walk alone with all of them. When they finally arrived, I walked out to greet them, and they surprised me with a song and flowers they had picked for me on the way. School proceeded as usual until about 11. It was then that all of the teachers and kids left the school and we began a strange little march down the street. We headed for my favorite ice cream joint, and right in the middle of the lunch rush, with business people in designer suits all around, we sat and ordered each child an ice cream cone. The children were loud, obnoxious and disruptive, and I’ve never been more proud.
Besides the double scoop, each child received a packet of wax ropes for molding into figures. They all made models of themselves (with some assistance) and one by one placed them on my placemat, which I still keep in my “teacher” drawer at Luz y Vida. Then, when I returned home, I found a cookie-cake with matches for candles in my living room and dozens of foam stars hanging from my bedroom ceiling. This was all the work of Adrienne, whereas the ice cream was Ryan’s doing. We ate most of the cookie, and began to make preparations for the birthday dinner. After two failed attempts at finding a Thai restaurant in Bogota, we settled on some old-fashioned American burgers. Our gringo crew, Ryan, Luke, John, Abby, Liz, Adrienne, one of our homeless friends Camilo and I ate till we were sick, and finished the meal off with a small mustard fight. Birthdays simply don’t get much better than that.

Home
As many of you know, I came home for about 2 weeks, and split my time between my friends and family in Texas and my friends and family (that happened to be) in Illinois. I ate more food than most people should in twice that time, and I literally gained almost ten pounds...not that I don’t need it, but still. I sincerely loved being home with my family and my beloved daschunds, and the barbeque that my college friends threw me in Illinois has been one of the highlights of the last few years. It was both overwhelming and beautiful to be surrounded by so many people I love, and that love me. I hate to end my post on such a sentimental/nostalgic note, but I truly do appreciate seeing and hearing from you guys, and while I adore my life here in Bogota, I am quite excited to see/talk/play music with you guys when I get back.

Till next time,
Tyler

A Bit of Catch-Up

2008-08-05T08:14:00.000-05:00

Hello Again,
Although I am working very hard at Luz y Vida, life marches on, and as they say, "life is not just an old, renovated schoolhouse in Bogota." (ok… so no one actually says that). Much has happened since The Hawaii team left and Wes arrived.

Wes.
This country simply isn't the same without Mr. Wesley McKain. That's right, Colombia, with all of its flooding, earthquakes, violence, economic woes, and international troubles, is currently without one of its greatest commodities; a tall bearded white guy from Kansas City. Fear not, however, for it seems that Mr. McKain will be soon making his grand return to the great city of Bogota.
During his first tour of duty, Wes kept himself pretty busy. He spent most of his time at Luz y Vida teaching a 14-year-old-student named Karen. He would spend hours on homemade worksheets in an attempt to teach her the alphabet, and ultimately, how to read. When he wasn't teaching Spanish to a Colombian (pause a moment to let that one sink in), he was fixing the computers, cleaning, or helping Luke teach PE. To this day, the kids still include Profe Wes in their sometimes painfully long lunchtime prayers.
On top of this, Wes made it a point to befriend many of our colorful neighbors using the Spanish he had acquired over the course of his stay here. He became an integral part of our little group of volunteer/friends, and a familiar face to all those residents of the street that buzz our doorbell late at night. He has become a very dear friend of mine, and I cannot wait for him to come back.

The Texas Team.
In the United States, we celebrate Good Friday and Easter. If you are either Catholic, or just very liturgically observant, you might celebrate Maundy Thursday as well. Either way, it never usually adds up to more than an extended weekend. Here in Latin America, they have done away with the confusing individual titles, and named every day of the week leading up to Easter as Holy. That is, Holy Monday, Holy Tuesday, Holy Wednesday, and so on. Save for a few establishments run by modernistic heathens, the whole country shuts down. Honestly, I am surprised that the whole economic infrastructure of Colombia doesn't completely collapse every year around Holy Week. Camilo, who is much more experienced in these things than we, advised us to buy all of the groceries we were going to need, especially for Holy Weekend. He was right, the only places open were churches, and buying groceries from them can be difficult.
Anyway, during this unusual time of national holiness, a team of families from the illustrious First United Methodist Church in Carrolton came for their annual visit. Normally, teams like this would do some repairs, some cleaning, and play with the kids, but since there was no school for this week, it was a lot of the former two, and none of the latter. The first day, a small portion of the team (the others were held up in Charlotte due to inclimate weather) and a few of us “locals” painted the auditorium of the Other Way in preparation for the installation of a rock wall that took place later that week. The next few days, we spent up at the farm, fixing railings, securing the towers and preparing the zipline for another ministry that would be using our facilities. I took about a day and a half to get some well deserved rest and relaxation, and met back up with the team for a trip up Monserrate.

Story Time:
The team took the railway to the top of the mountain, but Wes, Fabian and I decided we would try running up. That proved to be a horrible decision. It was Holy Saturday, and half of Bogota was intent on seeing the miraculous religious artifacts found on the summit of the mountain. Somewhere in the midst of the crowd, I lost sight of Fabian (we were well behind Wes, who started about half an hour before us). I did my best to muscle through the crowds, but the road was completely packed. That is, until about 500 yards from the top when, mysteriously, a lane opened to the left. Having spent the past 6 years driving on American Interstate Highways, I naturally passed the human traffic on this newly found fast lane. I soon came face to face with a Bogota police officer. This alone did not frighten me. What did cause concern, however, was the angry mass of people that he was holding back with his nightstick. It was soon apparent that these people had been waiting to descend the mountain for some time, and as soon as the policeman allowed them, they were quite ready to trample me in the process. I quickly leapt into the correct, right lane. The group of college students that I found myself surrounded by did not take too kindly to “cutting” in line, especially when committed by an American wearing a shirt that says “I am Colombia”. Tensions rose, and I was looking for an exit. I backed up to a small cliff with angry mobs on two sides of me and a shameful descent on the third. In a rare moment of quick-thinking-ness, I scrambled up the cliff and wandered around in the forest for a bit, winding up on the backside of the mountain. I snuck past some policemen and safely met up with the rest of the team.

Soon thereafter, the Texas team departed without any more undue excitement, and according to credible sources, a good time was had by all. A very warm thank you to all those faithful Texas Methodists who support Formando Vidas and its staff.

Liz.
Immediately after the Texas team’s departure, another Texas resident (and FUMCC church member) landed in Bogota. Liz Dezeeuw, my very best friend of about 5 or 6 years came for an action-packed 5 day visit to my fair city. We started off with a visit to the Salt Cathedrals, saw an awe-inspiring pyrotechnic show in the Parque Simon Bolivar, and capped off the weekend with the biggest Futbol game of the year. In the interim times, I was showing her the best of Colombian restaurants and the magic of Fernando Botero’s paintings. Her visit was a very welcome taste of home, and I am forever indebted to her for making the long trip down here. She will be in Zambia soon, and for those of you that know her (or want to) she, too, has a blog, and I imagine she will be much better at updating than yours truly.

http://lizambia.blogspot.com/

Well, that will do it for now. Coming up in the next exciting edition: cloud forests, secret libraries and theme parks!

Love to all,

Tyler

It has indeed been some time...

2008-07-28T19:02:00.002-05:00

Sorry guys, I haven't updated in a while, but to be fair, I haven't had a computer in a while. I will try to make up for the lack of communication by posting a few times in the coming week.

Well, well, well. Where did we leave off?

Ah yes. It was winter (for most of you). I had just returned from the Amazons, and I was introducing you all to my new friends.

Well, since then, things have been a bit more routine. Not to the extent of boredom, but I am not shooting monkeys with blowguns, either. I will start off by describing what it is exactly that I "do".

I believe I have described the school already, but my position has changed somewhat since the topic was last discussed. Last year, I taught one class half of the time. Now, I teach 3 classes 3 different subjects all of the time. Due to some financial issues, most of the Colombian national teachers were forced to find other, paying, positions. That left 4 teachers; Yury, a 19-year-old Bogotana voice student, Luke, the brit who I mentioned in the last post, Mary, the Australian superwoman also mentioned previously, and yours truly, the 23-year old gringo with absolutely no previous educational experience.
We wrote up a pretty full schedule for the kids, including 9 different subjects and recess, so when it came time to divy up the classes, we each had to take on quite a bit. I, myself, am responible for Mathematics, Natural Sciences, most of the Music classes, and making sure the kids don't kill each other during recess. On top of that, I am now the official keeper-of-the-keys, which essentially means first one there, last one to leave.
This all sounds like a lot, and it is, but I have welcomed the change. Last year, I was a bit frustrated; I had travelled thousands of miles, and I barely did anything. Now, I feel very involved in the work that is being done here, and the kids no longer see me as another awkward “mono” visitor, but as one of their teachers. The change is actually manifest in the terminology used. When speaking about one of the full time teachers, the children use "Mi Profe...", which is literally translated "My teacher...". That is, My Teacher Tyler. A small change, but it means quite a lot.
Two major changes have come as a result of this new level of responsibility. One, I am busy now. There are days when I am at that school for as long as the sun is out (there aren't many light bulbs in that building that work anymore). As I said, I welcome the new work load, but there have been some things that have been sacrificed. I should confess that, while I did indeed come down here to work with the kids, I had also hoped to get some serious reading and music writing done. Unfortunately, that immense amount of leisure time I was planning on no longer exists.
The second change that has come about concerns the children I work with themselves. When I arrived, I possessed and displayed an appropriate amount of pity for the children. This is the kind of pity that will "pull on your heart-strings" when you watch a movie about Africa, or see a Sally Struthers save-the-children commercial. It's the kind of pity that, given the right timing and ample resources, might cause a wealthy suburbanite to move to Colombia for a bit. That pity, however, will not sustain anyone wanting to work with poverty or suffering. Allow me to explain.
The government has been threatening to completely destroy the neighborhood in which most of our children live. What that means for us is, these children will leave us, and we will begin looking for replacements. I was indignant. I don't want replacements! I want these kids! That's when it struck me. I no longer viewed these children as poor little street kids that need my help. I had taken some level of ownership in their futures, and as a result, I had invested deeply in their lives. Now, these were not simply abused and neglected children, these were MY neglected and abused children, and I could hardly contain my anger towards those that were mistreating them.
Eventually, the fact that they were dirty, beaten and malnourished didn't matter. They could have been perfectly normal rich kids, and I would have felt the same love and concern regardless. They were all moving to a barrio down south, and I was ready and willing to stay as long as it took to make sure they didn't become victims of poverty and indifference.
Well, some very unfortunate things happened, and I will tell you that they are no longer with us...or me. The details of this story merit another post, which I hope to have up for you all very soon, but you should know that I was crushed. I wept openly at the sheer injustice of their situation, but more, I wept because I lost children that I would have taken as my own in an instant. I lost several human beings whom I loved and cared for deeply, and recovering from that has been a difficult process.
There are new kids at Luz y Vida, and I have to remind myself every day that these children deserve as much love as I was willing to expend on the 'Colombianita' kids. The thought of emotionally investing that much again, only to say goodbye, is not an attractive thought, but that's how it goes, I guess…

Well, as I said, I hope to have some more stories up for you relatively soon, so be checking back!

Tyler

People to know...

2008-02-21T16:04:00.001-05:00

I'm going to try something a little bit different this time. In honor of all the Kierkegaard and Buber that I have been reading these days, I will assume for the minute that my life is more relational than sequential, and I will relay the events of my life in categories of the people that I have lived it with for the past month. Who remembers life in chronological order anyway? Now, this list is not conclusive by any means, there are far more people in my life than I will write about, but these are a few of the newcomers I would like to introduce you all to.

First and foremost, there is Mr. Wesley McKain.

Wes was a very good friend of mine in college, but we've never actually lived together. He spent so many nights in our apartments studying you could say that he might has well have, but the fact remains, this is the first time I've ever actually lived with the guy, and I must say, it's been great. He and I seem to think in very similar ways, and we have had one too many late night conversations as a result (I fell asleep while writing this). He works at Luz y Vida as a teacher's assistant, or as a personal tutor, but he probably won't be an assistant for long. Wes has an almost unnatural desire to learn Spanish. He will stay up late with flashcards and lists of verbs, write down every word he doesn't know from a meeting held in Spanish, talk to every stranger he meets, and as I write, he is in a four-hour-long intensive Spanish course he attends every week. He's a dear friend, and I am extremely blessed to have him here with me.

Wes and I have been spending a lot of time with two other young men, one from England and the other from Australia. Their names are Luke and John, respectively.

The four of us will go out to explore different parts of the the city from time to time, and I'm sure we are quite the sight to see. Still, four is much better than one, and the added safety is nice when walking the streets of Bogotá at night.

We four are actually part of an even larger group of "monos" that work here at Formando Vidas. There are 8 of us in all. The aforementioned four, plus Ryan, Adrienne, Liz, and Abbey. We have started meeting every Sunday night to share meals and get to know each other. This newly formed community is another very welcome addition to my life.

We 8 celebrated Wes's 23rd birthday together, taking him out to a Chinese restaurant in the rich part of town, where we all reveled in food that was not rice and/or beans. A few days later we got together again to attend a peace rally held in downtown. Those of you that keep up with international news may have heard about it. Tens of thousands of people were there, packed into the central plaza, and among them were eight rather conspicuous gringos. We all wore shirts that said "I am Colombia" and took part in chants that started off with "Who are we? Colombians!" No one seemed to mind the obvious lie, least of all, us. It was enlivening to see all of those people uniting together to make a political statement of peace.

As if this weren't enough, we have all made it a point to become more culturally sensitive by learning how to Salsa and Merengue. One of the ladies that works at Luz y Vida gives us lessons every week or so, and we practice in Liz, Ad, and Abbey's new house out in the western parts of Bogotá. We added even further to our growing Colombian credibility by attending our first soccer game in the national stadium. It was a Bogotá team, Santa Fe, against a team from Argentina, and I'm proud to say that we won 3-0. For those of you who have been to a serious soccer game, you know the intense amounts of energy that exudes from die hard futbol fans. There was a whole section of the stadium that literally did not stop jumping the entire game (over 2 hours) and screamed all sorts of Spanish vulgarities at the other team...in unison. Well...now that I think about it, they did settle down a bit when the riot police broke into their midst and began to beat them senselessly with nightsticks. But it didn't take them long to redirect their vulgarities to the police and renew their unending hopping.

Then there was the team of YWAMers that came to Colombia all the way from Kona, Hawaii. This was the same team I translated for in the jungle, but the fun didn't end there. They spent a month here in Bogotá, helping us out a lot, and visiting other ministries in their spare time.

I traveled with them to a million places around the city, many of which I had never been to before, but my favorite by far was a community called La Perseverancia. This mountainside community is known for being extremely dangerous, and when we were walking there, several complete strangers told us to turn around. Not the most encouraging omen. When we got there, however, we found a quaint little community with a spectacular view and about a hundred little kids to enjoy the natural beauty with. We rock climbed, played games, and hiked to a waterfall/pool of crystal clear mountain water. I don't have to tell you that it was one of the best days I've had since being here.

Perhaps the second biggest highlight for me, personally, was the circus. Yes, that's right, the circus. But not just any circus, the Mexican circus. It's a lot like the normal circus, except everyone dances more than usual and everything is in a ridiculous, flamboyant Spanish. Oh, and Mickey Mouse was there for some reason.

That whole team was so welcoming and loving, and the goodbye was a tearful one (after the traditional party games and salsa dancing, of course). They meant a lot to me, and I grew unusually close to many of them, so I feel like I ought to thank them by name.

Amanda, Heather, Renee, Marcia, Martin, Nate, Kat, Rebecca, Zach, Mary Beth, Emily, and Felicia, I love you all and you will be missed greatly.

Last but not least on my list of amazing people is Mary. Mary is my new hero in life. Mary is 63 years old, and she has 11 grandchildren. She also lives in the most dangerous place in Bogotá. Let me explain.

Mary works with me at Luz y Vida as the resident art teacher. Several years ago, she felt God calling her to work with streetkids in Colombia. She spent a few years in Spain learning the language, and then came here to work with Formando Vidas. This, however, is not her only job.

I may have already mentioned this area, and if so, allow me to expand on it. Cazuca is an area in the far Southwest part of the city, and it is one of the poorest. At last count, 76% of the population was under the poverty level, and the majority of the people that live here have been displaced by the violence that has torn apart this country for the last 40 years. This area, up until recently, has been completely run by paramilitary groups and gangs. Only in the last few months have the police made any sort of headway up into the hilltop community. Mary has, every Saturday and without fail for the past year and a half, visited Cazuca to work with the children that live there. As soon as she felt it was safe enough, I began to tag along. On one of these Saturdays, Mary, her friend Gonzalo and I were walking to the top of the hill, when she told me we were going to buy a house.

I thought she was kidding.

She now lives in a blue house at the top of Los Altos de Cazuca, alone, but happy. She is planning to start a drop-in center for the kids there, and I hope to help as much as I can. I still visit her every Saturday, and greet her at the door at school every morning. Like I said, she is my hero, er...heroine, and I am constantly inspired by her courage.

Things are picking up speed as far as school goes. I am teaching Math and Science to all of the classes, and I am responsible for the administration duties of the youngest class. It's a big load, and thus far I have been drowning in it, but hopefully things will calm back down into some semblance of a routine. That's all for now. Thanks for listening (reading)!

Tyler

Las Amazonas!!!

2008-02-01T18:19:00.000-05:00

So, it happened like this. My esteemed traveling partner, Adrienne, got it into her head that we would be traveling to the Amazons for Christmas. It sounded great...and insane...much like all of her other traveling ideas (let's go to Cuba illegally, and then to the most dangerous country in the Western Hemisphere!). I had my doubts, seeing as how we had no legitimate contacts in that area, and it was already December when we were deciding all of this. However, things, as they seem to do for us, worked out. We met the leaders of the YWAM base in that area, and they mentioned that a group was coming from Hawaii, and they needed some translators.

We volunteered before they finished their sentence.

So, on New Year's Eve, we packed our backpacks and boarded a plane for Leticia, Colombia, a town of 200,000 located on the very southern tip of the country. We celebrated the ushering in of 2008 with our new Hawaiian and Colombian friends, and the following day, Adrienne, Fabian (who also works with Formando Vidas, and who was also there to translate) and I walked to Brazil, took a boat across the Amazon, and had an Inca Kola in Peru...just because we could. That puts the "Countries That Tyler Has Visited Even For Just One Day" list into the double digits.

Not like I'm counting or anything.

We spent a few days in Leticia, preparing for our upcoming trip deep into the jungle by buying clothing that would protect us from the flying death-bugs these people called mosquitos, while still keeping us from dying of heat stroke. When the day finally came, we took a motorboat 3 hours upriver to a community called La Maloka, where we set up shop at in the school building. The people here were very warm and welcoming, which is strange when you imagine what would happen if a bunch of indigenous people just waltzed into your suburban cul-de-sac and started playing with your kids.

The people here wore western clothes, so their village would never make it into National Geographic, but have no doubt, it was indeed the Amazon. These people would shoot arrows (which I shot) into the muddy waters of the Amazon River (which I swam in) and kill several large, black suckerfish (which I ate...whole). Something about the closeness to nature in which these people lived brought out the primal nature in me. I took off my boots, and trekked barefoot through the mud, which was a horrible idea, because after the first day, my feet were covered in mysterious red spots that itched like mad. I climbed trees to get coconuts, which was also unfortunate, because I hate coconuts, and I was then obliged to eat the spoils of my efforts. I had no fear of the wildlife, and would play with tarantulas and snakes as if they were children's toys. That one was also probably stupid, but I didn't get hurt, so it all worked out.

We spent the majority of our time playing with the kids, planning our nightly services, and waiting for the daily torrential downpour to arrive so that the temperature would drop below 1,890,265 Celsius. A good time seemed to be had by all, and we were quite sad to leave, but there was something about the cold, blank stare of the hideous fish that lay in my daily soup that made it a little easier to return to civilization.

Back in Leticia, we recovered from our little excursion, while we took full advantage of modern amenities like ice cream, oscillating fans, and showers that are more than just standing outside during a rainstorm. We didn't simply engage in leisure activities, though. We visited some neighborhoods, made some friends, and played some soccer (pronounced fooootball), which, by the way, I am getting pretty good at. At the end of the week, we prepared for departure once again, loading everything onto the USS Gringo, and went ever farther into the Heart of Darkness.

The two communities we visited finally topped rural Guatemala as the most beautiful place that my eyes have ever seen, and despite the evil parrot that would attempt to decapitate you every time you used the bathroom, it was paradise. We only spent a few days in this Eden, and then a day or two getting things ordered in Leticia, and it was home-sweet-Bogota once again.

When I got home, things had changed a bit. I left our house with Ryan and David, and I came back with the same Ryan (if not a bit frazzled) but no David, a family of 3 and a golden Labrador. David ran away again, and two ex-members of the ministry and their son (and his dog) took his place. Their names are David, Yanira, little Lucas, and Toby the dog. On top of all of that, my very good friend Wes McKain flew in the day after I got back, and it has been wonderful having him around.

Life is rather hectic these days. I am showing Wes the ropes, still translating for the Hawaii team (who will be here in Bogota for another few weeks), and preparing for my classes. The little tykes start school the 5th of February, and I will either be Science teacher for all classes, or I will have my own little troupe of kiddos that I will be wholly responsible for. Either one means more responsibility, but I am looking forward to getting more involved in their lives.

Well, that's it for now. Until next time,

Tyler

Not a long post.

2007-12-30T17:37:00.000-05:00

As the title insinuates, I will not be writing much. Not that there isn't much going on, it's just that...

Well, you see, I am leaving tomorrow to spend three weeks deep in the heart of the Amazon. Pretty cool, right? Well, I just remembered about this trip today. Yeah, that's how busy I am these days (and on my vacation, too).

Anyway, I am scrambling around trying to get malaria pills and mosquito repellant, and I have no time to write about my life.

Sorry.

In exchange, I will leave you with the promise to post the mother of all updates upon my return. Seriously. Scouts honor.

Thank you for your understanding,
Tyler

I know, I know...I'ts been a while.

2007-12-13T20:08:00.000-05:00

Normally, I don't just update to update, I like to wait for something to happen in my life that causes me to say (usually silently, Colombians tend to frown on strange white people talking to themselves) "hey, I should put that on my blog!" More often than not, this will be a story that I feel is worth sharing, or some thoughts that would serve to illuminate the reality of Bogota for those that are thousands of miles away. However, nothing of that nature has struck me in quite some time. This might be because the novelty of living in a foreign country has all but worn off, and the absurdity that I live in no longer strikes me as being anything out of the ordinary. Or, it could be that I have been too busy with other thoughts to give my blog the time of day. Or, it could be that I type very slowly, and I am lazy. Any or all of these may very well be the case, but my lack of activity here on this web page has not been for lack of activity in life. The constant state of flux (pun intended) that was reflected in my last post has not showed signs of slowing any time soon.
For this reason, and for the hate mail that I have been receiving from friends who are worried by my cyber-silence, I will once again attempt to sum up the events of my life thus far.

Let's see...where were we. Ah yes, Mabel and Mauricio! Well, they lived with us for a few weeks, and then they were lovingly transferred to another organization that specializes in adolescents ages 13 and up (we are normally 13 and younger). They still live here in Bogota, and we will sometimes get a call from one or the other, either asking a favor, or just wanting to talk.

We've wrapped things up at school. The kids performed a drama that they had been working on for all of their parents and friends, some of them graduated, and we had a Christmas party where they all received some gifts donated by a local church. This party ended up being one of the worst days of school for me, due to the lack of foresight on behalf of those donating the presents.

You see, there are these ladies...
They come once a month to prepare a big meal for the kids, and they seem nice enough, although they usually don't pay any attention to the gringos. Normally, I welcome their presence, as it usually means a tasty lunch, and even though some of them can be rather snobbish, I try not to judge. This time, they made hot dogs with tartar sauce and potato chip crumbs. I will not go into the bizarre culinary habits of Colombians right now, as that is a topic for another time. Suffice to say, I did not partake. After lunch, one of the women announced that they had some gifts for the kids. Of course, the children were elated, and as they tore into the wrapping, I was pleasantly surprised. The ladies did a great job. Most of the kids got wonderful presents that they loved, and there was very little fighting among them (an act of God, I assure you). We were all quite satisfied with the events of the day, and ready to call it quits, when one of the women made another announcement. Apparently, there were bicycles. Now, this was just too much. The kids lost their tiny little minds, and began to scream and jump about wildly. They grouped the kids up into girls and boys, and then into those that need training wheels and those that do not. Then, for dramatic effect, they hoisted up the first bike. It was for an older boy. The women made the kids choose a number between one and ten to see who gets the first bike, and the winner was then photographed, beaming, on top of his new gift. Things went on in this manner for about 5 more bikes, and then, in the midst of all of this excitement, they announced that there was only one more bicycle. Wait, what?!?! There were at least a dozen children waiting to receive a gift that they will otherwise never even dream of receiving, and there is only one left, not to mention that you have distributed them by pure chance?!?!?! The last one, a girls bike with training wheels, was handed to the lucky winner, and chaos ensued. The other children, whose only crime was being unlucky, were forced to sit and contemplate the numbers that they should have chosen while they try not to listen to the squeals of glee emanating from the street, where the fortunate ones were blocking traffic with their unbelievable new presents. I spent the remainder of the day with sobbing children in my lap, trying to console them, but not really knowing how. What do you say in that position? It's going to be ok? Yeah, in the grand scheme of things, but not in the mind of a child. Maybe you'll get one anyway? Not likely. Maybe next year? Even less. Almost all of the children with whom I work right now will be moved into another neighborhood this spring, out of our jurisdiction. All I could say to these red, swollen eyes was, "I know, it's not fair. I'm so sorry." Now, I know that not getting a bicycle is not the end of the world, but remember that these children live in abject poverty, in many ways this will be one of the defining moments of their lives. The women responsible for this fiasco, retreated to the kitchen with photos of smiling children, and a sense of satisfaction. Only one came out to see what all of the crying was about. She asked me why the children were so sad. I stared at her dumbfounded.

Take this as a lesson, if any of you readers out there feel like doing something philanthropic, do so! But always ask the advice of those who actually work in that area before you go and do more damage than good.

Anyway, the following week, we had a YWAM retreat at a very nice campground in Chinauta (I realize that these proper nouns mean nothing to you, but bear with me) and had a great time of relaxation. I also practiced my futbol skills, which is something I wish I did more of. I met a lot of cool people from all over Colombia, which will come in handy whenever I get around to doing some traveling.

Now, I'm back in Bogota, Christmas shopping and Christmas partying. We also have a new addition to the household. His name is David, he's 11, and he is appalled at the fact that we do not have a television. His ADHD tells me that he might be accustomed to hours of Japanese cartoons and seizure-inducing cereal commercials.

As I mentioned earlier, I am getting quite used to Colombia. I really do love my life here, despite everything that might indicate otherwise. Try, if you will, to remember the feeling you had as a child on Christmas Eve, or on the night before your first day of the new school year. You lay in the darkness, eyes wide open, sleepless from the unbearable excitement of the prospect of tomorrow. Now tone that down just a little, and that is what it is like live here. You never know what will happen the following day, who will appear at your doorstep, what the kids will learn, where you will be at the day's end, but your adrenaline flows at the mere thought of it.

Love from the Global South,
Tyler Mowry

The Times They Are A' Chaingin'

2007-11-18T17:29:00.000-05:00

So, a lot has happened in the past week. So much so, that I thought it was post-worthy (Not beyond worthy, but worthy of being posted).

My life with Ryan and Ferney was nice. It had its moments of insanity, and its fair share of absurdity, but it also helped me establish a sense of routine, and along with it, normalcy. Note the verb, "was"...indicating past tense.

Last Thursday, Ferney ran away. Now this was "normal" behavior for Ferney. Normal in the sense that it happened regularly, not that escaping from our home like it was a prison is in any sense socially the norm. Usually, he would meander around the block, and come back, thoroughly content with his little adventure. Not this time.

Around 4:30 in the afternoon, he took off, and when I got home at 6, he was apparently still missing. We got a little worried, so we looked around for a bit, but we were sure that wherever he was, he would come back before it got too dark.

It got too dark.

We scoured the area, disregarding the fact that these particular streets were getting exponentially more dangerous for every minute we were searching. Our minds were racing, wondering where he could have gone, if he was lost, if he was in trouble, etc. Eventually we gave up. In a city of 8 million, we were not going to find Ferney. I didn't sleep too well that night, mostly due to Ferney's disappearance, but also due to the fact that I had to make up the end-of-the-year exams for my class at school.

At about 8 o'clock the next morning, we found him. He had run to Colombianita, where he thought his mother was staying. She, in fact, was not, but he happened to run into an aunt who took him in. Exhale, relax, now on to more pressing matters.

Final exams!!! My girls did very well on all of the exams that I was responsible for (English, Science, Math) and with any luck, they will have proved themselves apt enough to graduate from Luz y Vida and attend a "real" school...which would effectively put me out of a job...

As I was saying, my girls failed all of their exams horribly.

Anyway, while I was at school, Ryan was visited by some new characters on the block. One of these was another gentleman in the neighborhood who is temporarily making the streets his home. He came in for the same deal as Camilo, shower, shave, wash clothes. All of the things that would prevent a man in his position from appearing as if he were in his position to anyone who would be looking to hire him for any... position.

The other guests, and perhaps the more notable ones, were a pair of teenagers, brother and sister, who had just arrived from a town about 5 hours outside of Bogota. Apparently, they had been part of the ministry, living in our house for about a year and a half. Something happened, and they were returned to their mother, who moved them to the town from which they had just left. That was over 7 years ago, and now here they were, with no money, no contacts, and the only building they could remember in Bogota was our home.

It's a long story, and I can't divulge all of the details just yet, but these two are living with us for the time being. The boy, Mauricio, is a dancer, but not in the sense that your would think. He dances the Joropo. It's a traditional dance that I cannot adequately explain here. Youtube it. The girl, Mabel, is an excellent chef, and I am learning much in the way of Colombian cuisine. All I can tell you right now is that there is a lot of oil involved. A lot.

School is wrapping up, Ferney will most likely not be living with us, but the other two have taken his place (or at least his room), we are being frequented by more and more of those that sleep on our block, and my routine has been destroyed exquisitely. For better or for worse, my life at this point is anything but dull.

Until next time,
Tyler

I live in a weird neighborhood.

2007-11-07T22:32:00.000-05:00

So, once again, in an attempt to explain to you the above concept with clarity and (hopefully) a little bit of humor, I will tell you another story.

It's Saturday morning, and I have big plans to meet up with Adrienne and go climb some of the mountains near the farm property that the ministry owns.

I wake up extra early, before Ferney, in the hopes that he will not ask me where I am going, and then proceed to beg for hours to come along. As I am just about ready to depart, our door buzzer rings.

Now, Ryan has taken it upon himself to start helping out one of the homeless men that lives nearby. His name is Camilo, and he's a really nice guy. He's was on some pretty bad drugs, but he's getting his life back together. He comes to our place to shower, wash his clothes, and store his bike and/or bag of miscillaneous stuff. I assume that he is here to reclaim this bag, which is sitting in the corner of our living room. I open the door, and sure enough, it's our buddy Camilo. He greets me warmly, and proceeds to collect his things that he will need for the day. Some clothes, a tool or two (he gets work as a handyman), and his cell phone.

Wait, what?

I decide to ask him about it, just to be sure, and yes, he has been charging his cell phone over night at our place, and now he is tossing it in with the rest of his stuff on the back of his bicycle.

Um, ok.

I head out the door to the local panaderia (bread store) to grab some breakfast on the run (that phrase will be funny later).

We come into contact with a lot of colorful characters in our neighborhood, but by far the most interesting is this older gentleman, whose name we can never remember, so we simply call him "the eccentric".

He can usually be seen walking around aimlessly, talking to whomever about whatever, and then taking notes. Yes, taking notes...on life...or something. Anyway, I get to the store, and sitting at a table in the corner, is the Eccentric. He has taken all of the pages out of his notebook, and he has laid them out, in some sort of order, and is scanning them all, or maybe studying them all. I'm not really sure, but it looks like he is searching for some sort of sense to be made of it all, as if all of these notes will add up to something equivalent to Einstien's Theory of Everything. I inconspicuously inch my way close enough to see what he is looking at. They are scribblings. Some are telephone numbers, some are addresses, date book entries, and varoius thoughts on everything from the holes in the streets to how to solve poverty.

This man, somewhere along the way, has lost his mind.

I order quickly (some croissants and a bag of yogurt-drink...trust me, it's good) because I do not want to get caught in another conversation with the Eccentric about Gorge W. Bush and how not all Americans are bad. The last one like that lasted for a while.

I walk down the 7 or 8 blocks to the bus stop, and as I am walking, I begin to notice that there are papers everywhere. Covering the sidewalk, floating into the sides of buildings and fences, carried up by the wind and scattering across the street. It's the gospel of Matthew, or rather, San Mateo, ripped straight out of La Santa Biblia and tossed about wildly. A few pages of Luke and Ecclesiastes as well...as far I could tell.

Right about this time, I hear the word "Mono!" shouted in my direction. Now, for those of you with basic spanish knowledge, that word means what you think it means...monkey. However, here in Colombia, that is also the word for someone who has lighter hair. A little insulting, but probably harmless. I look up to see who is yelling at me (always a mistake in countries like this), and it's a woman...sort of.

You see, our house is rather close to a neighborhood informally deemed the "tolerant zone". This quiant little section of city streets is where you will find Bogota's prostitutes, homosexuals, and transvestites/transsexuals. Basically, anything that, in the eyes of society, must be "tolerated".

This six-foot, 200 pound "woman" is waving me down, apparently to ask me a question. My eye contact is enough response, and she asks me for the bread that I am eating. I hestate, but I cross, and give her half of one of my croissants. She says thank you, but then she notices that I have another. She pleads for my roll, telling me how nice and handsome I am. I am leery of this situation, due to encounters in the recent past, so I respecfully decline the request, and carry on.

She follows.

I walk quickly, she walks faster, and then faster and faster, until this transvestite who (fortunately) is in heels is chasing me down the street s of Bogota for a croissant. eventually she gives up, and I make it, panting, to the bus stop.

A policeman walks up to where I am standing. Police corruption has all but dissapeared in Colombia in recent years, but it is still wise to have a healthy fear of them. I pretend not to notice. He grabs my shoulder, and I think to myself "it's over". I am ready for the worst. I have money in my pocket that I am prepared to bribe him with. I turn around, and there he is...with a little old lady next to him. We both stare in amazement. Apparently, they were going to ask me for directions, but when they saw my pale, freckled skin and blue eyes, they just froze. So did I. We stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time, before he decided to ask me anyway. No, I didn't know where whatever it was was, but they said thanks anyway. I finally find the bus I need, and after an hour bus ride I get to Adrienne's.

How's life, I ask.

Kinda boring, she says.

Shades of Grey

2007-10-20T07:47:00.000-05:00

Ok, so most of what I have written thus far has been fairly objective, even journalistic, but I think that it is due time that I record some thoughts for those of you who would be interested.

To begin with, school is school.
I go every day, hoping that, through some miraculous incident, somebody learns something.
The kids that are chosen for this particular school are all very poorly behaved, and I'm not talking about talking back to the teacher. There are kids who are extremely violent (I've already been hit, kicked and bitten more times than I can count.) And there are kids who, from an outsiders perspective would seem to have lost their tiny little minds. Yesterday, one of the children got it into his head that he was simply not going to do anything. This is not an unusual occurrence, but the difference is that he decided to scream at the top of his lungs and run about wildly instead. With no exaggeration, this child screamed for hours on end, for no apparent reason other than he simply felt like it. And that's just one kid.

That being said, I do not want to make it seem as if my job is horrendous. There are very beautiful moments, constructing a solar system out of styrofoam and scrap wood, watching the kids help each other clean the room after class, and watching a student complete a problem on the board that he/she was not able to complete yesterday. Enjoyment, compassion, and progress. Devotionals are my favorite time of the day. It is the time when we are not barking orders at the children, but expressing to them how much God loves them, and how much we love them too. It is the time at the beginning of the day when I get to look at each child in the face and remember that they are human beings with worth and potential. And then they start screaming profanities at each other. So it goes.

Home life is nice, too. I live in a part of town that never lets me forget what poverty is, or any of the emotions that go along with it. There is fear, as I walk alone at night, but I have a destination with a lock on the door. A luxury I do not take for granted. There is a sense of entrapment, as I see the same gentlemen sleeping outside my window every night, knowing full well that without a shower, new clothes and a haircut, they will never pass as fit for the workforce. There is a sense of invisibility, as people, myself included pass them by with neither the time or resources to assist them in any meaningful way. If you make eye contact, they are sure to ask...so everyone finds it easier to ignore them.

As I have said, I do have a roommate. His name is Ryan, and he hails from the great state of Ohio. He and I get along really well, but that is really of no consequence, seeing as how most of our time is spent with Ferney, the 8-year-old that we are (comically) responsible for. I'm not saying that I'm a parent, I'm just saying that I can begin to empathize. His story is one of the most heartbreaking that I have ever heard, and I almost have pity on him, until he rips up his homework and throws it down the stairs, laughing maniacally. If any part of my spanish has improved, it has been my commands. Sit at the table, do your homework, don't touch that, etc. He is really a good kid. Today he woke me up at the crack of dawn to tell me that he had cleaned his room. On the one hand, I am up waaaay before I would like to be, and I am not happy about it, but on the other hand, his room is pristine, and he's rather proud of it. So I smile, tell him he did a great job, he's a wonderful kid, now go bother Ryan.

Before coming here, I pictured this whole experience as being very very emotionally trying. I would be confronted with heart-wrenching situations at every turn, and every one would be an innocent victim of the system. This, I hoped would solidify my conceptions of universal right and wrong, of purpose and of the world at large. However, I have found, as I imagine most do in my situation, that this was an overestimation. Poverty is certainly an elusive thing to define; we create words like "abject" and "relative" to attempt to convey its nuances. No, I am not working with children dying of AIDS or hunger or anything else, but I am working with children in need. Yes, there are children in need where I lived in the states, but does one justify oneself by claiming that there is more need here? If so, why not always move on to the greater need.

They are legitimate questions that I have no answers to, and exploring them only reveals more uncertainty, but this I do know: There is something very transforming about seeing poverty with one's own eyes, and for that transformation to have any longevity, one must be constantly surrounding oneself with these questions, these issues, and these people. I have very few distractions here, and if that transformation is to take place, it is more likely that it will happen here, in the squatter settlements and displacement camps where there is no escape from the reality of the situation, rather than the streets of Chicago or Dallas, where I can simply cross the street or walk to a nicer part of town.

Well, it's time for me to go to the bread store and buy breakfast, I have another day of school ahead of me, and the kids have learned that they can attach themselves to my legs, and go wherever I do without having to work at it, so I'll need the energy.

Tyler

So, Tyler, have you been working at all?

2007-10-08T08:55:00.000-05:00

Now, some of you, or rather, those of you who have been keeping up with my posts, may be wondering, "Tyler, do you do anything other than travel to exotic countries in search of grand adventures?"

No, not really.

But, I do have a job here in Colombia.

Well, now I do.

You see, for the past two weeks, the three other new volunteers and I have been in "orientation". Formando Vidas has a few different parts, and they wanted us to try them out to see where we think that we would fit in best. For the sake of any future allusions to these entities, and for your own enightenment, I will list them below in the order that they are experienced by the children.

First, there is the street team. This group, consisting of just a few people, will go out into a community, and talk with children and parents about the particular situation of the children in that area, and discern which children are in need of immediate care, specialized education or further observation. This process takes place over a number of months, at the end of which, the kids are placed in their respective ministries.

This only happens every once in a while, due to the fact that we can only care for so many kids at one time, but due to some circumstances which I hope to elaborate upon later, this might be taking place again in the near future, and I have expressed STRONG interest in taking part.

For the younger kids that have been developmentally slowed in one way or another, there is a kind of pre-kindergarten called The Other Way, or El Otro Camino. Here, kids have nutritious meals, learn numbers and letters, and work on things like hygiene, socialization, and movement (many of the kids never learned to crawl).

For the older ones, there is a fully functional school, called Light and Life, or Luz y Vida, where they can attend. Once again, they are provided with warm meals, there is an emphasis on learning social norms (please, thank you, throw your trash in the trash can) and the classes are customized to their level of development. By this, I mean that, for whatever reason, many of these children are at intelligence and maturity levels far below what is normal for their age.

This is where I work during the day. I teach fourth grade.

For children who have been completely abandoned, there is an area of Formando Vidas called 24 hour care. It is exactly what it sounds like. There are two group homes where these children can live, be safe, and have positive parental figures. Many other kids are adopted by staff members or friends of Formando Vidas.

No one is totally sure yet, but the place where I will be living may turn out to be another one of these homes. My roommate, Ryan Gerber, is taking in an 8-year-old boy named Ferney, and you'll never guess who else is partially responsible for the upbringing and well-being of this child. I'm sure that I'll write more about this as events unfold, and unfold they will. Ferney is a handful.

So that's about it. During the day, I work as a teacher, and at night, I help take care of Ferney. I am currently in the process of making preparations to spend Saturdays in Cazuca, a neighborhood in Southern Bogotá that has the highest concentration of displaced people in the area. And as for Sundays, well...I haven't found a church yet, but I'm looking hard. Specifically for a small church that might need a musician or something. Somewhere where I can get to know the congregation, these Latin mega-churches are so impersonal.

Hasta Pronto,
Tyler

What a day to forget my camera...

2007-10-01T09:04:00.000-05:00

So, Bogotá is not the city it was made out to be by all of the news articles and books I had read before I came.

First off, I was picturing something like San Jose, Costa Rica, my former Latin American home, a city of about a million...only more violent and dangerous.

Bogotá has about 8 million people in it, a population equal to that of New York city. And while much of that population lives under the shadow of abject poverty, a great majority of it doesn't. It is a bustling hub of culture and commerce, just like any other city of it's size, and it contains all the advantages and disadvantages thereof.

Let me explain by telling a story:

Yesterday, I woke up around six to the rhythmic pounding of steel against steel, as there is a construction site about 30 meters from my bedroom window. I got up, showered, dressed, and decided that it was a good day to find a church. I looked in the phone book, and there was only one church listed, a Wesleyan church about 30 minutes walk from downtown. I got some breakfast, and took the 45 minute bus downtown. I got off, and began to walk through a park that I had not yet traversed. I was soon greeted by a dozen or so nuns, who were passing out tracts. I politely declined and went about my way. It was not long before the streets got a little meaner. And then a lot meaner. There was trash everywhere, and the panhandlers and drug addicts were becoming more frequent and more aggressive. I turned the corner, and there I was, a gringo, alone, dressed in a suit jacket, with a wallet ever so conspicuously in my back pocket, in the midst of one of the rougher neighborhoods in Bogotá. I used my better judgment, and turned around, having decided that I will return in different dress and with someone who knows what they are doing.

I walked back to downtown, finding myself in front of the capitol building in a courtyard of cobblestone and pigeons...and bikes. Dozens of red and yellow bicycles. I politely inquired about the unusual addition to the plaza, and I was informed that every Sunday, several lanes of the busiest streets were partitioned off for the use of bicyclists. Curious, I walked further.

They weren't kidding, thousands upon thousands of bicyclists weaved in and out of each other, some whizzing by with aerodynamic helmets and brightly colored spandex, and some leisurely trailing behind friends and family, chatting in a rapid Spanish along the way. Enjoying a break from the noise and exhaust of the traffic, and taking advantage of Colombia's eternally perfect weather, I continued walking.

Not much further, I was stopped dead in my tracks, almost colliding with a clown that handed me a flyer, advertising a live theater production that was taking place that morning. I looked up and saw that not only was I across the street from that very theater, but the clown with whom I had previously interacted was not the only one. There was a veritable carnival in the street. There were jugglers, tiny cars, and a live band, all there to advertise the play going on inside. I grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich (not very Colombian, I know) and sat on a bench, enjoying the spectacle. After I finished my lunch, I moved on.

A little ways down the road, I came across an enormous cathedral with music blaring from its large, wooden doors. I had felt some slight pangs of conscience for not having attended any kind of church service on Sunday morning, so I wandered in.

Everything was dark, with the glaring exception of the cathedral's three story altar, gilded in gold from top to bottom, every inch decorated in the most ornate Gothic style. The booming pipe organ halted abruptly, and the priest, diminished by the monstrous architecture behind him, got up to speak. The PA was too loud, meant more for those outside the church than those inside, and it seemed as though the message was too. The tiny priest condemned every aspect of Colombian life from the guerrillas to the rich to it's overly-western consumerism. In fact, I could not discern any kind of coherency to his thoughts other than condemnation itself. I politely bowed, crossed myself, and left.

I passed a park, where hundreds of middle aged men and women were jazzersicing to Jock Jams, and deciding that I was active enough, not to mention dressed improperly, I once again forwent catching a bus home, and walked further into this increasingly fascinating city.

I was then lured into another park by the siren's song of familiar music (Coldplay's Clocks), where I found myself surrounded by pink.

Apparently, yesterday was also the date of Bogota's Walk to Cure Breast Cancer. Having nothing better to do, and rather anxious to see what was around the next corner, I bought a pink Avon balloon, and joined the march. I marched along, chanting little rhymes about preventing cancer and attempting to sing along with the marching bands of trumpets, congas and bass drums, playing music somewhere between a rumba and a New Orleans funeral dirge. After about 70 blocks, I was exhausted. I gave my balloon to a little girl next to me and I waved down the bus.

On the ride home, I couldn't help but reflect on how alive this city is. When I first arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it is very much like a Chicago or New York, with the only difference being that signs and billboards are in Spanish. I am now inclined to think that Bogotá is better than these, as it has been able to keep that sense of community and public activity that makes Latin America so wonderful, while still embracing the amenities of being a world business center. Don't get me wrong, there are still slums of millions of displaced people, and there are still neighborhoods that are not safe for a lone gringo, but Bogotá is not the dark, industrial wasteland of violence and fear that still exists in the mind of those who have not been recently. It is moving, and from my little time here, I would say that it is moving forward.

Things I learned in Cuba...

2007-09-23T14:51:00.000-05:00

Hey there,

Tyler here, and I am proud to report that I have survived my trip to Cuba. That's right, I went to Cuba, and I did so very much outside the law so don't tell anyone. (Although, Im in Colombia now, so there's not a lot they could do about it.) Ad and I booked a flight from Costa Rica, and got a visa as Costa Ricans. Sneaky, I know.

Here's where it got a little messy. At the airport, we realized that it might be difficult to withdraw money in Cuba, so we decided to do so before we left. She got out a fair amount, but I was only able to withdraw about a hundred dollars. No problem, we thought. Besides, we had lived on much less in Costa Rica, and we were good at budgeting and rationing our resources. When we arrived in Havana, we attempted to engage in that age-old Latin American pasttime of haggling with different taxi drivers to get the lowest price. They wouldn't budge, not one. It was at this point that we began to realize that life is slightly different in a Communist state. Everything, and I mean everything, is regulated by the government. We took a cab and drove to our hostel, which was an old, converted convent in the middle of Havana's historic district. It was 25 a night, which is pretty steep as far as hostels go, but we handed over the money. The desk attendant then informed us that it was 25 per person, and once again, that was the set price all over the country.
A bit concerned at this point, we went back and counted our money. $125 or so for food and shelter while we were on the beach (3 days of our trip). Not too bad, we can do it.

Cuba, apparently, has a double economy, meaning tht they actually have two forms of currency circulating within all of the businesses. One, called Moneda Nacional, is used only by the cubans nationals to buy basic commodities very cheaply. $1 is equal to 25 MNs. The other, called, CUCs, are used only by tourists; $1 is worth less than 1 CUC, and prices are comparable to those in the US, if not more expensive.

Well, the next day, we discovered that we were not able to use the MN at all (we surely don't look Cuban), so things were going to be pricey, not to mention the fact that there is an exit tax of $50 to get out of the country, which was something we were actually looking forward to at this point. Factor in the taxi back to the airport, and we were left with $7 dollars to sleep for 3 days, and eat for 6.

We brought stuff to camp in on the beach, but we found out that if the police didn't harass us all night, we would probably be robbed.
So, no free housing for those three days.

Desperate and hungry, we used a very shady service that gets money from the states to here without a paper trail. We had money sent from home to "some guy" in the Dominican Republic, who (thank God) sent it to Havana. That service took its fair share of the money, but we now had enough to survive.

In the meantime, we spent hours walking around Havana, seeing the sights and talking to Cubans about Fidel, Communism and the like. We met a wonderful group of students from the University of Buffalo who were a Godsend, and even though we had no money, we had a pretty good time.

After the money came through, we went to Varadero, which (according to Ad) is considered to be the #2 beach in the world.

I'd believe it. Crystal clear water, relatively uncrowded, and we were the only 2 gringos for miles.

All in all, I had a great time, but Cuba was not at all what I thought it was going to be. I was picturing this romanticized culture where no one works too much, and everyone comes alive with dancing, music and art at night. Cuba is poor, make no mistake. The embargo has affected the economy greatly, and while no one dies of hunger, no one leaves the island either. They are very proud of the fact that they have resisted American Imperialism for so long, and rightfully so, but the basic rights they have sacrificed in the process have left me very conflicted. It seems that for everything Cuba has done right, they have commited a grave error against humanity as well, to the point that I seem unable to make any sort of moral judgement at all. It is no better of worse than the States, it is simply different.

Anyway, I'm in Colombia now, I'm not in prison for traveling to Cuba, and I'm loving every minute here. Colombians are not the cold, violent people everyone makes them out to be, and Bogota is simply beautiful. I will write more about it later, as things develop.

Hasta,

Tyler

I'm there...almost...

2007-09-07T18:26:00.000-05:00

Finally, on the 3rd of September, over a month and a half after I was planning, I boarded a plane for Latin America. Note I didn't say Colombia specifically, as I am actually in a hostel right now in Santa Elena, Costa Rica.

How on earth did you get so lost on your way to Colombia that you ended up in Costa
Rica...you may ask. Well, here's the story; when I studied in Costa Rica about two years ago, I (unwisely) chose the specific concentration that kept me in San Jose. The other two concentrations, ecology and latin american studies, each visited the rainforest and Cuba, respectively. As you could imagine, I was wildly jealous, and I promised myself that someday, before I died, I would avenge the terrible injustice that I had suffered.

Fast forward about 2 years.

In the last month of my stay in the United States, something quite miraculous happened. The church that my travelling companion Adrienne attends, First United Methodist of Carrollton, decided to take me under its wing, so to speak. They invited me to be a camp counsellor, and then they informed me that, in return for having a blast with the kids, they are going to cover about 180 dollars a month for the whole time I am there!(This doesn´t cover eveyrthing, but I´m working on the rest and things are looking up.)This deal also came with the understaning that I would accompany my friend and fellow FUMCC sponsoree Adirenne to Costa Rica and Cuba. So, I am spending a week in both, getting to do all of the things I had wished to have done on my semester abroad.

We have visited our host families and the campus of LASP (the program I studied with while here) and today we spent in the jungle. If I can manage it, I will post some pictures when we get to Colombia, but for the time being, those of you who have seen or read the Jungle Book, picture Mowgli emerging from the dense ferns and vines on the back of baloo, and crosing paths with a skinny, freckled gringo in a goofy orange helmet (we did some ziplines...be jealous).

Well, that is all for now. Many, many thanks to the FUMCC youth group for your love and support!

Hasta,
Tyler

T minus one month

2007-07-05T14:42:00.000-05:00

Hello all,
As you may know, or will find out soon after this comma, I have been given a wonderful opportunity to travel to Colombia to work with an organization called Formando Vidas; a faith-based organization that attempts to undo the years of physical, psychological, and educational neglect that have been suffered by the thousands of orphaned children that roam the streets of Bogota, the capital city. I will be volunteering for up to 2 years, serving in a number of capacities ranging from teacher to case worker to live-in house facilitator. Colombia has the third highest rate of displaced peoples in the world, which means that this small organization and I have our work cut out for us.

Things are running along smoothly, with a few exceptions. First, it is proving somewhat difficult to even get inside the country. State based bureaucracy is notoriously slow, and the added strain of having to cut through red tape in two languages makes this a somewhat frustrating process. However, things are moving along and it looks like it will all be settled within the month.

Secondly, I guess that a long time ago, Colombia adopted a system of regulated currency exchange, and now they want you to pay for things. News to me, but the fact remains, living ain’t cheap. Well…in a way it is. Adding up the costs of food, shelter, public transportation, medical insurance etc. My cost of living comes out to be somewhere around $8.20 a day (that’s $250 a month). I know what you’re thinking, not bad, right? Well here’s the catch, I am doing this on a volunteer basis, and so I won’t be earning a dime. I have some savings, some leftover graduation money, and my gracious parents are willing to help as well, but I just don’t have enough to cover both plane trips and all of my months down there.

This is where you come in. I realize that many of those who are reading this journal are fresh out of college, just like myself, and just as unemployed and dependant as I am. If that is the case, no sweat, but if you do have a few bucks to spare, and you think that this endeavor is worthwhile I would greatly appreciate your help, even if it means covering one day, every little bit is appreciated. My family has set up a special account through Chase bank, and since I won’t be around to endorse any checks, if you could make those out to Jeanne or Jimmy Mowry and send them to:

4727 Kensington Ct.
Arlington, TX 76016

I will be keeping records of all of my funds received and expended, so you can know if I got you check, and how the money is being used.

On top of all of that, this will serve as the official travel journal of my adventure down here in Colombia, and I will post my activities as frequently as possible, so check back often.

Thanks and God Bless,
Tyler Mowry