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
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
I know, I know...I'ts been a while.
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
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
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The Times They Are A' Chaingin'
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
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
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Shades of Grey
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
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
Monday, October 8, 2007
So, Tyler, have you been working at all?
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
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
Monday, October 1, 2007
What a day to forget my camera...
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.
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.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Things I learned in Cuba...
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
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
Friday, September 7, 2007
I'm there...almost...
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
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
Thursday, July 5, 2007
T minus one month
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
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
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