There´s a Fever in the Air

Ain’yu feelin’ it? Thaysuh feevuh en the aye’! Thas raught— Ahhh sayed, uh feevuh!!

A yellow fever, to be exact. All of Paraguay is “feeling” it, too, with some six confirmed cases in the San Pedro district, one case here in a suburb of Asuncion, and sixty-six more people thought to be sick or dead with the tropical disease, although their cases have yet to be confirmed by medical authorities. Thus la fiebre amarilla, or the yellow fever, is all the rage in newspapers, chat around water coolers, and just about every other place where ideas are communicated in this sometimes crazy and sensationalized culture.

This time, though, the people may have good reason to be worried. Yellow fever, like Dengue and malaria and a host of other illnesses, is a virus carried person to person via a species of black and white tiger-striped mosquito. In a tropical environment like this one, it’s not uncommon to wake up with legs and arms covered by these ugly insects. Once infected, though, the virus’s host is stricken down with a terrible fever that lasts for a few days. After this dreadful period of time, the person may seem to feel better and improve on the outside, but the sickness continues to secretly wreak havoc on the inside, causing internal bleeding and eventually multiple organ failure. When the kidneys shut down, the body becomes poisoned and the skin turns yellow; hence the name, “yellow” fever. What makes the fever even more notorious is that once you get it, there’s nothing doctors can do to help you except to alleviate the symptomatic pains. About half the people who get yellow fever die from it.

Usually the disease is confined to remote jungles and extreme boon docks. When I traveled to Egypt, for example, I didn’t need a vaccination to go to Luxor in the center of the country, but had I gone all the way south to Aswan the immunization would have been advisable. Likewise, there was no yellow fever warnings for travel to Paraguay when I was making my plans to come here. Had I decided to go to the tropical Amazon in the wild Brazilian frontier a yellow fever vaccine would have been important, but here in the more civilized Asuncion it was never considered a necessity by me or the U.S. Department of State.

Now that’s all changed, though. I’ve been forwarded two emails from the American embassy saying it’s a good idea to get vaccinated, along with lists of all the places and times in the entire country offering vaccinations. The Paraguayan government, for its part, has done a very impressive job of responding to the health emergency, and already millions of vaccinations have been made available and administered. Nearly all my students along with their families have been vaccinated in just the few past days, and there’s even talk of a vaccination squad coming to Colegio Privado Adonai in the weeks ahead to immunize everyone else.

Some naysayers say that the yellow fever is just another example of a media hype and public frenzy, full of news and talk and gossip but devoid of any real threat to public health. Last year, for example, Dengue fever was all the rage (you can even read about it in Ellen’s blog), but already the public fear of that disease has completely passed. Supporting this point of view, too, is the claim that the men from San Pedro who contracted yellow fellow recently traveled the Brazilian interior where they ate infected monkey jungle meat. Basically, you might say, those guys deserved to get yellow fever.

Still, I’m not taking any chances. Pastor Pedro preached on Sunday that we all ought to take advantage of the free government immunizations, and I’m always one who’s inclined to listen to authority and be easily swept along with the currents of public opinion. Hence I went this morning with the two Caballero boys to get vaccinated at the health clinic in Lambare’.

Outside the clinic’s fences was a carnival-like atmosphere, with vendors selling food and people smiling all around. There were hundreds of people lined up in a regimental-style to confront just as many and similarly-arranged nurses battling to give the injections. We gave our own names and neighborhoods to some young men keeping the registers, and then proceeded to join in with the vaccinating throng. The wait wasn’t long, though, and within a minute or two we all three were holding our arms in after-injection pain.

I’m not sure how official or sanitary the improvised clinic was, but I was careful to watch my nurse take the cap of a new needle and then discard the syringe when she was done. It only took a little pinch and two minutes, and suddenly I was able to count myself as one of the millions recently safeguarded from the terrible wiles of yellow fever. For once, it seems as if the Paraguayan government has been effective, efficient, and especially helpful, even if it is only in giving a sense of security and peace of mind to so many citizens feverish with the fear of a certain yellow fever.

New Schedule

Please forgive me as it’s been a while since I last updated my blog, but life has gotten much fuller for me since classes started two weeks ago. Since you’re all probably wondering what I’m up to, I’ll give you my typical schedule along with some commentary, too.

5:45-7:00: Wake up, have a cup of coffee, read scripture and Lenten passages for the day, pray a while, make my rounds through the house. This is the foundation for my day, so I’m really thankful that I don’t have to be at the school until later (most teachers’ schedules at the school start at 6:30). Once I get my fill of coffee, the Word, and a little bit of the Church Fathers, I’m ready to face whatever might come my way.

7:00-7:30: Run around the big block of our neighborhood a couple times. Shower. I’m trying to stay in shape, running off all the extra carbs I get from too much bread and rice and noodles. Showering is always a good idea after running in the tropical morning heat, when temperatures even this early can be in the mid to high humid 80s.

7:30-8:30: Get dressed. Plan out and review my lessons for the day. Go to school. A good lesson plan = a good teacher. I have four plans to make every day: 2nd, 3rd, and 5th grades, along with conversation classes on topics of my choice with 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th grades.

8:30-8:50: Round up all the kids on recess who misbehaved in English class the day before so they can sit with me on the bench and serve their punishment time. I’m pretty strict and am not afraid to discipline the kids, who can be really unruly. The third time I tell a kid to be quiet or sit down in class, it’s already too late—they’ve lost some of their recess time the next day. I like the system, as it gives me the chance to spend quality time with misbehaving students.

8:50-9:30: Mill about the school socializing and making last-minute class preparations. I think parents and students like to see the English teacher out and about. I’ve heard a lot of moms and dads especially like Adonai for all the North Americans who come to visit and teach.

9:30-10:10: 2nd Grade. About 18 eight-year olds who are still learning how to control themselves. Most respect and maybe even fear my authority a little bit, but some don’t want to listen to or do a single thing. About half the class time is getting the class under control.

10:10-10:50: 3rd Grade. About 22 nine year olds, several who are related to one another, in one giant chaos of a class. This group definitely receives the brunt end of my disciplinary wrath. I’ve removed four of the worst students from the class (three of whom are cousins from the church) to write sentences outside the room, and more than half of the class has lost recess time to me. About 2/3 of the hour is spent getting the class under control.

10:50-11:30: 5th Grade. About 21 eleven-year olds who are much more fun and interesting than the younger kids, but still need correction and guidance often. They can take notes on their own and are already well on their way to becoming young adults, so it’s usually a pleasure staying with them.

11:30-12:10: Leave the school. Check my email. Eat lunch.

12:10-12:50: Weekly conversation class with the older grades. Some of the classes I like, some I don’t. Some are at really awkward and annoying ages, and some I’d like to consider my friends. All these classes consist of me speaking loudly and clearly in English, and I nearly pass out for all the breath I’ve lost in the tropical heat. Right now we’re doing a unit on American cities.

12:50-1:50. Leave the school. More lunch. Take a short nap.

1:50-2:30. Round 2. 2nd Grade. A lot smaller than the morning class- around eight kids. I’m still really sleepy from my siesta and it’s really hot in the middle of the afternoon. I and the kids just want to sleep, but it’s much easier to learn because the kids are so much quieter. As with all my afternoon classes, I often run out of things to do.

2:30-3:10: 5th Grade. Only 10 kids, mostly pretty good and laid-back. By this time, I’m not so sleepy anymore. The young bachelorette teacher of this class always smiles at me as she leaves the classroom in a wow!-she’s-got-a-great-smile-and-is-really-pretty-too sort of way.

3:10-4:10. Rest from classes. Tutor Caballero boys in the library. Brandon and Gabbie go to an all-English-speaking Christian school in Asuncion, so I help them out with their math in the English language. A young guy from the church recently asked me to help him with his math homework in Spanish, but I had no idea how to explain it in English. Tutoring in English brings down at least one barrier to understanding.

4:10-4:50: 3rd Grade, last class of the day. Although I’m nearly exhausted, this class is a lot of fun. A huge variety of personalities in only eight students. You might say a pray for one of them—Santiago--, who really acts as if he’s possessed by some demon spirit of disobedience and has missed school the past week for his actions. He scares the girls in the class.

4:50-Evening: Home. Home at last, home at last. Thank God, I’m home at last. I’m learning a lot from teaching, am enjoying it immensely, and am seeing the HUGE impact teachers can have on students’ lives, but it’s really tiring and I’m always thankful to have made it through another day.

Home

I finally got a space to call my own. For those of you who didn’t know, before I moved last week I had been living in the church for two months. I had my own place there in a classroom with all the necessities for living- a bed, a refrigerator, and even an oven. I was just like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, you might say, except I didn’t ring any bells, my back’s somewhat straighter, and I’m much better looking. Be that as it may, living at the church was a place where I was able to get to know the church community well—almost too well, for sure. Throughout the summer months there were always people there, and moments of privacy and quietude were few and far between. Luckily, I had two Argentinean brothers from the church keeping me company for safety and sanity’s sake, but it was still a time of much frustration in my life for the complete lack of boundaries between personal and public appearances.

The problem on my part was neither financial nor a lack of desire to move out. I’ve received much support to be able to rent a very decent place for Paraguayan standards, and all summer long it nearly killed me that I was bumming off the church and without a place of my own. I felt needy, dependent, and very incapable as a missionary. So intense was my desire to leave the church that I spent two months searching every neighborhood within the distance of a twenty minute walk from the church for a place to rent. I went out for hours at a time in the severe Paraguayan heat with my thermos of water in hand, barely able to communicate in Spanish but, by some amazing grace of God, conveying to so many dozens of people that I needed a place to live. The problem, however, was that these same so many dozens of people responded with blank stares and empty answers when I asked them if there was any place available nearby. For the life of me, I couldn’t find any place to live. There were several close calls, but always the opportunities closed before I could do anything and I always left empty-handed. I think I knew a little bit how Jesus felt when he said, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”

Part of the problem may have been the long list of requirements and special conditions that the search required. Safety was a priority for me and all my American things, and I wanted a place that was close enough to walk to the church. I have the privilege of staying with two other guys from the congregation, so I needed an apartment that could house three guys comfortably along with all the visitors that come on the weekends and on missions trips. Finally, to stay on budget, I needed all this for under $100 every month. I often found places that met three or four of these conditions but seemed woefully lacking in the fourth or fifth area. There was a nice apartment that was cheap and close and safe, for example, but where the landlady only wanted two people to stay. There was another house that was big and cheap and close, but that was located in a rough part of the neighborhood and had no fence. Everywhere I went to look, I only met tons of dead ends.

Throughout the process, I got more and more discouraged. As the start of school year approached and my deadline for moving out of my classroom drew near, I thought for certain I’d be out on the street or sharing a small, sleeper-style room with a friend who was already renting. I was upset, because I knew that as a missionary I ought to have a suitable place to have people over and to be hospitable. Like my mom, one of my gifts is hospitality, and I knew I’d be nearly broken if I couldn’t exercise it. I also knew for certain that God wanted me to share my life with others, and that He certainly could provide a suitable place if He wanted to. The God I serve is, after all, the same God who said, “Every beast of the forest is mine, the cattle on a thousand hills.” My request wasn’t so big as a thousand cows or all the animals in the jungle, either. No; I just wanted a little place to live.

Thankfully, many people continued to encourage me in the search for an apartment and in my faith, too. Karen reminded me time and time again that God often works in last-minute ways to provide for all our needs, and does this to build up our faith in Him. I was skeptical and upset with God, but couldn’t argue with her proof: she reminded me of what God had done (and of what I had personally and recently seen) for the school by providing all the monies for the construction project just a few days before work crews from the States arrived, and also for the $17,000 in student scholarship money just a few days before we had to notify families as to who would and who would not receive the necessary help. The theme, she said, was this: God is good, knows our needs, and we’ve just got to trust that He’ll work things out in the end; even when it’s the extremely last-minute end of things.

Today, although I don’t want to admit it, I have to testify that Karen was right. I’m sitting in the miracle of a perfect apartment this morning that has two huge bedrooms, a bathroom, a nice kitchen along with a back patio and lawn, high safe fences, is within a two minute walk of the church, and rents for only $70 a month. I couldn’t be happier. A week ago Thursday a lady from the church told me about her own miracle: she had been praying for a cheaper and better place than what she had, and God had mercifully provided her family with the stewardship of a large home. They had heard of the opportunity on the radio and, out of 200 applicants, were chosen to house-sit. They would be vacating their apartment quickly the next day, so she wondered if I was still looking for a place to rent. I sure was, I said, since school started next Wednesday and the teacher whose room I occupied was awfully antsy to start decorating. Thankfully, that same day this kind lady referred me to her landlord and by the next day she was packing to up move out. Long story short, the landlord offered me his miraculous place, I signed the papers, and now I have a contract to live here through January.

Thus, God came through and provided in a wonderful way for me. When I was unable do anything on my own with two months worth of effort, God did everything for me in a single day. When I wanted to compromise safety or budget or convenience to rent a place quickly and imperfectly, God provided everything for me in abundance and perfection and while also teaching me mighty lessons in patience and waiting on Him. I’m still not certain why it took so long for me to learn the lesson, but I’ve seen once again how God can work in the last minute in superrich ways. My faith has been grown through no choice of my own, and I can see for certain that, “for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.”

Tell Mother I´ll Be There

I went to an Ash Wednesday service last night in a grand old decaying Asuncion church. The magnificent ceilings had once been painted sky-blue, but more recently had begun to chip off into a yellow oblivion. A couple pigeons flew around in the peaks of the cross-shaped edifice, as if to remind the church-goers that the service would be held partly outdoors for the bad shape of the crumbling architecture. In fact, it seemed like the ancient cement pillars were the only things that kept the entire ceiling from falling down. Yes, the roof was definitely rotten; but I felt safe because the mighty columns were firmly planted and in spectacular shape.

Although the church building appeared as if its term had nearly expired, the congregation inside was full of life, warmth, and the always-renewed vigor of ancient tradition. I had visited the place another time before, so I recognized a few of the congregants from the earlier trip. Among these stood out to me a group of older mothers, grandmothers, and aunts who sat at the front of the church. This mixture of women, some looking like they came from high Paraguayan society and others appearing as if they came from simpler ways of life, met together ahead of the church service to pray. Some were bent over and nearly-crippled with advanced osteoporosis, while others were able to hold their heads high and dignified when not bowing in prayer. Some wore incompatible outfits of gray and green paisley skirts with red and orange flower-patterned shirts, while others matched perfectly with their nice peach makeup and form-fitting cream dresses. Nearly all wore sleeveless shirts for the heat and had sagging arms because of their age, although on some arms the loose skin was much heavier than others.

What impressed me about these women was not their appearance, though, but rather their devotion to intercession and prayer. Most of these women come every day to the church to pray for their loved ones, and I have to believe that their daily practice is an extension of their motherly instincts to watch out and always be concerned for the physical, emotional, and especially spiritual well-being of their families. Their daily prayer vigil testifies to fact that they care, that they love, and they are seeking true happiness through eternal salvation for their husbands, children, and relatives. During a special part of the service, personal prayer requests were read before the congregation. Among these petitions were mentioned the names of many unsaved family members, undoubtedly wayward sons and daughters who weighed so heavily on the hearts of their devoted mothers.

In the congregation that meets in Lamabare, too, there is a group of women that prays every day of the month for specific needs in the church. As one of the missionaries, I’m privileged to be counted among a prayer request in the monthly cycle. It’s a comfort—a real comfort—to know that there are nearly a dozen women from the congregation praying for me. I really believe that the prayers of all these women are efficacious and important, both for the salvation of their families and the well-being of the church. I know for certain that I’m where I’m at today because so many women—from my own dear mom to my aunts to my spiritual mothers from the church—have taken the time to intercede on my behalf. I know, too, that these women are just like the pillars supporting the crumbling church I visited: as long as they’re standing spiritually tall and praying firmly, the rest of the church, however badly it looks, will keep on standing, too. As long as there are a few good women praying, I trust and believe that families will continue to come to know the Lord and the Church will continue to advance as the Kingdom of God is grown.

Un Poco Mas Gordo...

I got my haircut yesterday evening, and it’s really short: soldier short, you might say. Although I’m serving in a church with pacifist roots, I definitely look like a military man with my nearly buzzed-off head. If I had been a member of the ACCA church a century ago, they probably wouldn’t have accepted me with my haircut’s connotations, along with those of my great-grandfather’s generation and their Eastern European moustaches.

Whenever I get my hair cut so drastically, people always feel free to tell me how they feel about it. In the States, there’s been a long-standing debate amongst my lady friends as to whether I look better with my hair really long or with my hair really short. I’ve always taken their opinions seriously, but for laziness I’ve always alternated between one extreme or the other (except for when my hair is still growing and I’m just right in the middle, that is). I always disappoint some when I cut my hair and please others when I do, so I’ve learned the past few years that I can’t please everyone.

Usually folks, regardless of whether they like me looking more like the Heath Ledger in A Knight’s Tale or the Heath Ledger in Ten Things I Hate about You, react with surprise to my new-do and tell me how much different I look after the change. Most of the time I receive comments about how much younger I look without my not-so-nicely-trimmed sideburns. One government professor told me last year I looked like a sixteen year old without my shag. Every time that people do remind me that I got my “hair cut,” though, I correct them and tell them that “no, I didn’t get my hair cut, I got my hairs cut.” I think my dad’s the one who taught me the joke, so he always says “hairs cut” the first time. The joke, unfortunately, doesn’t translate into Spanish. I’ve tried.
Anyways, this morning at school I got a comment about my haircut from a Paraguayan that I’d never heard before. Pastor Baldo, the school chaplain, told me that he liked my haircut, smiled, and then said it made me look “un poco mas gordo,” a little more fat. Now, I admire and respect Pastor Baldo a lot—he’s the shepherd for a congregation of extremely poor Christians in a terrible part of Asuncion, and has no doubt seen and perhaps known as much poverty as Mother Theresa-- but we’re not really that close. It wasn’t like my brother or best friend joking and saying that my haircut made me look fat (which I’d expect them to do): no, it was like a respected pastor saying to me that I looked chubbier without my longer hair.

I’d always suspected shorter hair made my face look rounder, but that’s not my point. The point is that here in Paraguay, it’s perfectly normal for people—for pastors—to come right out and say what they think about your or mine or his or her appearance. There aren’t so many taboos about hurting people’s feelings, especially in regards to body image. When describing and distinguishing people one from another, for example, it’s common to call them by their physical characteristics. On the soccer field, the chubby-kid-of-whom-know-one-knows-his-real-name is simply called “el gordo,” the masculine fatty one. When visitors come from other countries, they often get nicknames too, like “la flaca,” the skinny feminine one, or “la gordita,” the feminine diminutive fatty one. There’s a restaurant downtown, which undoubtedly would cause much trouble in the U.S., called “La Negrita,” the feminine diminutive black one, with an antebellum cartoon of a black woman for its Ronald McDonald. Here, however, the restaurant’s name bothers now one. People are known by their physical characteristics, and that’s just that. Pastor Baldo thus meant no harm in saying I looked fatter, because that’s just what it seemed like to him and that’s just what he wanted to say.

So, if you ever visit Paraguay and someone tells you that you’re skinny or fat or short or tall or black or white, don’t take it personally—it’s a cultural thing. It’s different, for sure, but it’s helped me not to take myself or my body image too seriously. I’ve been maintaining the same weight and skin-color since I’ve gotten here, but there’s always plenty of people to tell me I’m getting skinnier or fatter or lighter or darker. In the end, I reckon people can tell me their opinions and it doesn’t really matter all that much to me. I’m just gonna keep on living like I do, growing out my hair and then cutting it back like I do, and doing my best not to let anyone else get in the way.