Visit to the Campo

I took the chance this weekend to visit San Pedro, a town six hours away in the campo—countryside-- where a couple decades ago was born the Apostolic Christian Church in Paraguay. I traveled with Juan, Oscar’s nephew, and stayed the weekend at his grandmother’s house, where I was welcomed to the Caballero homestead with incredible hospitality in the midst of immense pastoral tranquility. Some general observations and pieces of my trip to share with you all:

I saw some Mennonites in the Asuncion bus terminal. There’s a large Mennonite population here, much like there is in very own Ohio, who work as farmers and practice their steadfast pacifism in the north of the country. The lady Mennonites I saw wore traditional bonnets, dresses, and stockings, while the men wore overalls and simple button-up shirts. Since they work so hard, the Mennonites here are very productive and very rich, too. One Mennonite lady I saw reminded me so much of my own very Germanic-looking Great-Grandma Kemp that I couldn’t stop staring at her.

There are two bus lines with similar schedules that go to San Pedro. The bus line we took traveled through the night, leaving around 10 and arriving around 4 in the morning. It was the nicer bus line, with air conditioning and very few stops. The cheaper bus line suffered a terrible crash a week ago where everyone on board was killed, and some were even decapitated. The bus drivers were drinking and making merry in the New Year festivities and not paying enough attention to the route, which is currently being paved for the first time and is very dangerous.

We were welcomed to our destination at four a.m. with big hugs from Juan’s grandma, Abuelita (little grandma). She was just getting up for the day, and resolutely gave me her bed to sleep in for the rest of the morning. She wouldn’t have it back the entire weekend, either, insisting Saturday night that I have her bed to myself while she shared an old mattress on the ground with her daughter. Abuelita lives on her own with a few granddaughters, surrounded by the smaller homesteads of her now well-grown children. She keeps a tremendously large garden that looks like it ought to be taken care of with a tractor, when really it is all tilled and planted and weeded and harvested by hand or with the help of a horse every once in a while. She has fiercely bright blue eyes—an extreme rarity in Paraguay—and a wise old face permanently wrinkled with so much wisdom and compassion. I’m not sure if she knew I was coming ahead of time, but she welcomed me nonetheless as a grandson to her home. We were hardly able to talk together, as she nearly strictly speaks the indigenous Guarani tongue, but the welcome she communicated to me was far stronger than words in any language could express anyways.

Saturday we traveled to the river about a half an hour away to buy some fresh fish to carry back to Asuncion. We took motorcycles, the cheaper and easier mode of transportation than bulky autos. I sat behind a Caballero uncle as we sped through the beautiful Paraguayan countryside on a nicely paved road. I don’t know much about Che Guavera, I certainly don’t like Communism, and I’ve never seen the movie Motorcycle Diaries, but I felt a certain connection to the young South American rebel leader as we passed freely along through the fields of sandy red soil. We didn’t wear helmets, either, which is another Paraguayan (and dangerous, too!) tradition, reaching speeds of 55 miles per hour with our heads completely unprotected. Once, when I thought we were going way too fast, I purposely lifted my head up a little and lost my cap. It was a good excuse to stop and slow down, and I didn’t even have to show my driver that I was a really scared and sissy American.

Saturday night we went to a recently chipped-off-the-old-AC-block church service meeting outside of a home in San Pedro. The church there (the first in Paraguay!) has recently gone through a very painful division, splitting families down the middle and a small community into two even smaller groups. Being associated a tad more with the new faction, we visited their weekly service on Saturday. I thought the freedom and informality of the service was beautiful and certainly like the early church in its original wooly form, but I thought how terrible it was that the foundation for starting a new church had to be built all over again because of human divisions and arguments. Sunday morning, then, we went to the old and original church. We were welcomed there, too, and as the new North American missionary I did my best to show that I wanted no part in any factionalism by giving a small offering for the very-public tithe.

Sunday afternoon I drank pure milk straight from the cow’s teats for the first time ever. It was warm and buttery and delicious, and I thought how terrible it is that some Americans are thrown into prison for selling such a wonderful delicacy. Cows here are a sure and solid investment, and the number of cows a person owns reflects just how much power and wealth they have, too. I’m thinking of buying a cow as an investment of sorts, one to be managed by friends from the church who live in the countryside and one that reproduces itself every year or so. Then, when my herd reaches twenty or so, I can sell 19 at great profit and start all over again.

We returned back home on Sunday night, nicely fattened by a weekend of great food and leisure. At times the campo life was boring, but it was always beautiful and full of relationship. There were family and friends and time and visits and everything else in the world that’s important, although so many commodities of modern life were missing. There was sunshine and stars and flowers and cows and little horse-drawn carts and so many other things to give so much pleasure to a tecnoeducadvanced North American. I really took a great deal of delight and rest from my short time in San Pedro and hope to return soon to see and take in even more of the simple country life.