THE COPPER CANYON :: LESS THAN PARADISE

We all piled onto a coach bus on Thursday morning and traveled to the Copper Canyon, an area of great physical beauty (a bit like the Grand Canyon, but with dense, green vegetation). It is also the home of an estimated 70,000 of the indigenous Tarahumara people, renowned for their long-distance running ability (their word for themselves, Raramuri, means runners). Most of the Tarahumara still adhere to their traditional lifestyle, inhabiting natural shelters such as caves or cliff overhangs, and they struggle with the problems of indigenous people the world over – isolation, alcoholism, poverty, depression. We visited an orphanage for Tarahumara children while we were there.

Unfortunately, what was billed as an eight-hour bus trip became thirteen hours due to many unscheduled stops to see the sights along the way. By 8pm darkness was falling fast, and the driver was having trouble finding the place where we were meant to stay. Finally, we stopped in the right lane of a two-way highway — there was no real shoulder to pull safely off the road. There was a small sign reading “Christian Center,” and a narrow rock track leading through the woods into the falling darkness. We had no idea whether we were in the right place, but the kids had had it – they all scrambled off the bus like caged animals onto a narrow strip of grass between the busy highway and an active railroad track. I was acutely aware of the parents that I left behind at home, promising that I would keep their children safe. I decided to focus on containing the damage — preventing anyone from being hit by a fast-moving, 3-ton vehicle seemed to be a practical approach for the moment.

Finally, we got word that this was the right place and they were sending vans to get our bags. We crossed the kids safely over the highway, sent them off into the pitch dark woods, and started unloading luggage off the bus. One of the drivers told me that they had cooked dinner for 35 people the previous night, and were surprised that we did not show up. Great. Wrong date. I asked, fearing the worst, if there were any beds available for this night. “Well,” he said, “there is an outbuilding that is under construction, if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” Mind? How could we mind? We carried all our things over to an empty brick building with a concrete floor and no electricity. The dust was horrendous as everyone settled in, throwing their packs on the floor and shaking out their sleeping bags. The particles in the air were soon so thick that soon every kid with asthma started wheezing. I made my way around the room, confirming that they had their inhalers (two didn't, big surprise), passing out antihistamines to take before bed. It was feeling less and less certain that I was doing much of a job in the “safe” department.

Finally, at 9:45 pm, the food was ready. Three women managed to muster up crispy tostadas (4-inches in diameter) with lettuce, tomato, refried beans and a sprinkling of cheese. There was just enough for each teenager to have two; the adults settled for one.

Brooding silence as we settled in for what we optimistically called “the world’s biggest sleepover.” Everyone was feeling upset, some scared, some angry, one afraid of the dark. Most were just quiet. This trip was not at all what was promised, and “nothing works, but somehow it all works out,” was not a very comforting thought as we faced a long night on the hard, damp floor.

As we settled down into our sleeping bags, a voice in the darkness started talking about Chewey, the little boy from Anapra. "He lives in a cinder block house," said one of the teen. "I bet he sleeps with a blanket on a concrete floor like this every night. And, you know he doesn't ever have much more to eat than we just did - they never have meat."

And with that, realizing that we had been handed the opportunity to live Chewey’s experience and gain a perspective on his life, everyone fell asleep.

JUAREZ: WE HAVE CONTACT

The sun is breaking through the clouds as we head for the second church that we will be painting, but there is still a huge amount of water in the streets from the storms last night. It rarely rains in Juarez and the sewers clearly aren’t equipped to handle this storm. We set off toward the highway, our vans plowing through the water like stallions fording a river.

By the time we reach Anapra, the clouds have cleared and the sun is blazing overhead. Everything we heard about the poverty here, one of the poorest barrios of Juarez, is true. The electrical wires overhead end suddenly at the outskirts of the neighborhood, rusting cars are everywhere and virtually every modest structure is constructed of naked concrete. As we are traveling, the driver of one of our vans runs over a dog in the street without even attempting to brake or swerve. The teenagers onboard are outraged, some crying after this very personal encounter with the low value placed on life in this forsaken neighborhood.

The job today is daunting. Padre wants us to put white paint on a fence that runs 300 yards around the perimeter of the church. It is constructed of crumbling, unprimed cinder block – very difficult to paint – and there is sand at the bottom of the wall that sticks to the wet paintbrushes. There is not a bit of shade. The sand is full of burrs with deep, sharp spines and is burning hot on this day, which is going to top 100 degrees by noontime.

The teens have requested that they choose the teams and set up the work plan today. They get a kick out of running the show, and enthusiastically dive into the project. As the painting teams spread out along the perimeter, carrying paint, brushes and other supplies to their workstations, a little girl climbs over the wall. She appears to be about six years old, and lives in a house nearby. As she talks with our teenagers, other little kids join her. Soon, our painting crew is supplemented by fourteen little children, all wielding paintbrushes under the tutelage of doting (and suddenly expert) teenagers. Spanish phrasebooks materialize on the steps of the church – now, no one is embarrassed to try speaking Spanish because they want to communicate with these children.

A three-year-old named Chewey steals everyone’s hearts. He is mischievous, affectionate, and funny, with black eyes so huge and limpid he might have been drawn by a Disney illustrator.
As the sun moves higher in the sky, women from the neighborhood are setting up lunch inside the church, which is at least 15 degrees cooler than the glaring sand outside. They carry in huge trays of tamales - steam-cooked cornmeal dough filled with cheese, beans and chilis, wrapped in cornhusks to retain the moisture. The kids traipse inside, hot, tired and sweating, shepherding the little ones in front of them. They sit the neighborhood children down at the table that has been set with cups of cold water and plates of food, standing behind them and waiting to eat until the little ones have had their fill. Could this possibly be the same group of teenagers who just yesterday had goofed their way through a haphazard painting job? Clearly, as our kids have fallen in love with Chewey, the severity of his circumstances has begun to sink in.

No question about finishing the job today. After a rousing soccer match with the kids, our crack painting crew finishes the task and poses for a triumphant photograph in front of the long, pristine white wall. As we pull out of the neighborhood to head back to our compound, fourteen little children are running behind the bus. There is a long silence, and more than a few tears, as we drive away.

A WEEK VOLUNTEERING IN JUAREZ

My Episcopal church is one of three, New York-area churches that is sending a group to do Habitat for Humanity-type work in Juarez, Mexico, and I must admit, I am feeling some trepidation now that the trip is upon us. Earlier this morning, our church held a special “commissioning service,” blessing all of us who are heading off for eight days painting outpost churches in the bleak Mexican desert. A friend who often does this kind of volunteer work in Haiti told me: “We like to say that nothing works, but everything always works out. Lower your expectations…because efficiency is not going to be part of your experience in Juarez.”

Later, as we prepared to depart from the church parking lot, anxious parents thanked me for making the trip and keeping their children safe. Frankly, I am not terribly worried about security, although Juarez is a rough border town. We are staying in a locked compound, and we’re traveling with experienced, savvy, Mexican/New Yorkers – Canon Sylvia and Father Hilario, who is a towering, muscular man with a shaved head and neatly trimmed goatee. Priest or not, anyone would think twice before messing with this dignified, fierce-looking man.

I am more uneasy at the prospect of a week of physically hard work in 100-degree temperatures, using a sleeping bag in a sweltering bunkhouse, to say nothing of chaperoning nineteen teenagers. I know they are not used to this kind of hard work.

“Better you than me,” whispered one of the mothers as she reached past me to give her daughter a final hug.