We arrived to the Saturday market a short 10 minutes later and were greeted by a teen we knew asking if we needed help. He was there working as a wheelbarrow boy, carrying patrons' purchases in a rented wheelbarrow. His name was Lucho. He wore a tattered army green turtleneck sweater with a few snags and holes. His wind pants were worn loose and stained with years of use. I told him that I'd love his help, and we made our way through the stands of Brazilian food and sausage sandwiches to the section of plants, soil, and pots. We loaded up 3 large copper stained clay pots, that were about $3 a piece. We bought some soil, then walked half a block to get some vegetables from a stand with fresh produce. I was greeted kindly by my facebook friend, Monica. I purchased some beautiful red bell peppers, a large head of cauliflower, fresh peeled faba beans, some carrots, and a few ripe tomatoes. We headed over to my friend Clementina (Clementine in English) who ironically sells fruit. She loaded my cart with yellowing bananas, raspberries (a rarity here I was surprised to find), some pricey blueberries, large purple grapes, and a ripened cantaloup. After paying and chatting a bit, she gave me two small golden papayas for free. All I had left on my list was some cheese, so I walked over to a white tarp covered stand where a middle aged lady with dyed chestnut blond hair sold her homemade cheeses. She makes everything from goat cheese to parmesan to cheddar. My favorite is a cream colored soft cheese called, "delicacy of the gods." She is always sure to give you a taste of anything you ask and if you, like me, always have a few teens with you, she is sure to give you plenty to share with them. Lucho and Rodrigo loaded everything into the car and we headed home to unload, and Rodrigo walked home to finish his chores.
I rested a bit before taking my son, Edson, to get a haircut. We attempted a place closer to home, but it was closed. Most businesses are frustratingly closed on Saturdays after noon. So, we made our way to our usual spot closer to the city, a barber shop styled after the 1950's calles Sandro's. We walked through the glass sliding door into the white walled room with black and white checkered flooring, where two others were waiting their turn. After about 30 minutes, a lady in all grey and hair tightly pulled back into a ponytail was finishing up his hair and I had just enough time to skip across the street to the little donut shop for some donut holes.
After the haircut, we drove out of the city to an orphanage for girls where a friend of mine was gifting me some tomato plants. We rode carefully over the rocky country roads until we pulled up to the wooden gate affixed to a peachy concrete wall surrounding the property. Inside, we spent an hour digging up soil, wetting it and transferring the small plants to the pots. After dropping them off at my house, I drove back over to Rodrigo's house to help him prepare jellos and a few other things to sell the next day in a neighborhood meeting about an hour and a half from the city where his mom owns a small plot of land.
I walked though that rusted door, greeted by several excited dogs sniffing my heels and letting out half-muted barks. The ground was dirt and little more. No grass other than a few unwanted patches near the adobe wall, where some plants grew in olds pots and were almost audibly begging for some water. Although the barren ground caused much the adobe and cement house to be covered in dirt and grime, it was preferable to maintaining the costs of grass. I ducked under wire clothes lines with a few items drying after being hand washed in a red plastic basin lying near an old cracked wooden stool. The house has a small half bathroom with a shower head spouting from the ceiling for bathing in the small room. The bathroom, being the newest addition, is the nicest part of the house. There are two cluttered bedrooms with doors to the outside and a small room in a separate structure that serves as a kitchen. The kitchen has brick and dirt flooring, and since there is no sink or drain, liquids are simply poured onto the floor and soaked up by the old brick and settled dirt. In the kitchen, I sat on an old aluminum twin bed with a firm makeshift mattress topped with a torn and spent green comforter. Beside me was a large 70's refrigerator which no longer works, acting as a shelf/pantry. On the other side of it was a dated hutch with broken glass stuffed to the brim with mismatch glassware, plates, cups, and whatnots. In front of that was another small outdated, but functioning refrigerator. Directly to it's left was a small European style stove, holding a few pots in the broken oven. Draped across the top of the stove was stained half-folded cream table cloth shouldering another collection of whatnots and other miscellaneous items. In the corner sat a oak colored wooden table with a portable two-burner stove atop it, connected to a propane tank stowed underneath another wooden table topped with all the other kitchen wares. On the small white portable stove, Rodrigo was boiing water to make jellos to sell at his mother's lot about an hour and a half from the city in a small community (which still is without completed structures, no electicity, nor running water).
As I sat there, I thought, "I should get a picture of this so people back home can see what they should be grateful for." I pulled my phone out and took an amazingly positioned photograph that captured both the setting and the moment. It was raw, candid, and beautiful. You could see everything that defined this space, from the old world floor to the one tiny lightbulb hanging from a wire tied to the misshapen ceiling rafter supporting the aged and rusted tin roof. As I looked at the picture and studied it, how in it, Rodrigo unknowingly stood at the stove preparing the water to be poured into the recycled plastic bucket at his feet with the jello powder, I was immediately struck with guilt for having taken it. What was I doing? I realize that pictures like these have won awards, have opened the eyes of the world to lives so very different from our own. I understand the beauty in making known the plight of the poor around us. But this was different. I wasn't in the random house of one of the incredibly numerous poor around me. I was at my friend's house. He had trusted me to see the things that embarrassed him. He had included me (the "wealthy gringo" by his country's standards) in a space that no one of my standing had stood before in his life. And, I had (though with perceived good intentions) exploited the moment.
I remembered an argument I witnessed here in Bolivia while helping bathe poor babies in the city plaza. An elderly (seemingly racist) woman berated us for "dirtying" the plaza with people who should bathe where they live. She was obviously in err for her thinking because her statements were legitimately prejudice. However, she did make a comment that came to my mind as I sat there reclining uncomfortably on the metal frame of the bed. "You come here and act like you are doing good, but really you are just exploiting the ugliest part of our country. You take pictures of our filth and feel good about it." Obviously, there was much hate in here words, but there was a shadow of truth to her statement. We take pictures of other's hurt or shame and then we exploit it to show the good we do. And what's sad, is that this is the principal means for missionaries to fund their ministries. I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "people will give to faces, not ideas."
And that is so true. However, I think it's time to try and find the line here. I will gladly take pictures of church functions, events, etcetera. However, the raw, daily stuff I do and deal with, those things should not be photographed but lived. My moments should be focused on people, not documentation. Our ministry is to build on loving people who so often do not feel loved. I can't exploit their pain, but I need those who support us to understand this and to love us, and to continue supporting us to help us love others better every day. Want to see what life is like here? Come see us. You can stay with us, and we'll introduce you and take you everywhere we go. But, lets just love people instead of loving the applause we get from helping them. Maybe this was uncomfortable, or stepped on toes. It's just some thoughts on my heart this week. Maybe it'll challenge you to really live the moments you have with others rather than documenting your charity to them.
"Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in SHOWING HONOR. "
- Romans 12:10
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