campo part 2

After my first long soccer-filled day in the campo, having survived three rather awkward meals with shy Salvadorans and language barriers, I was relieved when Lidia invited us to join her for “el rezo,” a small community prayer service she was heading out for. Just barely catching her words about what it entailed, I grabbed my flashlight and we headed out into the dark. I was feeling a bit adventurous as we walked down the dirt road with our flashlights, wondering how far we’d be going. Little did I know I was in for quite a journey.

About thirty seconds in we took a turn off the unlit path to climb a small stone wall into the forest. It was at this point that I started thinking about all of the horror movies I’ve avoided watching for my entire life, and gave myself a pat on the back. We walked, and walked, and walked. I could see nothing beyond the tiny circles from our flashlights, and wondered how this little woman could have it all mapped out in her head. Down hills, through trees, on rocky descents, over more walls—something made me feel like this must be some historic pilgrimage, or epic rescue…As we were crossing through a corn field a huge flash of lightening lit up the entire sky-and I looked around, seeking the relief of knowing where we were, only to see nothing but fields and sky. It was one of those moments where you just give in, like “here I am on the side of a mountain, in the middle of a pitch black field, following this little Salvadoran woman to God knows where…and it could start pouring, or I could fall on any one of these dumb slippery rocks, or she could have no idea where we are--and there would be no backup plan-no cell phones, no one to hear us-hell, we can barely understand each other!” And in all of that uncertainty there was this incredible sense of liberation.

When we finally got back on the road I began to see the others, we joined them and there was this quiet, beautiful, slow formation of believers on the porch of someone’s home. As they talked I just took it all in, studying the faces. Sitting in the limited number of chairs were some of the oldest women I’d ever seen, there were mom’s with sleeping kids on their laps, and giggling teenage girls. Around the dark outskirts of the porch were tired-looking men still in their work clothes. In so many ways it was just like how my faith community gathers, but at the same time it was so very different. They had travelled through the dark, at the only precious time of the day without oppressive heat-at the only time when no work was obligatory—they had come together without announcements, bulletins, refreshments or childcare. They just gathered.

I kept wondering when that awkward “here are our American students visiting to see how we live” part would come up, but it didn’t. There were no introductions, and something felt like that would be unnecessary because the only thing that mattered to them was that we wanted to be there. I kept looking up at the sky, calculating the chances that it would pour on the epic walk home. I realized that it was pretty likely, but my friends and I were probably the only ones thinking about it. To everyone else it seemed like darkness, and rain, and prayer and community were all just this package gift. And I felt blessed to receive it.

Over the next few days Bridget and I became a part of the very slow, quiet life of living on a farm in the campo. With Lidia’s husband and grown son out working all day, we were present to her daily life alone at home. Although so much of it seemed new and romantic to a city girl like myself, I began to pick up on a pattern as the days went by. She was always up before dawn—(if necessary to kill and prepare meat) she made tortillas from scratch and home-made corn coffee alongside a full breakfast, milked the three cows, hand washed clothes and dishes in time to make tortillas yet again, and a full lunch, which only left more dishes. Almost every afternoon I’d be relieved at the first time I saw her sit down-but even this was to do work. She would get out her embroidery kit and sit on the hammock, working on a child’s t-shirt to be sold in the US. One day I went out to sit and watch the rain and chat with her. At one point we sat in silence, and I wondered why she would want to have me there. For me the week was a series of urges to help--wishing I could somehow take a part of this daily load off her hands, wanting to think that my trying to milk a cow or laughing at my failed attempts to make a proper tortilla was doing more than just slowing her down. My desperate attempts to wash the dishes and make conversation couldn’t possibly make up for this feeling that I was just another mouth to feed.

I ran her day through my mind and realized what bothered me. It was that nothing Lidia did was a choice. There was no part of her routine that could be much changed or altered. There was little creativity, nevertheless an “I don’t really feel like it right now” or “day-off.” Even if by some miracle I swept her away for a day-cows would still need to be milked and her family and the animals fed. She was bound to this in a way that I couldn’t grasp because I’ve never been bound to anything. I racked my brain desperately to think of one thing in my life that I HAD to do and couldn’t find one example. My choices and opportunities were so vast that even things I feel obligated to do are consequences of things I have chosen. And that moment, more than any conversation about privilege, or statistic about US wealth, or cheesy quote about freedom—that moment just sank in in a way that I knew I would not forget.

I looked at her and realized the only thing she had really chosen was to have me here, to open up everything she had to us—as a gift. And it seemed funny that with all of the things that I have, I had so little that was tangible to give to her. But it was in our little chats on the porch, and walking the cows back to the field that I felt that something grow—and even though I wouldn’t quite be able to put it into words, I felt like I was giving.