Miranda lectured me about how I needed to blog more. Miranda
is wise. So I’m going to try.
My excuse for not sharing my stories, people I’ve met,
places I’ve been, was “I can’t do it
justice.” This is true. No words I say will fully describe what living in
Bolivia is like. But these people, places, stories are important, even if it’s
only my Mom who reads this. (Hi Mom) So here’s one story.
I met Monica my first month in Bolivia. She was sitting on a
blanket in the middle of the Plaza San Sebastian, a park where the roughest of the
Cochabamba homeless population live. I brought a sandwich to offer and sat down
beside her.
“Hi. How are you?”
“Today, good.”
“What’s your name?”
“Monica.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Breanna. Do you live here?”
“Yep.”
“How old are you?”
“17.”
“Me too. Do you like living here?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”
“Do you ever want to live somewhere else?”
“Yes.”
“There are homes you could live in.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of this.”
She waved a
bottle of glue that she had been holding up to her nose throughout the
conversation. Everyone who lives in the plaza has the same plastic bottle,
permanently pressed up to their face. Clefa. To the world, they are simply drug
addicts. They sniff. They stab. They rape. Yes, they act like animals. Because society
treats them like animals. If I was in their position, I don’t know if I would
be any different. Growing to know these people,
I understand now that they don’t sniff to get high, they sniff to survive. The
clefa numbs hunger, cold, pain. It’s an escape from the reality that is living
on the streets. We continued to talk, and after a while, she took her foot out
from underneath her and showed it to me. “Doctor, something’s wrong with my
toe.” Her big toe was huge, black, and smelled rank. In my last blog post, I
believe I mentioned my fear of feet…enough said. I took her to see a real doctor, and to my
obvious great pleasure, assisted in slicing open and draining her toe on a
urine soaked park bench. That’s one way to conquer a fear.
The next
week, I returned to find Monica sitting on the same blanket. “Señorita!
Come here.” I came over and sat down, and she held out a cup of water for me. “It’s
hot today. Drink.” I refused, telling her she should save it, but she insisted.
The cup was filthy. I drank. Kind of
hard to refuse that. Water is a precious resource to these people.
Since I
first met Monica, I’ve seen her almost every week. Every week, we’d talk, she’d
show me her festering foot, and we’d do the same procedure. Slice, drain,
bandage. Every week, it was the same. Then one day, she wasn’t at the plaza.
For 3 weeks, I didn’t see her. Finally, two weeks ago, she made an appearance.
After some small talk, Monica pulled me over to a secluded tree, and pulled off
her shoe. Her toe smelled foul, and looked like it was dying. I’m no doctor,
but I do know that toes should not be large, green and pussy. Not normal. I
told her she would have to go to the hospital or lose her toe. After much
debating, she finally agreed. I happen to live in a hospital. How convenient.
We hopped in
a Trufi to begin the hour-long trip to the hospital, passengers staring
unashamedly at Monica as she curled up with her glue held up to her nose.
“Monica, can I have the glue for the afternoon? I’ll give it back when we
leave the hospital.”
“No.”
“Can I have it for an hour?”
“No.”
“Can I have it for half an hour?”
“No.”
Okay.
Monica continues to sniff. Five minutes later,
she pulls the bottle away from her nose and stares at it. Then, she slides open
the Trufi window, and without hesitating, throws it onto the road. Immediately,
she looks at me, horrified at what she had just done. I burst out laughing. ”You
don’t need it. I’m proud of you.” Although I knew that as soon as we returned
to the plaza, she would more than likely find a new bottle, it was a good
moment. Ten minutes later, she was fast asleep on my shoulder. Sleep doesn’t
happen much in the plaza. For the first time since I met her, she seemed at peace.
I haven’t
seen Monica since our excursion to the hospital two weeks ago. I don’t know if
that was her last sniff of glue, or if she’s somewhere on the streets now, a
new bottle in hand. I don’t know if she took her antibiotics, or traded them in
for clefa. I don’t know when I will see her next, or if I ever will.
When that
bottle of glue hit the pavement, I could have cried, I was so happy. It’s not
physically addictive. Monica doesn’t need it. It’s a crutch. Something she has
control over. Something she knows might make it feel a little better, soften
reality a little. Yes, it’s awful. Yes, it makes them do terrible things. I can
see why the residents of Cochabamba fear these people, are disgusted with their
behaviour. But when it comes down to it, we all have our crutches. Some might
not be as tangible as a bottle of glue, but it’s our human nature to turn to
anything but the One who made us, to make us feel safe, secure, happy. “For you
are a slave to whatever controls you.” – 2 Peter 2:19. Money. Relationships. Glue.
We all have our stuff. We all have our temptations. Jesus said, “Pray that you
don’t enter into temptation” (Matthew 26:41), not “Pray that you’ll never be
tempted.” Monica will probably struggle with glue for the rest of her life. Her
battle is worn on her sleeve, visible for everyone to see. But the rest of us
are all fighting something too. Some of us are just better at hiding it. Although
it makes me angry when I see toddlers living on the street because of the
decisions their parents have made, I can’t judge anyone in the plaza for
relying on glue to get through. That’s not my right. Yes, it’s not fair. But
our God’s not fair. If God was fair, nobody would make it into his graces. As
humans, we suck. A holy, fair God couldn’t be with us. But God is just, and God
has grace. And because of this grace, we not only receive the privilege of serving
God, but also the right to call Him friend. Servant and friend. It makes no sense. But that's grace.
“I no longer call you slaves, because a
master doesn’t confide in his slaves. Now you are my friends, since I have told
you everything the Father told me. You didn’t choose me, I chose you.”
-John 15:15-16
