Last week I blogged about our time in Quina (pronounced Co-een-ya), a small mountain village about 1 ½ hours outside of Cochabamba. Since then, I’ve been corrected in the actual name of the town- it’s Kwina (still pronounced the same). So, just wanted to pass on the correct facts.
Going back for a second stint of 3 days, I was more prepared. I knew I wouldn’t shower for at least 72 hours, my swiss army knife was a necessity (thanks Dad!), as was my stainless steel cup, sleeping bag liner and sunscreen. As we drove the windy back roads to get to the worksite, I couldn’t help but smile.
Minus the mountains, it’s the most similar place to Wisconsin since I left in July. It feels kind of like going to my grandparents farm- where there are vast open fields that meet a forest of trees, livestock roam around and dogs run freely. I think I’ll always be a country girl!
If I could, I would love to spend time reading and reflecting in this sleepy village…but there was work to be done! We had a hole to dig!
My teammate Jamie holding one of the orphans in Cochabamba.
Our contact informed us that once the plumbing is installed and there is running water in the house, the orphanage could be opened and house children. Though it would be quite rustic by American standards, most mountain families are used to living with dirt floors, no beds or windows. If we got our hole dug and the rest of the piping in, the orphanage could open within the next 2 months.
That was the motivation I needed.
Especially when I chatted in Quech-ish to an elderly woman (Remember my last blog post, about communicating in second languages…). This sweet villager stopped to watch the four of us work. She continued to watch even after the cordial “Buen dias” were exchanged. So I went over to talk to her.
She wanted to know when the orphanage would be open. I told her the hope was in the next few months but one can never be sure. This woman then went on to tell me about her daughter that had left her 5 children to pursue a career selling illegal drugs, leaving just the father to take care of the kids. A few weeks ago the dad was killed in a car accident. Now grandma is scraping to get by and provide for her grandchildren.
Tragic, but it’s the truth.
As I walked the streets of Kwina, I was filled with joy as children timidly smiled at the gringo and giggled as I spoke to them in their language. They were easy to win over and thoroughly intrigued by the white foreigner.
It got me thinking though. Most of these kids will go to school until they are 16 or 17. Maybe. Then they’ll marry and start a family, whether they want to or not. That’s the norm, the pressure their society puts on them. Most likely, they’ll subsistence farm or learn a trade that will bring in enough income to barely scrape by. Not quite the same opportunities as American children have.
I continued to ponder this reality on two different occasions this week. The first was when our work was interrupted by a few curious girls who wanted to see what the gringos were up to. They had jump ropes, so clearly I thought it would be a great idea to show off my white-girl skillz. Let’s just say, I was a hit. Word got out to the masses of kids walking home from school and before I knew it, a crowd of 50 kids had gathered to play.
So we played. And we laughed.
We counted to see who could jump the most. It went on like this for about a half hour until I saw three adult women approaching. Knowing it was polite to greet them, I introduced myself. Turns out, they were the teachers at the school, coming to check on the children. You see, the teachers thought we had planned this program for the kids and when they found out they interrupted our work, they began apologizing profusely.
The group of kids that formed to play jump rope while we were digging in the hole.
Hakuna matata. No worries. Clearly the kids just wanted to have some fun… and jumping rope is quite harmless. As we wrapped up our jump rope session, I hugged or high-fived each kid goodbye. We brought mutual joy to each other from the impromptu playtime.
The second time I pondered the children’s future was on the way to buy some potatoes at the tienda. A group of kids playing in a field stopped simultaneously to shout “hola” at the gringo. Their smiles are contagious, I’m telling you. I couldn’t help but change direction to go say hi.
“Que estan haciendo?” What are you doing?
“Estamos jugando.” We’re playing.
Playing they were. In a large rusty burn barrel. They each took turns rolling each other down the hill, laughing the entire time. Needless to say, this would never fly in America. But, it’s what they have. We played a rousing game of “High-Five,” which consists of me progressively moving my hand higher until they poor kid falls over trying to jump so high. It always ends in some good laughs!
No matter where you are, kids ought to have the opportunity to be kids. After spending a week in this town, I’ve realized how blessed my childhood was. I’ve realized how many opportunities were handed to me just because I was born a US citizen. I’m continuing to realize what a blessing it is to have two parents who have invested and continue to invest in my life. So many kids here fend for themselves. They are forced to grow up to early. And some of them don’t have a mom or dad to go home to.
Though my role was minimal, I’m glad the orphanage is one step closer to opening. To housing the 5 children who recently lost mom and dad. To allow the kids of Kwina to be just that, kids.
If you want to see a recap video from my time in the mountains, click here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7684pam6FyI
