Karle grabs my hand and leads me to the edge of her yard. It’s getting dark and we need to get back to the church while there is still daylight. With no reservations, we start our trek down to the depths of the dump. Carlos, her younger cousin, follows closly on my heals, leading Tim W. (another WRer). Carlos walks barefoot over rusted metal tin cans, needles, ashes, rotten food. He’s used to it. Carlos, along with the rest of his immediate family and many relatives – 18 in all – walk this path everyday of their lives. After ten years, there is now a worn path through the trash to the other side of the dump…to their income.
As we approach the stream of dirty, Diriumba water that lies at the bottom of the dump, our “escort service” eagerly scrambles to make a foot bridge out of the trash lying in the water – broken cement blocks, tires, boxes – so the ‘gringos’ can cross over without getting wet. Julio, one of the teenage boys, takes a standing leap and easily clears the water by a foot or two. He turns around, reaches his hand out for me to grab it and guides me across the makeshift bridge. Other than the toe of my tennis shoe dipping into the water, I make it free and clear. The rest of the kids skillfully skip on top of the trash and begin to head up the other side of the dump. This side is a bit more difficult because years of ash have piled up from burning the trash. The smoke burns my throat and lungs. The dust stings my eyes. My foot sinks into the ash. Once again, Karle grabs my hand and begins to lead me up amongst the burning piles of smoldering trash. We were warned to be careful of the unapparent “hot pockets” that lie hidden under a fine layer of ash. As Tim and I get near to the top of the trash pile, the kids gradually wave ‘Adios’ and retreat back to their house. We glance back to thier side and see a handful of individuals standing on the edge of thier property, frantically waving goodbye and yelling “Hasta luego”! I smile and wave back. It’s definitely not everyday that they see ‘gringos’ trampsing through the Diriumba Landfill.
I laugh to myself and think back to the first day we scaled the trash heap. Never in my life did I think that I would find adventure in climbing up and down a mountain of trash! “Be present,” I hear the Lord whisper in my ear. “To truly enter into thier lives (families who work in the dumps) are you willing to experience a little of what they go through day in and day out? Are you willing to get down and dirty – literally?” Am I willing to sacrifice my newly washed clothes…my pride…to walk the path less taken. The path worn by the “nobodies of the nobodies”. Am I willing to walk alongside the “nobodies”, share my life with them, learn from them, build stories together in order to see that I am just as much of a nobody in the eye’s of God as they are…NOBODY IS A NOBODY IN GOD’S EYES.
We are all his precious creation. I was born into a white, middle class family in small town Iowa and Karle and Carlos were born into a large, poor family in a barrio in Nicaragua. But who has the most joy? Joy is from God and God is present in all circumstances. God desires a personal relationship with karle and Carlos as much as he desires an intimate relationship with me.
Over the past month, the Mohica family became my family here in Nicaragua. They eagarly accepted me into their lives and loved me with all they have…thier time, affection, laughter, songs, prayers, struggles. And I am excited to share their lives with you – “Over the river and through the trash, to Mohica’s house we go…”
To continue, please read Part 2: Over the River and through the Trash…
(photos by Tim Weisemann and Stephanie Fisk)
