Concerning the violence. Travel anywhere in the world carries risks, that is never a reason not to travel. Certainly Juarez is not a place for anyone to travel into lightly and the violence there is not a figment of the presses imagination; but since we were not shopping for either hookers or blow, we were never anywhere near danger. I reckon the most peril we were in was our time on the highway between Denver and El Paso.
The trip to Arbol de Vida (Tree of Life) orphanage was excellent.
We left Denver at 11:00 pm Friday, 20th. The drive took about 12 hours, roughly. Most of the travelers slept, a few of us took turns driving in 3 or 4 hour shifts. There was a quick cementing of personalities and good humor from the beginning. Having a common purpose, and an excellent leader in Kevin Centola, made the entire weekend's work an exercise in camaraderie and giving. Though we who came to give, received.
Our first stop once we reached El Paso, was the airport. We had two artists flying in from both Portland and Denver. Two additional stops included Costco and Chico's Tacos. Costco supplied us with bottled water, fruit, cookies and many other snacks to sustain us between meals, including a 2 pound chunk of Gouda. The cheese was the prize snack of our snack booty and was gobbled quickly.
Chico's Tacos was a required visit per Kevin and his kids. The tacos were beef tacos, rolled crispy shells rather than the traditional taco shell shape (say that five times quickly), and smothered in processed cheese and drowned in a tomato-grease broth served in a paper dish with a side of salsa verde. This masterpiece was met with varying degrees of approval, from pleasure to disgust. I fell somewhere in between, happy to participate in a Centola tradition.
Once we'd packed our arteries with El Paso's finest taco grease, we packed ourselves and our pounds of supplies back into the van and headed to Santa Theresa border crossing. Getting into Mexico is a snap, at least for the present. Next week may play differently, but we were waved through without a hitch. The border guards smiled and wore their rifles like guitars. (cue the mariachi guitar flourish.)
We were met just across the border by John Walker (cue the whistled-Clint Eastwood- spaghetti-western tune). John is an American and is the director of the orphanage which he founded 15 years ago and continues to run, with the help of his petit wife, who wields an iron hand gloved in velvet. John isn't actually fluent in spanish and his wife is not a prolific english speaker, but they have five children of their own, so they obviously worked something out.
Mr. y Senora Walker
John is a grizzly bear of a fellow. He escorted us from the border to the orphanage compound which lies on private property. The property is guarded at it's entrances by armed caberos who, at the first entrance, directed us to the second entrance, reason unknown. We drove through the town of Anapra which is a very poor community. To my eyes, it was a shanty town built from scrap and dust. Lazy dogs lazed, sat up and saluted as we drove through their hood.
The grounds of the orphanage look like a farm. We drove straight to the year old dormitory, a contrast in shape and presence juxtaposed against the dirt and age of the rest of the grounds. The dorm was built by a group of architects a couple years ago and is a blessing of the highest quality to the comfort and safety of the children who live there.
With the exception of meal time and church, the boys and girls are separated nearly all the time. In the dorm, the girls are upstairs, the boys down. We stayed in an empty wing of the dorm, downstairs with the boys. We had four rooms among us, the ladies shared a separate apartment along with the snack supply and the coffee maker.
Saturday night after dinner, we settled in and got our individual projects organized. Six artists needed six separate spaces to work, so we took the time to decide where each of us would work. I was very happy to be given a room right in the dorm. I'd never worked with kids as an instructor and my project involved taking photographs of the kids, printing the photos, and then helping them create their self portraits. So I was glad to have the comfort of electricity and climate control to begin with.
I had boys for my first session. I was able to take their pictures and print them before we all met for breakfast Sunday morning. This was a nice bit of pre-organization that let me get right to work with them once we returned from breakfast. The bit of magic that I brought with me was a portable photo printer. It's the coolest bit of tech gear I've bought lately, and it came in very useful on several occasions. The kids loved it and would gather around to watch their picture appear quickly from a little white electric box smaller than a loaf of bread. The ability to print photos made it possible to leave each kid a photo of themselves and their friends or brothers and sisters who might also be at the orphanage.
The wonder and convenience of the printer would have been so much fluff, however, if it didn't lead to satisfying artwork from the kids. Happily, the kids produced some truly beautiful and striking work. My intention in teaching self portraits was to give the kids an opportunity to see themselves from a different perspective. I wasn't trying to teach them realistic drawing, I was hoping that they would create portraits that showed their character and their personality. I think they did a very good job of this and I was relieved and very happy with their efforts, and I think they even had fun too.
Below are the twenty works that I eventually pulled from about twenty-five total pieces that were completed. Some of these portraits are now in the process of being framed and made ready for the art auction on May 3rd.
For our meals, we all met at the church, which was about 400 yards from the dorm. Meals were quick, spare, and noisy. Lunch was the largest meal of the day and was usually pasta, veggies, some sort of excellent salsa, and tortillas. Water was served out of a large stock pot from which you dipped your cup into, if you had a cup. We sat shoulder to shoulder with the kids, scooping up the food with tortillas, absorbing the mayhem.
Saturday evening after dinner, we spent about an hour with the kids outside the church getting used to each other. It sorta' felt like recess at a new school.
The second art session happened after lunch, and my work location shifted from the clean contemporary space of the morning session to a building midway between the dorm and the church. This building had come to be known as the stink room. The stink room was named so, due to the powerful stink that came from the disabled toilet in the bathroom therein. Fortunately, the previous day, John, one of our resourceful travelers, took the time to fix the plumbing problem which resolved the stink problem. Overnight, the odor vacated and the air became merely dusty and warm. The name Stink Room remained regardless. This building, for part of the time, didn't have working electricity and holes were found in several places that allowed you to look outside into the surrounding fields. There were about 15 classroom desks that worked well as work stations for the kids. We used this space only for the girls, and the space was shared by Cara, John, and I. This was a nice arrangement because Cara spoke fluent spanish and was able to give me a hand when I needed bi-lingual help.
Church, Sunday evening, was a full blown Catholic-pentecostal youth service. Singing, dancing, jumping. Julio is the pastor to the orphanage. He has a church in Anapra in addition to his responsibilities at the orphanage. He's a beautiful guy and he and his wife are one of a few couples who live full time and work at the orphanage. They have at least two boys of their own.
iglesia
Julio
Pirate in a rare moment of late afternoon exhaustion.
The Stink Room (far left) and the Pink Building.
The dormitory
the beds
the barn
the bus
the border (of private land)
Communicating was never a serious problem. I know enough spanish to get by, but to explain something in detail, I needed translation. Ivan was both my roommate and one of our group's translators and he and I were near each other often enough that he could lend me a verbal hand when I needed it. Ultimately, very little verbal communication was needed. Gestures and demonstrations conveyed most of my instructions, along with a positive attitude and patience. Once trust was gained, relationships formed. I was even given a nick-name by one of my young beauties, "Chilito blanco". Translation: Little white Chili.
This is Frida, she gave me my Chilito Blanco nick-name
Ivan has lived at the orphanage since he was two and is now the self appointed good will ambasador. He's a beautiful guy.
This girl, Dulce, was my favorite. Full of beans and sharp as a razor.
The children who live at the orphanage are no different than any child you know in the States. They're loving and anxious for attention and approval. They have plenty of attitude and swagger, and concurrently show respect and compassion. They're also full of optimism, despite missing the sanctuary of a stable family life. The children are safe and clean and well fed at Arbol de Vida, which is why my time spent with these kids was not heart breaking. John Walker and his staff are continuing a ministry with no end in sight, and they are allowing themselves to be used to bring about miracles of compassion and love everyday, despite what seem to be a breathtaking lack of opportunity. This opportunity to contribute was, for me, a continuing lesson in humility and understanding and a blessing of breathtaking beauty.
I hope your Friday was Good, have a happy Easter, and Godspeed, John Glenn
Dave
