Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Oh, the places I go...and volunteer
Although I am really not a morning person, I was glad that going to see my prospective placements today meant getting up and out of my house early. It also meant that I had sucked down my morning tea and had a foot out the door before Bailen and Fabrizio could jump on me and ask how I slept, which has been my wake-up greeting most recently (I like these kids...but I really need a little time immediately after I open my eyes).
Anyway, it was an early morning, and I found myself on the main drag of La Paz by 8:45, bustling with morning traffic and yelping bus conductors (the people who shout bus destinations and gather passengers). To visit these four centers, I needed to catch one of these buses and head to the lowest and rather isolated section of the city. Obrajes; my destination. Tons of buses rolled by with this sign, and all so packed that people seemed to hanging out of the windows. I waited, waited a little more, and glanced at my watch; 8:55. I had to get going.
My hand extended into the street, and I waived my fingers (the way street transportation is hailed here). A minibus stopped for me, and I was on my way (with a seat---a middle seat, with grateful Bolivians to each side...grateful that I have finally figured out the hot water in our family shower).
The ride took us down, down, further into the valley, and away from the hustle that I have grown acustomed to as La Paz. We passed a large city park (that I will have to visit another time...looks like a must see), a few randoms shops and stands, and a university. Onward; we seemed to be driving into the bottom of the mountains that surround the city, and I wondered how long we would have to go until we reached the base of the snow-capped peaks.
After about 10 minutes, the mini-bus stopped, and the little boy who had been shouting out the window announced that we had reached ¨Calle Tres¨(3rd Street). I grabbed my bag, and jumped out. Down one small block, I saw a huge cement fence, surrounding so many blocks that I couldn´t tell how large the inside of this compound was. Sure enough, on top of the yellowed paint and images of grass and flowers was the label, ¨Hogar Virgen de Fatima¨. This is my destination.
I walked in, giving the armed guard behind the corrugated tin door a copy of my passport, and began asking around for the volunteer coordinator. I found her eventually, inside an office with only half a door. I struggled to find her behind the locked half-door, and sea of 10 3-year-old children standing before her door. She pulled me into her office, assuring me that the children aren´t always outside her door, but that her colleague stores cookies inside and the kids come begging pretty much every hour or so. Lovely.
We went on a tour; first of the facility in which she works, and then the center for children with mental disabilities. All of these facilities hold abandoned children, are (under)funded and (under)staffed by the government, and all of them desperately need assistance. I believed Jo (the coordinator) when she told me this yesterday, but it is different to see for myself.
The center for abused and neglected children was first. With different buildings around the perimeter of the compound, all painted in kid-friendly pinks, yellows, and blues, there were a few different places to see. We went through a few rooms; one with little babies, bigger babies, toddlers, and underdeveloped or malnourished toddlers. All of the rooms had its own odor that made my stomach churn, and forced me to wonder when the single woman who works for 24 hours straight in each room of 15 kids last had the chance to clean. Each room as small, and seemingly dreary to spend all day, every day. The volunteers gone by have decorated many of the walls with cut-out fish and cute caricatures, which makes each space a little more warm against the cement blocked walls. The kids sat together, either rolling around, laying down, or crawling, depending on capabilities.
In the room for underdeveloped or malnourished toddlers, a little girl named Camille smiled at me, and despite her poor footing (hobbling), she went to take my hand. She was wearing flannel pants and a white fleece sweater, and her hair was pushed into a ponytail, away from her face. Jo told me that although Camille was nearly 4-years-old, her tiny body, short stature, and miniature features make her look about 1. And, on her first day in the center, she was living in a regular house with the older kids. Only a few days later did they have to move her out, when they realized that she was too small to be with the regular kids. Jo said that on the day she moved into the special unit, she told Jo (in her shy, quiet, wispy voice) that she wanted to go home, and pulled Jo toward to main gate. Jo had to tell her that she was home, and that no one was going anywhere.
I next visited the regular home facilities for the kids, ages 4-10. They are split up into 5 casitas (little houses), complete with an upstairs and downstairs. The kids were in ¨school¨ when we were there, but I got a tour of one of their homes. The upstairs is a crowded 4 bedrooms, one for the single woman who takes care of the house, and three rooms for children, full of wall-to-wall beds (5 in total) of varied sizes. Some of the beds faced different directions, or were angled together creatively, in the interest of packing more and more into each room. The downstairs has a small kitchen, dining table and chairs (without enough space for each child), and a living room that has a space for toys and games, although it does not seem like these kids have much filling those shelves.
We next visited the center for children with mental disabilities. This was a walk around the corner, but still within the bounds of the compound. This facility also hosts a small green space as a courtyard, and a few buildings. We passed by the classroom of autistic kids, who were being watched by their teacher from the doorway. She was interacting with each of them, but one at time, and as they tried to exit, or threw a ball at her. It was a really different way of stimulating kids, but I appreciate that she absolutely has more experience than I do. That was when Jo told me that the women who work with the kids in this center do not have any special training...they just got placed here. And, some of them don´t want to be there. Unfortunately for these kids.
The upstairs was locked, and we had to get special permission to enter. Apparently, they prefer to keep this area extremely controlled, and the privacy of these children is really important to them (not just anyone who has been granted entry into the gates of the facility can walk in).
The upstairs has two sections; the older kids and the younger ones. We saw the younger kids first, and it was breakfast time. They each sat, in their own wheelchair or regular chair, and waited for one of the two mommitas (women who help), one teacher, and one volunteer (who is leaving next week). It is hard for me to explain, but trust me when I say that these kids have serious disabilities. I watched the women try to feed the kids, and struggle to get to each mouth. I listened to some of the kids cry.
The older kids were the same story, but more pronounced cases. There are fewer of them, and they were laying on mats when I visited. One girl grabbed my hand when I stood still nearby, and happily held it close to her. Jo explained to me that these kids need help moving and getting stimulation (developing their strength), and that they just need a little attention.
This center certainly hit me. In fact, it reminded a lot of Mother Theresa´s home in Lima. I told Jo that I would like to volunteer with the kids in the mentally disabled center in the mornings, and to join one of the casitas on the other side in the afternoons. This means that I will be working in two places, but I will get a little experience with everything, and I will still be able to do some creative development work within my casita.
I got my assignment; casita crema (creme), and the younger kids inside the center for the mentally disabled children.
After filling out some paperwork and feeding the sea of kids outside Jo´s office some cookies, I was on my way. I will return tomorrow, to work, but only in my casita; the other side takes longer for all the forms to clear.
As far as the creative center, I´m still not sure if I will be there at all. This goes back to a long, annoying, really frustrating point of mis-communication between my program and myself. The details are not important; and I am working on making it water under the bridge.
For now, I am happy to know that I will be volunteering, and that I will get and give a little something different than last year. In the meantime, I continue to join my English friends for meals, explore the city and find new parks to enjoy (when there is no rain), and show Fabrizio and Bailen that if they sit next to me to do their homework while I read ¨The Kite Runner¨, I will let them ditch their textbooks and I will read my book out loud. I guess this is what they mean by ¨settling in¨.
Anyway, it was an early morning, and I found myself on the main drag of La Paz by 8:45, bustling with morning traffic and yelping bus conductors (the people who shout bus destinations and gather passengers). To visit these four centers, I needed to catch one of these buses and head to the lowest and rather isolated section of the city. Obrajes; my destination. Tons of buses rolled by with this sign, and all so packed that people seemed to hanging out of the windows. I waited, waited a little more, and glanced at my watch; 8:55. I had to get going.
My hand extended into the street, and I waived my fingers (the way street transportation is hailed here). A minibus stopped for me, and I was on my way (with a seat---a middle seat, with grateful Bolivians to each side...grateful that I have finally figured out the hot water in our family shower).
The ride took us down, down, further into the valley, and away from the hustle that I have grown acustomed to as La Paz. We passed a large city park (that I will have to visit another time...looks like a must see), a few randoms shops and stands, and a university. Onward; we seemed to be driving into the bottom of the mountains that surround the city, and I wondered how long we would have to go until we reached the base of the snow-capped peaks.
After about 10 minutes, the mini-bus stopped, and the little boy who had been shouting out the window announced that we had reached ¨Calle Tres¨(3rd Street). I grabbed my bag, and jumped out. Down one small block, I saw a huge cement fence, surrounding so many blocks that I couldn´t tell how large the inside of this compound was. Sure enough, on top of the yellowed paint and images of grass and flowers was the label, ¨Hogar Virgen de Fatima¨. This is my destination.
I walked in, giving the armed guard behind the corrugated tin door a copy of my passport, and began asking around for the volunteer coordinator. I found her eventually, inside an office with only half a door. I struggled to find her behind the locked half-door, and sea of 10 3-year-old children standing before her door. She pulled me into her office, assuring me that the children aren´t always outside her door, but that her colleague stores cookies inside and the kids come begging pretty much every hour or so. Lovely.
We went on a tour; first of the facility in which she works, and then the center for children with mental disabilities. All of these facilities hold abandoned children, are (under)funded and (under)staffed by the government, and all of them desperately need assistance. I believed Jo (the coordinator) when she told me this yesterday, but it is different to see for myself.
The center for abused and neglected children was first. With different buildings around the perimeter of the compound, all painted in kid-friendly pinks, yellows, and blues, there were a few different places to see. We went through a few rooms; one with little babies, bigger babies, toddlers, and underdeveloped or malnourished toddlers. All of the rooms had its own odor that made my stomach churn, and forced me to wonder when the single woman who works for 24 hours straight in each room of 15 kids last had the chance to clean. Each room as small, and seemingly dreary to spend all day, every day. The volunteers gone by have decorated many of the walls with cut-out fish and cute caricatures, which makes each space a little more warm against the cement blocked walls. The kids sat together, either rolling around, laying down, or crawling, depending on capabilities.
In the room for underdeveloped or malnourished toddlers, a little girl named Camille smiled at me, and despite her poor footing (hobbling), she went to take my hand. She was wearing flannel pants and a white fleece sweater, and her hair was pushed into a ponytail, away from her face. Jo told me that although Camille was nearly 4-years-old, her tiny body, short stature, and miniature features make her look about 1. And, on her first day in the center, she was living in a regular house with the older kids. Only a few days later did they have to move her out, when they realized that she was too small to be with the regular kids. Jo said that on the day she moved into the special unit, she told Jo (in her shy, quiet, wispy voice) that she wanted to go home, and pulled Jo toward to main gate. Jo had to tell her that she was home, and that no one was going anywhere.
I next visited the regular home facilities for the kids, ages 4-10. They are split up into 5 casitas (little houses), complete with an upstairs and downstairs. The kids were in ¨school¨ when we were there, but I got a tour of one of their homes. The upstairs is a crowded 4 bedrooms, one for the single woman who takes care of the house, and three rooms for children, full of wall-to-wall beds (5 in total) of varied sizes. Some of the beds faced different directions, or were angled together creatively, in the interest of packing more and more into each room. The downstairs has a small kitchen, dining table and chairs (without enough space for each child), and a living room that has a space for toys and games, although it does not seem like these kids have much filling those shelves.
We next visited the center for children with mental disabilities. This was a walk around the corner, but still within the bounds of the compound. This facility also hosts a small green space as a courtyard, and a few buildings. We passed by the classroom of autistic kids, who were being watched by their teacher from the doorway. She was interacting with each of them, but one at time, and as they tried to exit, or threw a ball at her. It was a really different way of stimulating kids, but I appreciate that she absolutely has more experience than I do. That was when Jo told me that the women who work with the kids in this center do not have any special training...they just got placed here. And, some of them don´t want to be there. Unfortunately for these kids.
The upstairs was locked, and we had to get special permission to enter. Apparently, they prefer to keep this area extremely controlled, and the privacy of these children is really important to them (not just anyone who has been granted entry into the gates of the facility can walk in).
The upstairs has two sections; the older kids and the younger ones. We saw the younger kids first, and it was breakfast time. They each sat, in their own wheelchair or regular chair, and waited for one of the two mommitas (women who help), one teacher, and one volunteer (who is leaving next week). It is hard for me to explain, but trust me when I say that these kids have serious disabilities. I watched the women try to feed the kids, and struggle to get to each mouth. I listened to some of the kids cry.
The older kids were the same story, but more pronounced cases. There are fewer of them, and they were laying on mats when I visited. One girl grabbed my hand when I stood still nearby, and happily held it close to her. Jo explained to me that these kids need help moving and getting stimulation (developing their strength), and that they just need a little attention.
This center certainly hit me. In fact, it reminded a lot of Mother Theresa´s home in Lima. I told Jo that I would like to volunteer with the kids in the mentally disabled center in the mornings, and to join one of the casitas on the other side in the afternoons. This means that I will be working in two places, but I will get a little experience with everything, and I will still be able to do some creative development work within my casita.
I got my assignment; casita crema (creme), and the younger kids inside the center for the mentally disabled children.
After filling out some paperwork and feeding the sea of kids outside Jo´s office some cookies, I was on my way. I will return tomorrow, to work, but only in my casita; the other side takes longer for all the forms to clear.
As far as the creative center, I´m still not sure if I will be there at all. This goes back to a long, annoying, really frustrating point of mis-communication between my program and myself. The details are not important; and I am working on making it water under the bridge.
For now, I am happy to know that I will be volunteering, and that I will get and give a little something different than last year. In the meantime, I continue to join my English friends for meals, explore the city and find new parks to enjoy (when there is no rain), and show Fabrizio and Bailen that if they sit next to me to do their homework while I read ¨The Kite Runner¨, I will let them ditch their textbooks and I will read my book out loud. I guess this is what they mean by ¨settling in¨.
# posted by Marci Soifer @ 11:49 AM 
