The Campo - Part I

We work in the country. We live in the city. Certainly no matter where you go these two settings offer different lifestyles. Here in the south of Chile, I might say the difference is great, even drastic. Our camera has staged a rebellion so, for now, images are fewer. This time I cannot offer a very visual image of an aspect of our life and work. Perhaps a few more words than normal will give a fair taste instead. (And don't forget to check out the fishing video at the end!)

At this point I run within a relatively limited radius. Nueve de Julio - to date, this is the closest I come to having 'stomping grounds.' I have been coming and going from this area about twenty minutes outside town once or twice a week with my new friend, Heraldo. Apart from this place, its people and lifestyle, I've been involved in only a small variety of isolated experiences.

The drive from my 5th story apartment takes me past a variety of modern-city attributes, starting with my covered, reserved parking place and the guard at the gate-house who lets me out. There's the 21st century mall, the auto dealerships, the Lowe's and Home Depot (ok, the Chilean versions, but trust me it'll pass), the stoplights and turn arrows, the universities, the Dodge Ram or the '09 Toyota Camery that just passed me. There's the little collection of tall buildings I see as I pass downtown. And when I cross that big bridge over the River Cautín, I know I've entered Padre las Casas, Temuco's little brother of a city - a step closer to the campo. Here I note the meat or fruit or variety shop owners lingering in darkened doorways framed by cracked, crumbling walls with echos of painted color. I observe the tired, sometimes unkempt faces of a working class dutifully going about this days business; some hopping off a smoking city bus, others walking in pairs, others on their bicycle-turned-pick-up-truck. A couple of turns and I head down the skinny slab of concrete that composes the street where Heraldo lives, just as it slopes down the hill. Here we find Heraldo...and sometimes Antonio, or Patricia and Mimi, or Vanessa...or some combination thereof (see Sept. 17th's entry for a photo). Then, from the projects, we grab Eugenio, a quiet, hard-working young man being discipled by Heraldo. We head out of town, leaving behind the cityfied, modernized network of contradictions and activity.

The country. On the way to the day's destinations, amidst intermittent bursts of anticipatory Spanish conversation, I steal looks at the lines of eucalyptus, the brilliance of new spring green, squared off by rugged, simple barbed wire fences and every so often accented by a dull brown-almost-gray square homestead. I note the cows grazing in small numbers, but romantically, as if watching a piece of literature come alive, fixate on the small flocks of sheep as they laze about. They always appear a little dirtier, more animal and less teddy bear, than my mind would have me picture; yet, I can't help but hear the scriptures murmur and think on our perfect Lamb, or our Shepherd with simple little me over there bleating somewhere, or the owners of the sheep I'm looking at who likely haven't met Him yet, symbolized by the straggler, the wanderer, the lost one of the group. My mind attempts to linger, but the stripes on the road curve both up and around. In the next field I see the long curved beaks, the red legs, and the golden necks and heads of a pair of Bandurria birds searching the moist ground for worms. The drive only takes about twenty minutes, but I'm sure I exclaim in one manner or another as many times how beautiful it all is. Before leaving pavement behind, we might pass a man with a long cane pole effortlessly guiding his powerful pair of oxen, yolked together. And not long after we have bumped and chunked along that dusty road, I'm quite sure we drive right through Monet's Springtime Landscape At Giverny. I offer a hearty country wave to those we pass...and they even wave back. Often a pair of men at work in the field, will take our passing as an excuse to extend their backs for a moment of repose from their work, heads slowly turning as their squinted eyes track along with our passing. The simplicity of Mapuche country life is evident, reflected in the fences clothed in drying laundry, the horse and carts that pass by, the oxen plowing, the little wood piles from a recently felled tree in the yard, or the hand-lettered, painted wood signs offering a pig or cheese or eggs or bread for sale. While this may not be Kansas anymore, it might just be Little House on the Prairie.

Stay tuned for Part II. We're missing a few anecdotes and an attempt to capture visiting a Mapuche home. For now, enjoy finishing this little country ride with a taste of some simple country-style fishing.