Una semana más... (pt. 1)

Events from early July 2011 One of the most frustrating parts about the posts saga (see last entry) was that when it started, I knew that in a couple of weeks there would be a church group of about 25 youth who would be visiting us for a few days to help out with the project in Rivadavia. I was desperately scrambling to get materials together to be able to take advantage of the presence of extra hands to get the fence done more quickly. Furthermore, if I wasn't going to have those materials we would have to be a bit more creative about what small projects they could do—and feel accomplished about—given the short amount of time they would be on-site.

I would be lying, however, if I said that those preparations were my main concern about the group. Often I find that in my mental processing, philosophical problems and complications create more interference and stress than practical roadblocks. In this case, I was extremely—perhaps excessively—concerned that our visitors would be more interested in religious evangelism than in humanitarian work. Ever since my arrival in Argentina, and especially after my “ADRA” trip to Chile (have yet to write about that.. sorry), this concern has been on the forefront of my mind when considering ADRA's relationship with its founder and largest supporter, the Seventh-Day Adventist church, a partnership that is both delicate and complex (this is a topic about which I could write at GREAT length. Indeed, it has been the subject of many interesting, intense, and sometimes frustrating conversations here in Argentina. I'm going to stick to the local issues, so I apologize for not giving the full and proper context this issue deserves). In cases like this one, where the church wants to be directly involved with ADRA's work, big yellow “CAUTION” lights begin blinking in my head. Based on previous experiences (of which I also must write), church members and leadership in Argentina almost inevitably have a hard time understanding—or even realizing—that there is, and should be, a difference between the work of evangelism and the work of humanitarian development and relief agencies like ADRA.

ADRA Argentina's mission statement translates something like this: “To help those in poverty and affliction, creating positive changes for a better and more just life, by the use of responsible actions both internally and in conjunction with other institutions.”

The church's mission statement reads as follows: “To preach the eternal gospel in the context of the three angel's message of Revelation 14:6-12, bringing them to accept Jesus as their personal savior, uniting them to the church and preparing them for Jesus' soon coming.”

It is not difficult to see that these missions are very different. But let me be clear. Difference does not imply that one is better than the other, nor that they are completely incompatible. I am simply suggesting that the work done by each institution, if they are to follow their respective stated missions, will and must be distinct. In Rivadavia, the issue is not just a philosophical one. Real and significant dangers to ADRA's progress could arise were we to give even the slightest notion that our true goal was to evangelize to and convert the communities we work in:

1. Perceived lack of respect for the Wichí culture. In order to help any group of people, you must first understand and respect their customs and traditions, that is, their culture. Religion is fundamental to understanding the Wichí worldview. In the late 1800s the Wichí were in danger of being wiped out by violent conflict, and in their minds it is the Anglican missionaries who acted as intermediaries for them, and ultimately protected them from destruction. In this way, they were “saved” both literally and figuratively. As a result, the Wichí see themselves as profoundly Anglican—much in the same way Jews are Jewish—regardless of actual religious practice. Even though the music is often Pentecostal and the theology Evangelistic, they still identify as Anglican. One element that they all share, however, is the rejection of carved images as idols. Religiously, this puts them at odds with the majority of their neighbors, who are deeply Catholic, and also politically: Argentinians are typically anti-British, considering them to be foreign oppressors (especially in the context of the continuing Falklands/Malvinas debate), a sentiment not shared by the Wichí, who see them as a kind of savior.

Thus, evangelizing to the Wichí could be seen as being disrespectful to their strong cultural ties to Anglicanism, and would likely make them wary of, if not completely opposed to, working together with ADRA on any kind of project. Indeed, some of the community members I have spoken to label Jehovah's Witnesses and other Evangelical groups as demonic. At the very least, we would be creating an unnecessary confusion in a community where we already have enough complications in delivering a unified and understandable message.

2. Conflict with existing religious institutions. This is certainly the most obvious problem we face, particularly with the local Catholic church. The priest of the diocese of Rivadavia is a bit of a hothead, prone to abrasive political and social commentary. After learning of our presence in Rivadavia, he did some “online research” about us, and didn't like what he found. He was, and likely continues to be, convinced that we had ulterior motives, that we were not upfront about our real objective. Surely we must be evangelists, he thought, even if we specifically state that we have no interest in changing people's religion, rather we want to help them change their lives for the better. (Even if he believed us on that point he would have preferred that we leave. He insisted that helping the Wichí was futile and immoral, saying that it was better to let them die from hunger, because that way they would be truly motivated to rise up in arms—as in guns and knives—against the oppressive government.) He almost always refuses to speak with us, yet speaks at liberty about us publicly—even in mass—telling his parishioners to be on their guard, to not allow their teenage children to be drawn into our “sect”. (My personal favorite is that he has on “good authority” that I have been teaching Wichí children that the Virgin Mary is satanic. Nevermind that they already believe that because of their Anglican upbringing, or that he chooses to be willfully ignorant of my actual belief in the matter).

If we were to begin preaching the SDA message, we would not only be proving the priest right. We would also possibly lose the support of many devout Catholics in Rivadavia, many of whom are important friends and collaborators—hospital staff, government workers, the Justice of the Peace, and the director and teachers of the Wichí school. It is irresponsible, perhaps even impossible, to execute a project like ours without that support.

3. Misinterpretation of mission by partnering institutions. ADRA Argentina's work depends not only on the support of locals but that of provincial, national, and even international institutions. Some of those organizations, like Caritas and the SDA church, are religious, and others, like INTA and Civil Defense, are not. It is crucial that we be perceived as serious and professional by these partners, religious or otherwise. Thus, in order to fulfill our shared goals, a certain degree of public abstinence from particular religious leanings is necessary, even as each individual can and should hold dearly to his or her own beliefs. For example, if the government were to entrust us a large sum of money for our administrative costs because they know that we are a humanitarian organization that works to improve the lives of their constituents, we could not then turn around and use that money for religious evangelism, just as we could not use it to advance a certain political party or promote a private business. It is simply not our role, and it would be unethical to act otherwise.

...believe it or not, I could probably go on for much, much longer about this, but I will try to stop boring you...

As the week of the group's arrival approached, I became more and more afraid of these potentially disastrous possibilities. After all, the group's typical activities were door-to-door Bible studies and public evangelistic series, and they were led by a pastor who had never worked with ADRA before. Would they be able to understand the difference between their way of doing things and ADRA's, and why I was so emphatic about that distinction?

To make matters worse, Beatriz was not going to be here. Beatriz, with her amazing people skills and her experience working for the church before switching permanently to ADRA, has a knack for negotiating just these kinds of situations. Two of our other team members had left to go back to college, so I felt pretty alone and afraid. Fortunately, Beatriz was able to help me some, even at a great distance, by preparing me—and the youth group—as much as possible beforehand. She was also going to send Graciela, a woman about Beatriz's age and a veteran ADRA volunteer who could help me traverse the torrid waters of leadership in a region where I would be “in charge” of people twice my age. Even though Beatriz was confident in my abilities to manage the group, I was far less sure...

... to be continued in part 2

Los Postes (y otras injusticias triviales)

Events from June/July 2011

I would love to say that after that day—when eight people came—the community started participating more, that the group of workers got bigger, and that things got easier. Unfortunately, that would be dishonest. Even when I would take them a small breakfast every day, and a snack for the afternoon session I had started for those who said they couldn't come in the morning, seldom did more than four or five people come at a time. Sometimes I was the only one—those were particularly depressing days. Even so, the work did continue on, and after about three weeks the main area of what would eventually be the main garden was clear (well... seemed to be clear. More on that later...).

As long as I'm being honest, though (and I try to be as much as possible here), I must admit it would be unfair to place full blame on the community for the slow pace of work. As I have stated before, it would be unreasonable to expect the Wichí to simply trust and have faith in us—or anyone—given all the failed projects and unfulfilled promises they have seen and suffered over in the not-too-distant past. But that is only one of many systemic hurdles and hoops to be jumped over and through here in Rivadavia. Nothing comes easily.

One of those things I had thought would be an “easy part” was anything but: the fence. There are three different kinds of fences that are commonly used in Rivadavia:

enramado (thorny branches)

PROS: Materials are already on-site. Easy to make.

CONS: Not as durable against animals. Needs frequent maintenance and repair.

Alambre tejido (wire fence)

PROS: Quick and easy assembly.

CONS: Costly. Prone to destruction by children. Hard to repair.

“San Martín” (planks stacked next to each other)

PROS: Relatively durable. Mostly local material.

CONS: Time consuming to find and transport planks.

In the community meeting in the church there had been a general agreement that the best option would be the “San Martín” fence, which meant that we would need to A. find or buy posts, B. find or buy planks, and C. buy the wire.

As a general principle, ADRA Argentina always looks for local solutions to local problems, especially in regards to materials. We believe that it promotes community participation in the project, reduces our impact on the environment, and, of course, saves us money. Getting the materials for the fence, however, presented a number of difficulties.

Posts. The proposal seemed simple enough: take a chainsaw, cut up some fallen trees, and bring them to the garden. I started organizing a day with Demetrio to go to a place about 15 km away where he said there were enough fallen—and straight-trunked—trees to find a good amount of posts. I also spoke with our contact in the local government office to see if they would be able to help me bring the wood back with the municipal tractor and trailer. Everything was set to go, and then disaster struck. A few days before the planned trip, Demetrio received a notice of complaint in the mail threatening to sue him for having cut down trees on that person's private property last year. The posts we had been thinking of taking were along the road—supposedly public property—but he now feared that he would be putting himself in danger, more than he already was. I, too, worried about his legal quagmire, more so because of his hot-headed determination to fight the case, which he assured me he would resolve—with his fists, if need be. I also realized that our plan might have been too naïve. ADRA couldn't risk being involved with illegal activities either. We needed a new plan.

The alternative of buying posts was not at all desirable. Certainly it felt like a waste of money, given the amount of wood that was readily available for free, but it was even worse to think that in buying them we would be creating more demand for cutting down trees. We couldn't let our commitment to responsible agriculture descend into pithy lip-service. Indeed, planting trees is one of the primary activities of the project.

Fortunately, Rivadavia has not yet been plagued with the aggressive deforestation so tragically common in other parts of the Salta province. This is mostly because the poor quality of the roads makes it unprofitable to cut down and transport large quantities of trees, and because the arid climate is unfavorable to farming soy beans, the main reason why land is being cleared elsewhere. Due credit should also be given to the Department of the Environment of the provincial government for having laws in place against environmental destruction, and the police for enforcing them, albeit incompletely. The irony of these laws, however, is that in attempting to protect the forests that the Wichí need so desperately to survive, the same Wichí are frequently the first to be caught in illegal activity, and are the most severely punished.

For example, a criollo (dominant culture Argentinian) can go fishing in certain places because he has a fishing license. If the Wichí, to whom a fishing license is both foreign and costly, go fishing in the same place, they can be prosecuted. The criollo fishes for sport, the Wichí so he can feed his family, and yet it is the Wichí who is far more likely to face legal action. Another example. A criollo who owns a large piece of land can cut down trees to sell to carpenters or artisans and the police will turn a blind eye. If the Wichí cut down a few trees, however, for much-needed firewood or to make a house, they are charged with formal complaints or sued. This is what happened to Demetrio. He cut down 16 trees that he used as poles to allow for an electrical to run from the road to the community church, and was subsequently denounced. The criollo threatening him could cut down hundreds, even thousands of trees a year on that same property and not face a single complaint. Even on undesignated public property, the legal status of most land on which Wichí communities live on, they could be fined or even prosecuted for hunting, fishing, or chopping down trees, although fortunately that is far more rare.

Being here has allowed me to see that although protecting the environment is crucial both for the survival of our planet and of future generations, it is not an absolute principle. When environmentalist policies overlook, even actively work against, the lives of the current human population, those policies must be modified. When the enforcement of policy is exaggerated amongst the powerless and lax amongst the powerful, justice must be reinvented. And if that modification and reinvention seem to slow in coming, we must have patience.

Patience is a virtue, and it is one that I do not possess. I needed posts, and without them I was already scraping to find things for the workers to do. It was too risky and impractical to find them and ethically questionable to buy them. There was one other option available, but it seemed unattainable. Every day I would pass by the sports complex and see a pile of about 400 posts that the police had confiscated a few years ago. They just sat there, taunting me like a Holy Grail. I knew that somehow I might be able to get a hold of them, but by what avenue was utterly enigmatic. The police protected them, the municipal government had the keys to them, and they belonged to the provincial Department of the Environment.

I went to try to sort out the inch-thick red tape I was sure it would require cutting through with the local Justice of the Peace. He said it would be difficult, but we could present a note to the Department of the Environment, which would then send an order to the police, who would then borrow the keys from the municipality. Patience.

So that is what we did. Beatriz presented the request for the release of the posts, in conjunction with the provincial institute of indigenous affairs (IPPIS), and we waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Three weeks had gone by and it appeared that no progress had been made. IPPIS was swamped with other tasks and hadn't put pressure on the Department of the Environment, so Beatriz visited herself to apply some. The news wasn't good. First, they said they would need to make an in-person assessment of the posts in question, something they hadn't done in this region for over seven years. Second, they had to make sure the wood couldn't be used for something else, especially if it was made of palo santo—which of course, it was. We could be kept waiting forever, and even if someday they assessed it they might still turn us down. That was extremely frustrating. The Department claims that confiscated materials can and should be used to give back to the community, but there was so much bureaucracy it was hard to see how that could ever happen, even in cases like ours where it could actually produce a real benefit to people in need.

Apparently, Beatriz is even less patient than I am. Not content with the dim outlook presented by the Department's lethargy, she was determined to find a solution on her own. In the end it was relatively easy. The next time she was in Rivadavia she simply asked our contact in the local government to let us borrow the keys to the compound and take out the posts, assuring him that they could hold her personally responsible if any legal trouble ensued. He acquiesced, and an hour later we took out 60 posts in pick-up trucks. At the time I was furious with Beatriz. How could she put ADRA—and herself—at such a great risk? Weren't we essentially stealing? What about ethics?

Maybe I was exaggerating a little bit, but it helped me to compare our situation to what Martin Luther King Jr. wrote from his Birmingham jail-cell about the true definition of justice: doing what is right is not always the same as doing what is lawful. Since there exists certain injustices inherent to the legal system, sometimes it is right to bend, even break the rules. We could have done the lawful thing and continued to wait an eternity for the Department to do their assessment (and we are still waiting, February 2012), but what would that have meant for the progress of the project? What if the people began to lose faith in our ability to help them because we were too slow to act? What if we had had to buy posts or cut down trees and thereby further damage the environment? In the end, we had acted upon the principle outlined by the Department of the Environment, rather than their methodology. Posts that would have otherwise rotted away went to good use for people that needed them.

And of course, I couldn't deny that I was personally extremely pleased to finally have, after more than two months, the infamous fence-posts.

Lento Pero Seguro

(events from June 2011)

Typically when people from the town of Rivadavia ask me how work is going in La Misión, it's somewhat of a trick question. Since most of them have the preconception that the Wichí are, at best, unresponsive—at worst, lazy—the response they are expecting from me is one of frustration and impotence. Seeing as this was indeed my general attitude for at least part of almost every day on the job, tweaking the truth was a necessary but subtle art. My typical response was that work was slow, but that there were a significant number of people that were truly committed to the project. I never exactly specified how many people justified my use of the word “significant”, and, conveniently, they never asked. Unfortunately, the number wasn't actually that significant at all, but if the people in the town started doubting us, that would add to the already existing doubt of the community—and indeed the ADRA team itself—which would probably have made work nearly impossible. In order to get through such conversations and still feel like I was being at least mostly genuine, I adopted a local phrase to explain the situation: “lento pero seguro” (slowly but surely).

The truth is that I really did believe in that phrase, not just out of necessity but because of a heartfelt notion that something, or someone, would at some point serve as a trigger to “wake up” the community from its' dormancy with relation to our project, and indeed their development in general. It was just a matter of finding out what it was and/or when it would happen.

The outlook on Monday appeared to be about the same as the week prior. Few hands, lots of work. I was certainly frustrated, especially since Beatriz had left again, but despite the general lack of participation, the first phase of the work—clearing the outer limits of the future garden in order to measure them—was going relatively well. I was also getting much better with the machete and ax.

Then there was Tuesday. I'm not sure how it happened. I don't know what I said, or what I did, or if it was even because of me, but eight people came. Davíd had arrived earliest, and both Demetrio and Luís had brought along some youth, which I felt was a very positive sign. Interestingly, there were also two older women amongst the group: Otilia and her best friend Rosa, Demetrio's mother. I scrambled to hand out tools and decide where to start, trying to hide my surprise and delight. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the work, myself included, but I was also busy observing their social interactions, hoping to discover some clues as to how to maintain, or even surpass, the size of the group that had come that day. After about an hour of slashing at reeds and raking them into piles, I found that almost everyone was working alone, and not talking much either. Since the Cocina Comunidad project not only focuses on but depends upon community involvement and participation (hence comunidad), this seemed to be a disappointing fact. If people were willing to work, but not work together, the project would never move forward.

When it seemed like it was about time to go home for lunch, I told Demetrio I wanted him to get everyone together so we could talk. He said a few words in Wichí, but they all just kept working as if he hadn't said a thing. I was stunned. Was this their community leader? Surely they could not be so engaged in their work that they hadn't heard. Least responsive of all was his own mother, who kept diligently hacking away with Otilia. Eventually, after about five minutes, a sort-of-circle had formed and I told them about how happy I was that they had come and how important it was for their families and their community at large. I also announced that from tomorrow on I would be bringing a small breakfast for them, an incentive we hoped would at least retain existing participants, if not attract more as well. I gave Demetrio a chance to say a few words, but he declined.

Nobody else seemed to have anything to say, so I brought the “meeting” to a close and said I looked forward to seeing them tomorrow. To my surprise, Otilia and Rosa asked me if they could borrow the machetes to keep on working on into the afternoon. Although I hesitated to encourage such long hours—especially for women—I didn't want to discourage their passion for the work either, so I reluctantly said that it was OK...

At last we were seeing some of the results of all of our community outreach of the previous month, the first signs of interest and commitment to what we were proposing. I still knew that it would be an uphill battle, but at least now it seemed “winnable”. A small number of community members were willing to believe, at least on some level, that we were honest and serious about working together to achieve food security, from the ground up—literally.

Cinco machetes, una hacha, y la piedra

Aside: I've started to realize that a lot of my posts (some like to call them chapters!) have the same literary arc: a problem presents itself, I stress out about it, a solution is found or occurs naturally, and then everything ends more or less happily. It would be nice if all my experiences thus far occurred according to this pattern, but they have not. Take this post, for example...

We knew that in order to maintain people's interest in and commitment to the project we would have to begin work immediately after the meeting. Creating a lot of hype could only go so far in convincing the community that working together with us was in their best interest. Results speak louder than words.

During the meeting we had asked for volunteers to lead out work groups for the new tasks we had proposed. Demetrio—the community's de facto chief—offered to take the initiative on clearing the land where the self-sustaining farm would be located, and Lina—the wife of an evangelical pastor—decided she wanted to be in charge of the compost program we had devised for the women of the community. Both agreed to start on the first steps of their work the next morning. Lina would organize a meeting with the women, and Demetrio would meet with the municipal government's surveyor and myself to mark the limits of the garden.

The next morning in front of the church Demetrio arrived on time, accompanied by Pablo, a man I already knew fairly well, and a teenager whom I had never met. When the surveyor arrived, we walked around the perimeter of the land that was “available” for use by the community (quotation marks because as the rightful owners of the land, it should all be available to be used however they want to). We discussed the best locations for planting certain types of crops, and eventually we had a relatively good idea of the amount of space we were dealing with. In order to measure it, we would have to first clear a few bushes where the outer limits of the farm would be. It was estimated that we would be able to complete that work by the end of the week.

As we walked back at the church, Beatriz arrived with the municipal government's director of public works, and we did a bit of a public mutual debrief of our morning's activities so that the community members present would know exactly what was happening, and, more importantly, so that the government officials would know that the community members present knew exactly what they had promised to do. The surveyor would measure and sketch out the limits of the future farm,
and the director of public works would provide machinery to clear and level the land once the largest plants had been taken out.

Afterwards, Beatriz and I spoke briefly with Demetrio about what tools or materials he would need for his group to complete work according to the schedule we had agreed upon. He supposed that he could bring about five or six people, so he asked for five machetes, an ax, and a sharpening stone. We promised to have them ready the next day. That night Beatriz traveled back to Salta, and the tools Demetrio had asked for were being sent in the opposite direction, thanks to Beatriz's husband Carlos.

Initially we had planned to form the work groups during the community meeting. Since the meeting had gone long and simply getting two leaders had taken about 15 minutes, we were open to  Demetrio's advice to allow the groups to form organically over the course of the work rather than formally create them. It was neither the first nor the last time Demetrio would be wrong. The following morning, he was the only one that showed up.

“And the others?” I asked.

“I don't know...” he responded with a smile.

We spent most of the gray-skied morning clearing cactus and numerous wheat-like stalks with our machetes. Demetrio had brought his own and was much more effective than I was, mostly because I was using one of the new machetes that hadn't been sharpened yet. Well, it was probably mostly because he actually knows how to use a machete...

We had a few small-talk conversations about soccer, the USA, and briefly about the meeting, but I wasn't too interested in talking about anything deeper. I was too distracted by the thought of the other four machetes going unused. Why had no one come? Was it Demetrio's inability, or perhaps unwillingness, to motivate others to participate? Maybe he was just apathetic? Had the meeting been unclear or misunderstood?

The next morning wasn't much better. Demetrio arrived somewhat late, and Davíd, another self-proclaimed leader in the community, also helped for awhile. Davíd is a artisan of woodwork, so he showed me the finer details of how to use an ax and machete (i.e. all the details). Throughout the morning I asked both of them why they thought more people weren't coming to help, and I always got the same response—“I don't know”. Truth be told, two 10-year-old-or-so boys had shown up and were enjoying going karate on some helpless plants and trees with the machetes, but they were mostly just an innocuous distraction.

After a couple hours it was noon, and we started to make our way back towards the church a few hundred meters away. That's when I found out that the boys weren't as harmless as I thought. One of the machetes was missing.

Demetrio and Davíd didn't seem too sympathetic. “That's just how it is. Some kids are really bad,” they said. “Some of them even break windows to steal from the school, and their parents encourage it.”

The pair started walking back to their respective houses, but I wasn't about to lose a 65 peso machete to some punk kid on the second day of work. I demanded that they do something to get it back. They talked to one of the boys. He blamed his friend. They talked to the other boy. He blamed the first boy, but went to go look for where the machete might be hidden. Not surprisingly, he didn't find anything. Demetrio then talked to the parents. They said they “didn't know”, even though Demetrio overheard them telling the boys to not tell us where it was hidden. Finally, after pressuring a group of other children, a little search party “miraculously” found the missing machete.

A few minutes later I was packing up the tools to head back to the house, and both Demetrio and Davíd asked if they could borrow the ax to sharpen it. Given the recent incident I was extremely hesitant—and perhaps reasonably so—but I knew I was making a huge mistake as I uttered the words of my curt response:

“I'd rather not. I don't want things to disappear.”

Their silent reaction was numbing. It was true, I didn't trust them yet. But they weren't supposed to know that. I knew that their trust in me could be seriously comprised if I didn't do some damage control. With some help from Beatriz, we came up with a plan to smooth things over. We made a formal note making Demetrio in charge of the tools as leader of the work group—showing him that we do indeed trust him—and I told Davíd that I kept the tools with me so I could sharpen them in town with a machine, saving a lot of manual labor—which was true, even if it wasn't my primary motive. Fortunately, both of them seemed happy with the arrangement.

They were not, however, happy enough to bring more people to the future garden the next day. We did get one more recruit—Luis, the pastor of the Anglican church—but it was now clear that Demetrio's “five or six” helpers were not ever going to come. I tried to stay positive. At least each day we had added one more person to the group, a pattern which could be sustainable over time if retention was high.

It was not. The following morning, Friday, Davíd was busy with artisan work. Luis would “be there in a little while”. And Demetrio, completely missing. After waiting alone for an hour, I gave up and went home, furious. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone—least of all Demetrio—and luckily I didn't have to. I knew what lay ahead, and I wasn't looking forward to it: an entire weekend thinking of how to explain to Demetrio that being a team leader isn't just a title, and trying to figure out a new strategy for including more men in the project. These were two tasks I had never imagined we would have to do, and that made them all the more daunting.

¿Sabías que este lunes a la tarde...

After rejecting the idea to hold elections and a couple weeks of forming friendly relationships with various members of the community (see last post), we knew that we had to attempt the impossible: call a community meeting. It felt a little bit as if we were starting all over again, since we had tried to do the same thing the very first week on the project. But we had been in Rivadavia for almost two months already. It was time to get down to business.

This time, however, the meeting took on a new complication. Initially, our only objectives were to formally introduce ourselves and create awareness about the project we would be executing with the community. Now, on top of doing both of those things, we would be attempting to create functional work groups to begin immediately on the first steps of their direct participation in project. Figuring out what those tasks would actually be was difficult enough on its own, but devising an effective, reasonable, and culturally sensitive plan for organizing the community in order to start working together seemed insurmountable. Should the groups be based on existing family groups or arbitrary, bringing people together on a given task from a variety of families? What exactly is a family—immediate, extended, etc.? Perhaps a better deciding factor would be age, or gender, or region? What size should each group be? Should there be group leaders, and if so, how would they be decided?

Essentially the only thing we were clear on was the date and time the meeting would take place, and even that had taken quite some time to settle on—Monday, June 20. So, even though there were so many details still up in the air, we began to turn our emphasis from conversations to invitations. We did nearly everything possible to get the word out. We encouraged our “key players” in the community to invite their family, friends, and neighbors. We announced it on all three radio stations, on multiple occasions. We even went house-to-house (door-to-door would be a misnomer), dividing ourselves up into the four regions we had sketched out for the community-wide survey, handing out a simple flyer I had designed. It explained who we were, what our plans were, and, above all, the necessity of their input in the process. I hoped that all of our publicity efforts would be enough to guarantee a good turn-out, but I was still concerned. Could we be going about this the wrong way? What if people still don't understand? What if they just don't care?

Those fears continued to haunt me more and more frequently as the event grew near. It didn't help that there were a million other logistical issues to resolve at the same time: choosing the best location for the meeting, organizing games for children to play so they wouldn't interrupt, figuring out how to transport materials, and so on and so forth. Probably one of the most stressful aspects of the process was cooking the food we were secretly preparing, which involved me attending to a blazing hot fire for over three hours (We had decided against the typical M.O. of political and evangelistic campaigns to gather people in indigenous communities: la olla [a pot of food]. While giving out free food has proven to be especially effective in guaranteeing attendance, we wanted to be sure that people would come not because they would be receiving something, but rather because they wanted to participate in the design and execution of the project. Since they didn't know we were going to be giving out any food, when we served them it would simply be a friendly gesture to thank them for taking the time to come, and showing them that they are important to us). Cooking is not my strong suit, so it was a very frustrating task.

That Monday finally arrived, and everything was finally coming together on the logistics, but in terms of the actual content—what we would actually present, say, and ask—I felt very unprepared. We were still undecided on a number of central issues, including the eternal debate over what organization we would try to implement. We had tenuously decided to let the community members decide it for themselves, but we weren't at all sure if it would work.

Unfortunately, the weather was not cooperating: overcast and even drizzling intermittently, adding yet more to our fears that attendance would be low. We ended up holding the meeting in the Anglican church, the most central building in the community both geographically and socially. The pastor helped us by putting up the speaker system outside to remind people within hearing distance that the meeting was about to begin. Punctuality seemed to be an issue. Although five or six people had entered on time, others were casually standing nearby, waiting to see what would happen. Our volunteers had begun playing with the 60-some children who had already arrived. To my relief, however, over the next 10 or 15 minutes more and more people were showing up. In the end, although we started nearly 30 minutes after the planned starting time, the small church was full.

Although most of the people in the room were those whom we had invited personally, we introduced ourselves, and the meeting began. To help facilitate a basic understanding of the project, we decided to set up a “big screen” to show some of pictures and videos about our past work in ADRA, most prominently a short piece on a similar project that had been successful in Peru. But the real impact came from Beatriz's supernatural interpersonal abilities. It doesn't matter how many people she is talking to, where they come from, their age, gender, ethnicity, or socioeconomic status... she is transformational. All of us share her compassion and dedication to helping those in need, but with her it is bursting out at the seams. As always, and especially with the Wichí, It took some time for participation to pick up pace, but as we turned from presenting the great possibilities that La Misión could achieve to describing and organizing the work that it would take to get there, I could tell that there was a new hope growing in that little adobe building that had been long forgotten. That hope was contagious. I nearly cried.

All of the stress that had nearly paralyzed me just a few hours before disappeared, and all of the difficulties I had feared were resolved without a hitch. We explained the work groups: clearing the land for the garden, setting up a compost system in each house, and building a fence for the garden. Leaders for each group presented themselves, and promised to start the next day on gathering people to work with them. We closed the meeting, serving them cookies and the fruit-salad-like beverage I had helped with. As tired as I was, and even though I had an endless list of apprehensions about the work to come, I couldn't help but smile. We were making progress.

¿Y ahora?

Finishing the community-wide survey seemed to be a very positive step in the right direction, but another reality was beginning to set in. We had only completed the first step. Now what?

Our goal was simple enough: organize the community. But simple and easy are not always synonymous. We all knew that community organization was central to the project, but how to achieve it was a matter of some contentious debates over what might work best. Hold elections? Form committees? Call meetings? Support existing “leaders”? We all knew that the stakes were higher than before. Now that we had established our presence, one wrong step might mean a loss of trust in the hearts and minds of the Wichí. No 2^nd chance. No plan B.

Initially we landed on a plan to go house by house asking for nominations for a new communal committee (the old one had been defunct for some 2 years or more), then holding a community-wide lunch party to elect positions. When we began to develop the idea in greater detail, however, we realized that it was probably too dangerous. It's greatest advantage was also it's biggest disadvantage—directness. If we tried to organize by creating a committee the results could be incredibly good. A governing body could create a greater awareness of the goals of the project, delegate tasks, and motivate others to participate. At the same time, if it didn't work, it could complicate existing tensions and even create new conflicts, both within the community and perhaps even with ADRA. Ultimately, we heeded history's advice: the last thing the Wichí need is more politics.

Unfortunately, that meant that there were now a lot of things up in the air. Too many things. As they kept adding up, it began to weigh down on me, and doubt started seeping in... Is this the right time? Are we in the right place? Are we the right people? But there was one question that loomed above all others. It felt like every person we talked to—both in the community and in the town—had a blaring yellow warning sign above their head saying, “You're not the first to try this. Others have come with projects before, and they failed. How are you any different?” It was never said in quite those words, but the message was clear enough: we aren't convinced.

Others were completely certain, although not in the way we wanted them to be. They were convinced that we shouldn't be here at all. An article about our project had appeared in the provincial newspaper of Salta, El Tribuno, and apparently someone was angry enough to write us a strongly worded editorial that appeared in the same newspaper. The first half was about how it made her sick that professionals from the United States would come to Salta with humanitarian projects in indigenous communities, because foreigners always receive more than they give in such situations, and that there are enough qualified people in Argentina to do the same work. The second half was a direct attack on our methodology, saying that our project intended on changing the way of life and culture of the community by “civilizing” and “globalizing” it.

We didn't respond to the editorial, but other rumors in the town and in the community were going around too. ADRA tries to control the Wichí communities it has worked in before. ADRA just wants to make people work for them so that all the benefits will belong to ADRA or the government afterwards. ADRA doesn't actually have any money and is just promising things to the people. And so on... In general we chose to ignore these accusations unless someone spoke to us directly about them. Very few people actually seemed to believe them, so we figured that giving them attention would probably make them seem more valid than if we simply brushed them off as insignificant.

The strategy seemed to work. The rumors generally died out as quickly as they had come. But in a way they did affect our work, albeit indirectly. We became more cautious, taking things slower and planning larger time intervals for our short-term project goals. We discussed the overall project idea in more depth, making sure that it was the best fit given our abilities and the response of the community. We even went a little less often to La Misión, although that was partially because we had so much data entry to do and because I got sick for a couple of days.

And ultimately, we changed how we talked to people in the community. Before, it always felt like I had a mission to complete with every person I talked to. No matter what the conversation was, I knew that by the end of the conversation I would be trying to explain the project or tell them about ADRA's work or let them know about upcoming activities, regardless if they asked me for this information or not. Now that one of the biggest hurdles of the beginning of the project had passed, we decided to take a step back and simply listen. We took a more genuine interest in what people wanted to say to us, and listened to the the details of their daily lives, their history, their needs and ideas and dreams. Obviously we were ready for a conversation about ADRA if they started one, but that was no longer our goal. We wanted to really know in depth—not just in numbers—the people we were working with.

Sometimes, but not always, this resulted in profound discussions and the beginnings of new friendships. Stories about childhood games or learning a father's trade. Stories about travels to far away places or adventures in the woods. Stories about sickness or the suffering of generations past. I was affected most by personal accounts of discrimination at the hands of los blancos (the whites, i.e. non-indigenous). Being mistreated in school, getting sued for hunting in the forest, being called an indio.

In the end, this strategy proved doubly effective. Not only did we feel more comfortable, having done away with our agenda-driven dialogue, but the people community in the community were opening up more. Even though the conversation often ended up in the same place, a friendly visit— from someone who knew their name—was much better received than the two-minute stock speech we had been giving before.

I still had my doubts, and the community certainly still had theirs, but I knew we were not wasting time. On the contrary, we were forming relationships that would be elemental in initiating and developing the project. Without those bonds, we would continue to be viewed as outsiders proposing ideas they don't identify with. A real waste of time.

(I apologize for having so few pictures, they take a very long time to upload!)

Buen día, Rivadavia

“Good day to all the town of Rivadavia, it's always a pleasure to be able to talk to you”. That's probably the most nerve-wracking phrase I've had to speak (in Spanish, of course) in my experience thus far as director of this project, because every time I have to say it I'm “on the air”.

Radio is a big deal here. In a small, rural town where access to TV is limited and illiteracy rates are uncomfortably high, radio still reigns as the king of local news, music, and advertising. Television is definitely present—both cable and satellite (DirecTV)–but with no local programming, the majority of TV viewing time goes to fútbol (soccer), novelas (soap operas), or pelis (movies). These things offer entertainment, but they do not—I would argue—provide the same feeling of interconnectedness with a community that listening to the radio can. And, of course, buying a radio is simply cheaper.

To further prove my point is this fact: there are three radio stations in Rivadavia. The community station, run by the municipal government, plays a mix of everything and is the most popular, followed by the other two, which are privately owned and broadcast exclusively evangelical Christian content.

Interestingly, despite their influence, they are surprisingly willing to give out free air time. And that's where we come in. Since we are doing so many things both in the town and in the community, the most effective way to get out a message is by dropping by the radio once or twice a week and announcing it on the air. Now that we are friends with most of the staff, we can basically just show up and within 5 minutes be in the studio talking about the latest plan or meeting to the entire Rivadavia area. The only unfortunate part is that the other ADRA team members seem to think it's most appropriate that I talk the most because I'm director of the project, even though I am obviously the least fluent in Spanish.

The truth is, though, that even with the semi-present language barrier, by the time I'm actually talking and conversing with the host I feel almost entirely comfortable. For some reason, despite all the nerves I have just beforehand, in the actual moment when I have no choice but to speak I get a wave of inexplicable fearlessness. Even if my words are simple and I make mistakes in pronunciation or conjugation, something about that spontaneous moment in which I am only subconsciously aware of the hundreds of people that might be listening frees me of my normal social inhibition. It's exhilarating, but strange; why is it that talking with more people would make me feel less afraid than talking with just one or two?

I still don't have a good answer for that question, but I do know that I love being a part of the radio medium. Before I arrived in Rivadavia I had actually started a weekly radio program with my friend Brian called “Teh 402 Show”. Using a rather clever combination of internet technology (Skype, Gmail phone, Ustream, and Facebook), we were able to broadcast our discussions, play our favorite music choices, and even take calls and texts. Even though we never got too many listeners, the idea of communicating with an audience was not only fun but fulfilling. In an age when we are overstimulated by the visual, the experience of sitting back and listening to a conversation or a song or a story is still incredibly compelling.

And here in Rivadavia, it's even more important. Being a constant presence on the radio not only helps our project to be better known the Wichí community, it also brings their situation to light in the community at-large. That heightened awareness of the problem is, in my eyes, the first step towards deeper understanding and less discrimination. By breaking down my language barrier, perhaps at the same time I am helping to topple bigger walls.