STEPHEN ROESLER
Staff Writer
“Wait a minute, we haven’t heard from you, Amory,” said our scrawny gringo guide with dark scruff on his white cheeks. “Mad, sad, frustrated – how do you feel?”
Sitting, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his blonde locks covering his disappointed eyes, he began to utter, “I am disappointed, but these things happen. It’s a bummer.”
“Everything happens for a reason,” added another optimistic student. “It was God’s will, he didn’t want us to summit.”
The rest of the group sat quite. Some remained thankful they didn’t have to attempt the 19,000-foot glacier but most of us solemnly slouched as the reality of many months of mental and physical training seemed in vain. Outside, Mt. Cayambe stood socked in by a blistering blizzard as the echo of disenchantment resounded through the cold halls of our hut at base camp. This is Project Serve: Ecuador.
The purpose of short-term service trips always seemed questionable. Typically, one travels to a far off land in hopes of spreading God’s love or lending a helping hand for a few days. More often than not, service trips offer some other advantages. For example, one may get a few free days to spend on tropical sands or explore the surrounding area. You may get to shop in a fantastic market for absurdly cheap trinkets – all good things.
Choosing Ecuador for Project Serve certainly maintained its perks. Among the several days of excruciating service (three), the outdoor enthusiasts got their fill by scaling the vast peaks in the Andes. The culmination of the climbing centered around Mt. Cayambe. But, it would be foolish to discount the impact of our service – the impact on us.
I walked up the two short stairs, poked my head through a small slit in the brick and slipped into a tin-roofed shack. As I sifted through the dusty floors and dark children, a ripe smell permeated from the bowl of wet tuna fish as the salami rounds stared at me with intimidation. “Well, the bread looks good,” said one student.
After we choked down the meal prepared for us by a poor community outside Quito, Ecuador, a church service was conducted in our honor. The typical service soon concluded and the next section of “service” began. The villagers sang and danced for us. Surely, they wanted to thank us for our efforts in soccer, I thought. But, no – they had much more planned.
Three women from the back shifted slowly and huddled near the front of the rickety stage with an aged drum that occupied the majority of the stage corner. The huddle of elderly women began to whimper and the remainder of our confused group scattered around the pitiful sounds. We placed our hands on their shoulders. The ancient complexions filled with tears as our prayers were shot to the heavens. “Guide them in their paths and provide them with safety in their lives,” I said.
I could hardly utter the last meaningless words of my insignificant prayer. Suddenly, when the prayer ended, the hum diminished and a quiet peace knelt over the seasoned roof. I began to swim through the dark faces. I slid over the dungy floor and out the small hole in the wall – out to a vast expanse of verdant hills and pastures scattered with cattle, teeth lodged in the grassy earth.
Our group walked up to the rock laden steep path. We all kept quiet.
Back on the charter bus, into our world of comfort, away from the poverty and desperate lives of this poor community. We got what we came for; it was time to go back to our lofty apartment. We had to shower before our dinner. It was important we had time to shower.
As the day sunk in, dinner became a time of much happiness among the group members. Most had forgotten about the previous day. I hadn’t forgotten. I asked Amory if he was upset he didn’t get to summit.
“That’s what I came to do,” he replied with a wide smile where his nose covered the middle of his upper lip. “I am quite upset, really.”
I looked around at the others. Small groups of two and three stood atop the apartment roof, eating their steaming shish kabobs with their freshly combed hair. Everyone laughing. Everyone happy.
We later affirmed all the other members of our group by writing encouraging letters as we sat in the shelter of the dining room. As we moved around in our chairs, the wooden floors squeaked and we kept scribbling down our letters for each one to read.
I continued to ask myself the same question. Who did I serve?
“It was God’s will, he didn’t want us to summit.” The words continued to bounce through my thick skull. “Maybe I’ve missed it,” I thought. Forget meteorology, weather patterns, “He didn’t want us to summit.”
This is Project Serve: Ecuador.
04-03-2008