Renate Mommsen is a 23 year old nurse and a member of the Woodcrest Community in Rifton, NY. She worked in the Yalve Sanga hospital from April to December, 2009 and recently returned to the Chaco to continue serving there.

The early reports are at the bottom of the page.

April 28

The little baby Matias with meningitis is still very sick, but he keeps fighting for life. He continues breathing rapidly and cries a lot. His twin brother, Ruben, on the other hand is a happy little guy who is just discovering his hands, and loves to wave them in the air and watch them move around. The mother Diana takes turns holding and feeding them, she obviously loves both very much.

It´s definitely fall in the chaco - it has been cloudy and drizzling the last few days, and one can already see that the plants and trees appreciate the change. However, we badly need a good rain before the winter drought sets in, people´s water cisterns are already getting empty.

Last night we sat with friends around a small fire and bubbling iron pot which contained a chaco specialty - "palomitas", a plump wild pigeon that people here like to hunt as the greedy birds feed on freshly harvested fields of sesame or other grain crops. Previously we had helped to pluck over 200 of them after a particularly successful hunting expedition, and it was worth the work   - the palomitas were delicious.

April 23

It was nearing noon time, and most staff were leaving the hospital for lunch break, when the ambulance arrived from Campo Largo. A mother stepped down holding her four month old baby, and she was followed by her mother, holding another baby, its twin. Though 26, Diana, the mother, looked much older, her face portraying worry and sadness. They sat on the wooden bench waiting for the doctor to come and assess Matias, one of the little twins.

The doctor felt the top of Matias's head and listened to his pounding little heart, almost too fast to count. He immediately grew concerned, because the high fever, rapid breathing, and tight, swollen fontanella point to meningitis. Soon Matias lay propped up with a pillow in a large hospital bed, with IV antibiotics. Even with oxygen his chest dipped in and out about 90 times per minute. His mother sat next to him, watching. I came in the room and felt like somehow comforting or supporting Diana, so I sat next to her and put my hand on her shoulders and rubbed her back gently. She started to sob silently, her shoulders shaking. From across the room, the grandmother holding the other twin began to cry loudly as well.

What will happen to little Matias, fighting for life? The next days will tell, but he needs our prayers.

April 20

I want to describe briefly going to the indigenous community of La Patria, and helping in a day clinic there. First of all you have to drive 80 kilometers out into the sticks along a dirt road, crossing various bridges made of planks. Previously the clinic was held in a cleared area under the trees, but now there´s a little wall-less tin roof structure to protect from the hot sun.

There were at least 100 people waiting, many women and small children. Some arrive on donkey back, most on foot. Quite a few of the women are wearing little boys shorts on their heads upside down, either as a sun hat or just a new style of head covering. There is a strong smell of many bodies close together and of woodsmoke from the open cooking fires. As we all crowd together setting up and hanging our little grocery scale from a beam to weigh the babies, one can't help notice the festive atmosphere as well, people enjoying the excuse to get together. 

Working with another young woman, Tanya, we begin to weigh and chart all the kids beween one and five. Most of them scream and kick as they are lifted into the harness and hung on the scale, sometimes I can't read the weight because the child's jiggling around so much. The villagers stand back and chuckle and enjoy the show.

The majority of the kids are underweight, and their bodies are covered with scabies, especially the little babies. If a child is especially malnourished, we give the mother a carton of baby formula, otherwise there is not much else you can say or do to encourage weight gain, because now as we approach the dry season, there simply is not enough food.

This monthly trip to La Patria is basically the only health service offered to the surrounding indigenous communities. Despite everything, I am always impressed by the light in the people´s eyes, and their broad smiles. How can they maintain their hope in such a situation?

April 19

The temperature has soared again, after a few days of relatively cold weather, 20C or about 68F. Everyone was walking around with jackets and hats on. Now as I walk through Yalve Sanga towards the small grocery store, called an almacen in Spanish, the infamous hot, north wind is blowing hard. It covers my skin with fine dust, and there is a crunchy, sandy feeling in my mouth.

Destination reached, but the almacen is closed. I should have known better, it is Dia del Indigena, Day of the Indigenous, when all the indigenous take the day off to celebrate and commemorate their culture. Every village starts the day off with a church service at 9:00 am, followed by the ancianos (the older members) relating stories and history about how life was for the indigenous communities in the past, before the white men came. They tell how the people were hunters and gatherers and how they hunted the small wild deer, pigs, and lizards, and their knowledge of the plants that can be used for food and medicine. It's fascinating to think that such a lifestyle still existed in the life time of many of the older people, although that number is decreasing. It remains a challenge how to pass on to the youth an appreciation for the indigenous culture, history, values, and traditions.

After the worship service the day will be spent enjoying each other’s company, playing volley ball and soccer, and cooking and eating a rich stew cooked in an enormous caldron over an open fire. For all the influences of Western society, the indigenous still are fortunate in the strong sense and love of communal experiences that still exists among them.

April 18

Saturday night, 1:30 am in Yalve Sanga hospital. Two motor bikes roar by on the road outside the hospital, heading toward the highway, known as the "ruta", about 8 kilometers from Yalve Sanga.

"I wonder what they're up to at this hour?" I wonder out loud. Juventino, the other nurse, shrugs and shakes his head disapprovingly.

It is well known the the ruta is not a good place to be in the night, especially on the weekends. For a long time now it has posed a danger to indigenous young people who go there to party, drink, and stagger home inebriated in the morning. On two different occasions now fights have broken out on the way home, often with machetes or shovels, ending in the deaths of two teenagers.

Oh no, I hear the motor bikes return, and stop outside the hospital. Ramon, and Leo, both around 16, are accompanied in by their fathers and older brothers. Ramon has been shot through his right foot, and Leo has graze wounds from bullets in three different places in his back and head, one that requires stitches. I've never seen anyone with bullet wounds before.

As Juventino and I clean up the wounds, the boys tell us briefly what happened; a drunk Paraguayan (latino) with a 22 began to shout at them that he would kill them, and started shooting at them. Fortunately he was drunk, a couple inches lower and the bullet would have entered Leo's skull or lung. The boys are clearly shaken up.

"And the police?" we ask.

"Oh, they just watched the whole thing without interfering."

How sick. Though unspoken, everyone in the room knows that because the boys are indigenous, the police aren't really concerned what happens, like their lives don't matter. It reminds me of the frontier towns of the Midwest in the states in the 19th century. In context, only in the latter half of the 20th century was it made illegal to hunt "Indians" for sport in Paraguay. Feeling helpless in the face of such injustice, we clean and patch up as best we can, before sending the boys home with their fathers.

April 15

Another sultry, still night in the Chaco, but we did have some days of cooler weather. Last night six month old Yenilda was brought in by ambulance with febrile convulsions from Paz del Chaco, one of the communities farthest away (80 km). She is a chubby little girl with very round arms and legs, delicate black curls, and large dark brown eyes. We try to lower her soaring temperature with medicine, a bath, and cold compresses, and finally she drifts off to sleep.  Meanwhile in the next bed Rodeli, also six months, lies next to her mother, her small hand holding the oxygen tubing in her sleep.  She breathes rapidly and shallowly despite the oxygen - the "cooler weather" has already begun to affect the little children, already vulnerable in their primitive houses.

April 11

Sunday dawns, another gorgeous fall day in the Chaco. Incidentally it is also the day when the clock turns an hour back. We decided to go to the church service in the indigenous village of Efeso today, and set off to arrive in good time for the 9 o'clock service. However, upon arriving at the church, a one story stucco rectangular building with a tin roof, we found it packed full, with the service in full swing. It turns out that, as for many of the indigenous time is a vague concept and they don't have watches, the church service had started at 7:30 am!

We were ushered to the front of the church, and enjoyed the different musical groups of men or women singing praise songs whole heartedly, and accompanied by the beautiful Paraguayan harp and guitars. I am always touched by the childlike, simple faith of the indigenous, and how they express it in their songs and prayers. At the close of the service we all stood in our places, and the room resounded with the spoken prayers in Enlhet, everyone praying out loud.

April 10

The road to Liz Nira's house is straight and dusty, bordered by bottle trees and scrubby bushes. An occasional motorbike buzzes past us as we walk, kicking up dust. The driver and passengers, sometimes up to five (including children) without fail wave and grin at us. At the entrance to Liz's house, two bouncy skinny dogs herald our arrival. We clap our hands, the customary Paraguayan way of announcing a visit, and Adelina, a short, smiling Enlhet woman in her 40s, rises from the hammock to welcome us. "Adelante" she calls, and we reply with, "con permiso" as we enter the patio.

The ground is raked and clean, and they have stitched together burlap sacks and stretched them out from poles to provide a cool, shady place.  Adelina is Liz Nira's grandma. Liz is four years old, but has the body of a small two year old, with pencil like legs and arms. She can't sit by herself, walk, or talk, but she has big brown eyes and long eyelashes, and she looks keenly around at us. She hears well and completely understands when her family talks to her in Guarani. Her grandmother holds her in the hammock as we pass around the terere. Liz lives with her mother, grandmother, and various extended family, and is one of the most loved children I have seen. Her father and grandfather both have to work on far away estancias, and rarely are able to come home, but they love her just as much. Whenever they are home they work on building a simple brick house that will serve as a bathroom and shower for her.

The grandmother motions to the vegetable plot behind the house and tells us about the different crops, and how happy they are that there was more rain this year than last, the watermelons are even ripening. Soon Liz Nira is tired, and Adelina takes her back into the tiny one roomed house the whole family uses, where she puts her into a little hammock so she can rest.

 

 

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Your Turn. Tell us what you thought about this article:

Responses

"I came in the room and felt like somehow comforting or supporting Diana, so I sat next to her and put my hand on her shoulders and rubbed her back gently."
Such a "small" deed. But I saw an extension of the kingdom of God in that act. Thank you for being the hand of Jesus to one of God's hurting creatures.

Mike Atnip
Terre Hill, PA