The MB: Part 20 (Finally in Argentina) No record exists of that first full day in the area. So busy was I trying to keep up with Elder K and the increasing demands of my lower gastrointestinal tract that journal writing went by the wayside. One of the hardest adjustments to make was to Elder K’s habit of arising at 5:30 am and working until 10 pm every night. Given my health situation those first few days, though, I had an incentive to arise. When I’d first awake, all was well in Zion, south of the border- until I sat up in bed, or moved even one muscle. Skeleto-muscular activity seemed to set in motion the evil process in my guts. The gurgling would begin, followed by the pressure buildup. And if I didn’t heed the call within two or three minutes, there’d be trouble in River City- of the chocolate variety. All during the day I was on guard, hoping against hope that the monster within had accepted my morning sacrifice. But I could never be sure. It wasn’t until some five months later that I received a pamphlet bearing the title “Preventing Diarrhea, and What To Do If It Occurs.” Aptly colored green, the front page bore an illustration of two missionaries in suit and tie, sitting at a table, eating a meal. The placid looks on their faces bore witness to the fact that they were not afflicted with what we called the “Hershey Squirts.” Then again, a more realistic drawing- that of an Elder or Sister lying on their side in the baño, grimacing and doubled over in pain as they tried to not defile their underwear for the fourth time that day- would probably be too much information for new missionaries. Page Two talks about the causes of diarrhea, most of which I dismiss since I attribute all such maladies as being the handiwork of destroying angels, and probably those assigned to one of the Lower Orders, judging by the nature of their assignment. Barely got past St. Peter at those pearly gates, no doubt. The listed causes include Microorganisms, virus germs, bacteria, parasites and food allergies. Drawings to the right portray an artist’s rendering of the viruses, which look like a cross-sectional view of sliced kiwi fruit. Bacteria are represented by a string of pearls or furry beans. And the lowly parasites look like a swimming T-bone steak or ladybug, if said creatures had tails. While I appreciated the effort, knowing what they looked like- provided I had access to a powerful microscope- would do me no good in the long run (no pun intended). Even if I could see them coming, how would I defend myself? With all the tools at its disposal, my body had mucked up the job pretty well, so what chance had I? The next section is about prevention. “Wash hands after using the toilet, and before eating.” “Water may be boiled with an inexpensive electric coil dipped into a glass of water.” “Bottled water is safe if sand-filtered, chlorinated or distilled.” These suggestions are followed by the reminder to boil fruits and veggies five minutes before eating them- as soaking the foodstuffs in chlorinated water does NOT kill all the dangerous microbes. “Don’t use ice cubes unless you are certain the water source is pure.” “When invited out to eat, accept the invitation and eat only well-cooked food. Politely avoid unsafe food and water.” And then there’s the clincher: “Keep in mind that you do not have, and will not develop the immunity that the local people have.” Considering the amount and frequency with which we would ingest food of questionable origins, and that there was no time or means with which to easily boil water, and that dumping an “inexpensive” electric coil into a glass of water seemed a risky proposition at best, I can understand why the Church must have decided it was easier and safer to just inoculate us every three months. But during the first few days in the country, I had no idea what was going on inside my body. Having gone through two straight months of 15 - 45° temperatures, with snow now, sleet later, sun or fog bringing up the rear, and all dependant on what the Wasatch front was allowing through on any given day, this sudden immersion in full-blown summer weather, humidity, mosquitoes, and skin-burning sun took its toll. Whether due to the above or marauding microbes, my body decided that nothing I ate would make it to the southern regions without first being liquefied. Maybe it was the influence of the Coriolis Effect, or maybe my lower GI just didn’t recognize or trust what I was sending down the hatch. Regardless, it refused to treat food or myself with the due process (so to speak) or courtesy it afforded American food. And to make sure the things I ate did not stay in its body any longer than necessary, it made damned sure that my internal psi was cranked up a few notches during the waking hours. That way, even if I did want to hold something in until I was within striking distance of the nearest baño, it would make sure there was steady supply of feceous gases ready and waiting to forcibly expel any and all processed foodstuffs from my body- and with extreme prejudice. During my first week, we were visiting a family two miles from the pension. Things had been going well, and I even helped give a concept and bear my testimony- but around the time the discussion was ending, the rumblings down below began. We kneeled and I was asked to give the prayer, but I was under duress, the pressure inside coming and going, not unlike a male version of Braxton-Hicks. Considering my condition, and the fact that I was new at speaking the language, I did okay. The prayer over, I told my comp that we needed to get home FAST. So off we went, me pedaling like mad, in hopes that I arrived home before my semi-digested food did. And the irony was not lost on me, the guy who’d suffered constipation for the first 15 years of his life on Planet Earth, and who would, if it were possible, have a monu¬ment erected to Metamucil, the homage bearing a plaque engraved with a dedicatory prayer about the wonders of my favorite fruit-flavored, effervescent laxative. Between sickness, the workload, the schedule, the heat, and speaking Spanish 24-7, those first few days with Elder Knowlton were a blur. After we had taken care of the morning duties, he would pull out a pale blue planning card, folded lengthwise in sections. Opening it to the current day, he’d share the scheduled events and appiiuntments. After a prayer was said, we’d “fire out.” But instead of walking, we’d hop on a couple beat-up, one-speed bikes, and travel out past the paved roads and the middle-class homes. Asphalt gave way to dirt, makeshift soccer fields and adobe-walled, cane-roofed houses- whose interior walls consisted of a sheet hanging from ceiling to floor, separating one half of the home from the other. We stopped at a home and my comp would double-check the address on his card. Then we’d park the bikes and wlak to the fornt gate, but not enter, instead clapping hands a few times. Out would come one of the residents, and Elder K would introduce me to the family. The only words I dared utter were “Hola. Me llamo Elder Hiland,” and maybe a “Si” here and there. This was the real world, where people didn’t always enunciate clearly or slowly, or even in complete sentences. After an opening prayer, Elder Knowlton would start the discussion. Resting a thick black binder on one knee, he taught these people about the origins of the LDS Church, occasionally opening the binder to a picture that reinforced understanding of what was being discussed. I sat there, nodding every so often but staring fixedly at my companion- a technique that directed the listeners’ attention toward the person speaking. While I could follow some of what he said, more often than not I would lose the thread before picking it up again, like trying to find an elusive radio signal in the mountains. When I understood his words, everything was fine, but the moment it became gibberish, I would tense up, afraid that during the interim he would ask me to say something. It was during one of those moments that he asked me to bear my testimony. I knew the time would eventually come, but why now? On the other hand, bearing testimony in Spanish was something I had been practicing, so I let fly. I told the listener that I knew Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father lived, and that the Book of Mormon was the word of God, along with the Bible. Given the limited scope of my repertoire, I probably said little else, and closed “in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” But it felt good to take that first step. After the closing prayer we rode away, Elder K telling me I’d done a good job. For the first week or two, Elder K did most of the heavy lifting while I watched and listened and learned. By evening I was ready to crawl into my bed fully clothed, I was so tired. But it was a good tired. Though we got along okay, my interactions with Elder Knowlton were strictly business. And while he did his best to train me, we never really connected. One morning I was getting dressed when I was suddenly grabbed and tossed to the floor, next to my bed. Wonder¬ing what in the hell Elder K was doing, I quickly realized it was a wrestling move- and I hated wrestling. As my companion kneeled behind, holding me in a wrestling grip, I started to struggle, then went limp. “You don’t like this kind of stuff, do you?” “Nope!” I said. “Okay.” He let me go and never tried the wrestling moves on me again, but I could tell that an opportunity to meet him halfway on something had passed. In the beginning, I had it easier than other missionaries. Though I had to get up early, Elder Knowlton’s calling as a District Leader meant that we couldn’t go out and do real missionary work (like door-knocking or teaching), until after he’d taken care of the district’s paperwork and other business. But I was kept on a short leash. Elder K made sure we said our companionship prayers, fired out from the apartment on time, and observed the local customs and courtesies. One of the things he really emphasized was the importance of studying the discussions. Until they were passed off, there’d be no reading of church books, magazines, or anything else, except for scriptures, and then only sparingly. My first priority was to memorize those discussions. But given that I liked to wrote and document things that were happening, I became a bit rebellious, taking time to sneak in a journal entry here and there. Despite my inexperience, I soon discovered that it was easy to talk to people, even in a language I barely understood. The hard part was getting them to understand me, but once that barrier was overcome, they would start trusting me. One of the ways we introduced ourselves to people was by knocking doors. Of all the things that most missionaries like to do, door-knocking is not necessarily one of them. Granted, there is an element of adventure to the task, but there is also the ever-present risk of rejection, and in some cases, angry or even violent reactions. One could ask “Then why bother knocking doors, if it’s such a pain in the butt?” Similar to the Jehovah Witnesses, the LDS church is missionary-minded church. Unlike the 21st century, where communication of every type is available via the Internet, the 70’s presented only a few avenues to those who wished to share the gospel with others. After one had contacted all of one’s family and friends, one had to engage in other, more challenging and sometimes risky behavior to find those seeking The Truth. At some point a proselyting church had to decide that in order to expand its influence, door-knocking is an unavoidable option- at least until the church members get off their fannies and started helping. When you get down to it, missionary work is the lifeblood of God’s church, regardless of the available technology. Without it, a church may grow, but not very fast, if at all. Since there are always people who would grab hold of the truth if they only knew where to find it, missionaries are their best hope. One of the first times I knocked on doors was a leap of faith into icy waters. Approaching one, I knocked, then stood there in the hot sun, half- hop¬ing that the responder would either be nice or not at home. No one answered. Maybe a couple doors later I heard the rattle of a latch or key- no knobs, for there were none there- and the door swung open. The person looked us over and said “Si?” upon which, with heart in throat, I said “Hola! Somos representantes de La Iglesia de Jesuscristo de Los Santos de los Ultimos Dias. Tenemos un mensaje para usted...” And to my surprise, I got it right- after which I fell silent. It was the signal to my companion that I had exhausted my inventory of Spanish and he needed to take over. Yet it was a seamless transition. After a few more doors it became surprisingly easy. Once over the jitters I was able to focus instead on the person’s demeanor as they reacted to my request to share, and more than that on what I felt the Spirit was guiding me to say- that is, when I wasn’t drawing a blank in the Spirituality Dept. Sometimes I felt guided by unseen heavenly forces, while at others- and there were many- it seemed that God was leaving me to my own devices. Sometimes the person would stand there and politely listen, then say one of the following: “Sorry, but I have my own religion, so...” “No thank you” followed by the closing door. “What did he just say?” the person would ask my comp, pointing at me. No response, followed by a slamming door. A head shake, followed by a closing door. But in a few cases the person would ask us inside, which led to the next stage of proselyting: the Discussion. This was where all that memorization in the Language Training Mission came into play. Once the person allowed us to start teaching, it could last 20 minutes, or an hour, or longer, before the appointment came to an end. The reason for this is that discussions have always been built around the idea of a conversation, not a lecture. Getting the other person involved in the conversation is the only meaningful way to engage their minds and touch their hearts- though it is the Spirit of the Holy Ghost that actually does the “touching”. We were only the instruments, as it were, that introduced the topic, the concepts, and the theology. We were the teachers following the example of the one true Teacher, Jesus Christ. After a few days went by, the 5:30 am wake-up call lost some of its sting, though it never became that easy. The struggle of mind over mattress was one that mankind had been wont to repeat throughout the centuries. Regardless of our technological advances the 20th century was no exception. Paperwork was everywhere. Each companionship was required to send a weekly report to the Mission President. This report contained info about how many hours we spent proselyting, how many discussions we taught, how much money we spent, etc. We were also asked to send a short letter describing how things were going in our area. Because the president was responsible for 200+ missionaries, he relied on feedback from his two Assistants (AP’s), the Zone and District leaders (ZLs and DLs), and the letters we took turns sending each week. My first letter to Presidente Righi was a wobbly affair, but I had to start somewhere. Many times they were only a sentence or two. Other times, when things were go¬ing very well or very badly, the letter would be much longer. How Righi read all of these missives with the busy schedule he maintained, was beyond me. Maybe an AP or the Mission Secretary lent a spare eyeball from time to time. We also received letters from our local leaders, those missionaries that the President felt inspired to call. In late February I received the first of many communications from the ZLs: Dear Elder Hiland: We want to extend to you a welcome to the Villa Maria Zone. We are happy to have you here with us and we are praying for your success. We desire that you be an instrument in the Lords hands to build his kingdom. To this end we want you to set goals and learn your charlas. Follow your companion, love him and learn all that you can from him. If you do these things you will become an excellent missionary and that is what we hope for you. May the Lord bless you in your efforts. Love, Tucker & Kocherhans (Zone leaders for Villa Maria) Other paperwork which we dealt with on a daily basis included goal sheets, area maps, and light-green 8 ½ x 13” weekly planning cards. Folded lengthwise into four sections, then doubled in half, this card was our primary reference for the people we needed to see, important tasks we were working on, and expenses. They were designed to fit inside a suit or shirt pocket, right next to one’s documents and the White Bible. The planning card was arranged so the first page showed the title of the document, “Name” (for whoever was conducting that week), “Companion”, “Week Ending”, and the scripture from Alma 16: 22. The other 2/3 of the space displayed “Monday”, below which were two lined columns and the time of day to the right, denoted in military time every half hour. Each day had its own folded section denoted from 8:30 am to 9:30 pm. The extra section was used for Names and Addresses of investigators and contacts. The earliest records I have are for Week 10. By that time I was adjusted to the schedule, and much more of a help to Elder K than a drag. The stats for that 10th week show 62.5 hours of proselyting, 10 ½ hours teaching, and 13 hours of Gospel study. This worked out to between 9 – 10 hours of door knocking, cold contacting, visiting church members, and traveling from one place to another. During that week we taught 12 C’s, 2 D’s, 1 F, 2 Hs, 1 G, and received 27 references. With the exception of a certain week in March of the following year, I would help teach more charlas during the following 10 weeks than at any other time in my mission. All of this activity was done rain or shine, on foot or bike. The weather was pleasant when not downright hot, our geographic location equivalent to the Los Angeles area, but at an altitude of 1380 feet above sea level. When it rained it really came down. That was the thing about missionary work. It was so physical, so down-to-earth. Outside much of the time, we became weather-beaten humans, either toasted or soaked or frozen- or some combination of the three. Lunch was greatly anticipated, as much for the opportunity to rest as it was for the food and drink. But above and beyond that was another reason to look forward to noontime- the Siesta- that part of the schedule that set our mission apart from most others. From 1 to 4 pm, most stores and other businesses closed their doors, while the general populace lay low, sleeping and resting. During this time we were encouraged to study, but some days I just slept like a log. Then there was the Merienda, a 30 – 60- minute break at 5 pm, so much a part of the culture that it too was built into the schedule. Due to the fact that the siesta could offset working schedules and dinner by several hours, the merienda was a sort of teatime between lunch and dinner, consisting of mate’, coffee, or juice, served with fruit, pastry or cookies.
Posted on: Tue, 10 Jun 2014 17:43:37 +0000
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