Twas Brillig

Flashback Friday, friends!

I’ve mentioned before that I was a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was 19 (yes, that’s not a typo. I was 19). I was assigned to the Argentina Buenos Aires North mission, which included much of Capital Federal (downtown Buenos Aires) along with some of the northern suburbs and even into some rural area (what we called the barro–the mud). Upon arriving in Buenos Aires, I was assigned a companion (another female missionary, and in this mission most were American, Argentine, or Chilean) and an area. We would stay with one companion, who we were required to be with constantly, until one of us was reassigned to a different area, at which time a new companion would arrive to take the place of the departing one. So, after a year and a half, I had traveled all over the mission and had had many companions (usually about two months with each companion).

I loved my mission. I had so many wonderful experiences. But due to the nature of this forum, I will not share the more tender or spiritual ones. But just because I don’t talk about it doesn’t mean that there wasn’t a lot of that.

No, instead I’ll share some of my social adventures. Or, in today’s case, adventures in socialism.

I was assigned to the barro with my sweet companion Hermana F. And yes, you always called your companion by Hermana (sister) and her last name. So, Hermana F and I worked in the barro. We met lots of people, taught people, served people. The barro was always interesting–it was called the “mud” because you were literally walking in mud that was several inches deep all day long. No paved roads, no sidewalks, nothin’ but mud. And since we were required to wear skirts or dresses at all times, you can only imagine how lovely we were!

Hermana Brillig, in authentic “sister missionary” garb (meaning, the ugliest dresses at the ugliest possible length, my crooked name tag–whoops– and big black bag* full of scriptures, food, water, and anything else I might need during the day because we didn’t want to waste time by going home during the day–not even for lunch) in the barro on a blessedly dry day (otherwise, there would be giant rubber boots on my feet… which went GREAT with my ugly dresses and skirts)

(and… hi. Is that the crappiest scanned picture you’ve ever seen? oooops)

*in other missions, they use backpacks instead of the black bags, but in Argentina we were required to carry the black bag and only carry it on one shoulder–that way, when we were robbed, which we were constantly, we could hand over the bag without a struggle. Many a missionary had been shot or beat to a pulp in the past because they hadn’t handed over their backpacks fast enough, so they had to make a rule about the easy-to-give-away black bags. But that’s a different story for another day. Still, though, how disappointed do you think the thieves are when they find that the bags are full of Books of Mormon?

(Here I am with Hermana F, wishing some friends a Happy Birthday via photo)

Hermana F was from Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost part of Argentina (practically Antarctica) and she was… delicate. I loved her dearly. However, the kind of work that we did was exhausting and grueling and you had to be strong to do it every day all day long. But she wasn’t. She was sickly. And so we spent a lot of time getting to know the Rural-Argentine health care system.

We’d been in and out of various (terrifying) free clinics, never once really helped, but often “reassured.”

“Oh, you have a fever, a cold, the chills, vomiting, racing pulse, and seizures? Here’s some penicillin. Just take two tonight and you’ll be fine by tomorrow. And then just save the rest of the package for the next time you feel sick.” Um….

Very late one night, she just stopped breathing. Understand, there were no telephones in this part of the Argentina. Basically I just had to grab her and haul her to the Emergency Room which was, thankfully, about a block away. At the ER, they took her in immediately and left me out in the waiting area, which was outside in the freezing cold. Again, I’d been a missionary for over a year at this point and I’d never been by myself, except while bathing and potty-ing, so it felt very strange to be companionless in this large waiting area full of people. (With socialized medicine, everyone ends up at the ER for the slightest twinge of a sore throat, doncha know. Waiting “rooms” are always packed.) It wasn’t just the being alone that was awkward–it was the staring and the gawking and the exclamations–exclamations that the exclaimers assumed I wouldn’t understand, since my looks were clearly foreign. I was, of course, completely fluent in Spanish so I understood every word that was being said. And I was feeling a bit threatened. Being female, American (and therefore presumably “rich”), and green-eyed in a place where people have only seen brown eyes makes one a target in certain parts of the world–especially in the middle of the night and all alone. Of course, it wasn’t really my style to be a shrinking violet, so I march up to some hospital personnel and said, loud and clear and in perfect Spanish (so that all those who’d been talking about me could hear that they’d just made complete fools of themselves) that I would like to be able to be with Hermana F now. Obviously I’d asked this before, but had been told that I couldn’t be back there with her. This time, it wasn’t really a request so much as a command, and I was taken right to her.

I was brought into a teeny tiny room, where I found her (conscious, thank goodness) hooked up to an oxygen tank. Again, no one had any idea what was wrong with her–nor did they seem to care very much–but she was receiving oxygen and thriving on it–well, surviving, anyway. Because of the oxygen mask, she wasn’t able to talk to me. Instead, we played “count the cockroaches.” She would point to the cockroaches, I would count them out loud for us. We reached over forty before she was discharged.

Good times.

Hermana F. ended her mission early–I think it broke her heart, but she clearly wasn’t physically able to keep up and she knew it. So she went home to Tierra del Fuego and I haven’t heard from her since. I hope some doctor somewhere figured out what was wrong with her and how to help her…. but I doubt it.

Oh, so many fun mission stories. We’ll have to revisit this topic again sometime. I mean, I KNOW you want to hear about how I bathed out of a bucket for two months because we didn’t have running water. Or that time that someone brought me a drink of water that turned out to be white vinegar. Or… well, let’s save it for another Flashback Friday, shall we?