Missionary Gas

We have just visited an illustration of humanity's shame. It is the farm in Santa Marta where Simón Bolívar died in 1830. A Venezuelan, he had been influenced by the European enlightenment and against superior odds liberated Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia from a domineering Spain. But his generals did not share his idealism, fought amongst themselves for territories, assassinated his second in command, and finally the disillusioned Bolívar decided to leave the Americas for France. He only got as far as Santa Marta, where a farmer took in the penniless and sick liberator, who subsequently died of TB. Today every Colombian city has as its centre point Plaza Bolívar, you can't help but meet him in Peru, and Bolivia wouldn't be called Bolivia without him. There lies humanity´s shame: so many artists, philanthropists and pastors are only valued in retrospect. Even God's son wasn´t thought much of. It frightens me even to start to think of those I've not

Rosa's wail could be heard throughout the Seminary, or so I feared. Years ago I had heard a similar crying in the Peruvian countryside coming from an aged woman whose husband had died. Rosa had just been given her final exam grade from my class - she had failed. A second student had also failed, to prevent him breaking down, I hugged him. Following my class the students had met in an impromptu prayer meeting in the next room. I walked quickly past the open door not wishing to hear what divine interventions they were requesting. On Saturday Olwen and I took a small plane to Santa Marta on the Caribbean Coast. It´s great to get a week's holiday - say teachers and students alike. Photo: Mobile shop, Santa Marta

There's a shop in Santa Fe that sells handcrafts. It consists of a small, dark cluttered room, and beyond it there is a second similar room containing strange items: a ladies side-saddle (for when ladies looked like ladies), an 85 year old fridge and a large Rottweiler dog. This beast guards the way to an inner patio. On Saturday, the owner commanded it aside and brought us through to a bright courtyard. With much pride and a flourish of the hand he said, "This house was where the Declaration of Independence of Antioquia was signed". This happened 200 years ago and didn't succeed for very long, but still today Medellín, Santa Fe and the rest of the Department of Antioquia regard themselves as being a different people. They´re called paisas: genetically European and traditionally Catholic. As we made our way through Santa Fe, the priest´s voice from St Barbara's could be clearly heard as he intonated repeatedly "Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners ...&quo

Yesterday we went to the cemetery and bought a hatstand. Well the hatstand was bought in a shopping centre. St Peter's is listed as a tourist attraction. It contains the tombs of an ex-Colombian president and a national artist, Cano. It also contains a mausoleum marked, Tomb of My Sons, for a family of young drug dealers murdered while at work. There are strange things here too. The visitors brochure outlines the procedure: the beloved´s remains are kept for four years, after which you have 8 days to either exhume or pay more. The brochure states that "eternal rest is offered with easy payment facilities." No mention is made of eternal disappearance, but that is implied if you don´t pay up. An air of hopelessness marks the sky scraper type burial niches with the pain of loss failing to be offset by a hope of resurrection and eternal happiness. In contrast the same day we read a street poet's chalkings on the road: If you bring me comfort by your word, How much more wh

This past week I was widowed - metaphorically speaking. Olwen is no more, she's gone to the world of sewing machines and workshop lists whose inhabitants will all wear newly stitched bags. The demand to enter such a world is breath taking, making the dedication of Old Firm supporters look weak in comparison. There are those who didn't want to come because they are professional people, but have since repented and now eagerly cut out fabric. Then there are those up and coming youngsters expecting their rights and making their demands even in a free sewing class. And there are those from poor situations whose lives are marked with humility, appreciation of any help, and who pinch the soap out of the ladies loo. On Thursday, El Colombiano carried a feature article about women's sewing groups. The paper got it a bit wrong, for their photograph showed a group of past their prime ladies gathered round an old dark Singer machine. Our reality is more those in their 20s with complex