Missionary Gas

Colombian guerrillas are a funny lot. For one thing they're never happy with their own names. Recently a female Rambo within FARC gave herself up. She's forty plus looks like a lightly coloured gollywog and is known as Carina. But her real name is Nelly. I suppose a hit-squad led by Nelly doesn't have too much street credibility. The big event of the week, and probably of the year, was the death of the 78 year old founder and leader of FARC. During 40 years he developed it into the world's most powerful guerrilla army, and become known as "Sure-shot". Actually his parents had named him Peter Anthony. He has now been replaced by a certain, Mono Jojoy, who is really, Victor. FARC numbers have almost halved in recent years through demobilization, desertions and defeat. It reminds you of the unreal world the guerrillas live in. They strive for an unsustainable kingdom. The awful thing is that so many other lives are sacrificed for it. Each afternoon on the radio g

We're just back from a weekend spent in Santa Fe, our region's old capital. A city the size of Dunblane, situated in a sub-tropical valley an hour away, it is renown for its Colonial architecture and scarey Catholicism. Even our hotel reception had a statue overlooking customers: Moses holding the 10 commandments and pointing to the second one which in the Catholic Bible prohibits taking God's name in vain. Is it a warning against trying to offer the hotel divine promises instead of paying the bill. On Sunday evening I stood with onlookers at the door of one of the popular Catholic churches. The priest's diction was excellent, his liturgical leadership faultless and his sermon on the trinity would have warmed Augustine's heart. There was the usual confusing nonsense about Mary, the ringing of bells and, which I though a little unkind, just a rapid Our Father for the dead. What surprised me above all was how few went forward and took the eucharist: maybe 30 out of 16

Missionary life is one of learning to make many small adjustments. And after a year or two life in the foreign country becomes normal. At least on 95% of occasions. One simple thing that always seems to cause me problems is getting my hair cut. It's cheap and Latins are skillful, but my experiences have been problematic. At one the lady employed such strong arm tactics with my head that I wince every time I pass the place; at another the hairdresser was so absorbed watching TV that I ended up with an unusual lopsided style. And a recent one was so dirty that my stomach churns thinking about it. So it was to new premises I turned, my ninth different one in the city. The microskirted girl called for "Jimmy" as I went in. With Rangers playing their big match I felt this was a good omen. Until Jimmy arrived, with his one earring and distinctive walk and talk. I noticed that the theme colour of the establishment was pink. As Jimmy tended my hair, I pondered about why missionar

We live a pretty sheltered life in South America and don't get frightened much. Saturday afternoon was an exception. Medellin is an Andean city that has two cable car routes that serve as cheap mass transport to poorer housing zones. We decided to try out their latest route which lifts you high up a hill, down a valley and then up again to over 6000 ft on the city outskirts. We got off at the end of the route and the air was fresh and cold. Olwen needed the loo. A bus went past marked for the Seminary area so we jumped on. It trundled down the road for 10 minutes, stopped and the driver told us to get out and board another bus. This meandered off in a different direction, gradually emptied, reached a desolate housing estate and the driver said he was going no further. South American desolate housing estates have never frightened me so long as I'm with a local. But if you're on your own you feel as secure as an overweight missionary in a cannibal settement - at lunch time. W

What I particularly like about living in Colombia is the weather. It can rain buckets, but everyday the sun shines and its short sleeved shirts. I can understand why Spurgeon disappeared for months to the south of France to recover from gout. I also like the positive psychology of its citizens. Always look on the bright side is their way of thinking. They've had 45 years of guerrilla war with drug barons carving up the land yet people are convinced it's a great county, if not the best. But these things would not keep us here. It's that sense of divine call which separates us from our family. But the cost of separation isn't as bad as it sounds. God gives you a new family: in a unique providence one of Olwen's closest Colombian friends was born on exactly the same day as our Elizabeth. The distance also draws us closer to our own family, and Skype's free video link makes seeing them everyday a reality. That same divine call keeps active. Sadly the Seminary expell