Plymouth Magazine-Summer24-DIGITAL - Flipbook - Page 16
The Road to My Chimbote Family
By Neil Fagan
It was December 1979. As a group of us
were completing our first semester in the
M.Div. program at St. John’s University
School of Theology in Collegeville, MN,
we discussed how to spend January. The
curriculum included a January Term
when students could design a one-month
self-study course. Three classmates from
North Dakota suggested a group of us
travel to Peru to observe the work of a
priest from their diocese. Father Kieran,
OSB from the Benedictine Abbey at St.
John’s agreed to be our instructor. Fr.
Jack Davis , an alumnus of the seminary
from the Fargo North Dakota diocese
had been a student of his. Fr. Jack began
his Peruvian missionary career in 1975
and was currently serving a parish in
the coastal city of Chimbote. It was an
opportunity to catch up with a former
student, but Fr. Kieran had many other
contacts working in Peru.
The three guys from North Dakota, a
classmate from South Dakota, and I
would be Fr. Kieran’s class. We flew into
Lima and took a city bus to a convent
of Dominican nuns where we would
spend the night. They provided warm
hospitality and shared their simple meals.
The next day we flew to the historic
Inca capital of Cusco in the Andes. The
Spanish colonial architecture and culture
dominated the city, but the presence of
the Indigenous Quechua people was still
very much present. Again, a convent of
Dominican nuns served as our home
for five nights. We explored the many
Inca ruins around the city and met lots
of local kids who hung around the ruins
seeking contributions from the tourists.
It seemed appropriate to provide some
meager reparations for the centuries of
colonial oppression. It was fun to play and
talk with the kids with whom my Spanish
seemed more competent. We also visited the
imposing Spanish churches and museums.
The open Quechuan market provided a
glimpse of daily life for the people whose
livelihood depended on tourism. It was
here I was pickpocketed and experienced
filing a police report in a language I didn’t
speak fluently. Somehow the stolen travelers
checks (remember those?) were replaced.
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A day trip took us to Machu Pichu. In the
upper ruins someone serenaded us playing
El Condor Pasa on a wooden flute. While
descending from the upper ruins we heard
the music from 2001: A Space Odyssey.
At the lower level we observed a group of
people standing around an old Inca altar
and spied the cassette player on the altar
providing the music for their worship. I
wonder if the people observing me at
worship experience the same mixed thoughts
I had there. We continued to a small
mountain village where the townspeople
were enjoying a bullfight in their small
municipal bullring. It was the scrawniest
bull I had ever seen. It really didn’t seem
like a fair fight, and I’ve never wanted to
observe a bullfight again. I was glad we
didn’t stay long. Then it was back to Cusco.
That evening we boarded an old bus along
with many Quechua people and their
chickens and lambs. The larger animals
rode atop the bus. The overnight trip took
us much farther up in the mountains. As
the air in the bus got warmer and warmer
the animal smell became more pungent.
We opened a window and learned that the
Quechua people are susceptible to chilling
easily. They graciously agreed to allow
about an inch of open window. It was
fascinating, but unlike any Greyhound
trip I had ever been on. I was grateful the
darkness prevented me from seeing the
steep cliffs the gently rocking bus passed by.
We arrived at a camp about midday.
We were shown to a small dormitory
where we could nap until supper. The
camp included another small building
where the local priest lived and one that
housed two nuns. From this encampment
the priest and nuns traveled days-long
trips to congregations of Indigenous
people scattered far and wide around
the mountain tops. We accompanied the
nuns up the mountain to the home of a
Quechua family. One nun was a physician
and the other a nurse. A three-year-old,
the youngest child, had rolled into the fire
in the center of the floor. The nuns made
regular trips to care for her severe burns.
It was difficult to listen to her screams
as the nuns did the excruciating work to
debride her burns and redress them. I
have great admiration for these women
and all who care for burn patients.
After a couple of days, we descended to a
small airport and boarded a flight to Lima.
From there we took a bus to Chimbote
which was once a beautiful and wealthy
city known as the honeymoon capital of
Peru. The shabby buildings on the seacoast
were once luxury hotels. The former wealth
came from tourism and an extensive fishing
industry. In 1970 a massive earthquake
in the sea caused the fish to seek feeding
grounds elsewhere and the city plunged
into poverty. Only inedible fish could
be caught. A factory opened that made
fertilizer from the fish. The stench from the
factory hung heavily in the air throughout
the city. No more honeymooners or
tourists came, and the big fishers of
sought-after seafood moved elsewhere.
The fish factory and a metal casting factory
provided the major employment.
Here we met Fr. Jack and learned about
his ministry among the poor people
of Chimbote. He had spearheaded
many projects for the people including
establishing clean water and sanitation in
the city and a small vegetable farm made
possible by diverting some mountain
runoff water into the desert location.
His passion was the congregation of
St. Francis of Assisi Church, a thriving
community of people who cared deeply
about each other and their beloved
pastor. A convent of nuns staffed a
school and provided pastoral ministry
to families. I wanted to know more and
asked Fr. Jack if he ever hosted students
to help him in his work. The answer was
yes, and that summer I met my beloved
Chimbote family.
I returned in May after the semester
ended. Fr. Jack asked a family across
the street from the church to host me
for the summer. It is more than a gift to
be the recipient of radical hospitality.
It’s an experience of heaven. The family
consisted of mother and father, two
teenage daughters, a teenage son, two
nearly teenage daughters, the father’s
sister, and the son who stole my heart.
Five-year-old Wendel was deaf at birth
and had never learned to talk. The entire
family doted on him, and he returned
all the love back fourfold to everyone.
Could there be a happier child? He loved
to sit on laps and give free hugs.
