Oruro

Oruro is a place very much to my liking. It is a small city. It is not a growing city, but it is a city gradually rebuilding itself as the center of Carnaval in Bolivia and as a conduit for Pacific trade markets. It was a mining town in its origins, and the mountains from which they extracted mainly silver and tin have been its fortune and its cross. It is located in the Altiplano, like La Paz, and thus sits at an equally high elevation, being 12,000 feet above sea level. 

And I did feel like I was on top of the world late Thursday afternoon when Profesora Viviana brought me and the Maryknoll students to the crest of the hill where the 148-foot statue of La Virgen del Socavón, taller than Cristo de la Concordia in Cochabamba and the world’s second largest icon of the Blessed Virgin Mary, keeps watch over the people. As impressive as it is to behold this figure of Mary and the infant Jesus crowned in glory, my eyes and my soul were captivated by the vast expanse of the Altiplano. The last time I saw a sky so broad, so blue, so deep, I was in Kansas seven years ago. But in Kansas all you had was sky and flat, flat prairie. Here, in Oruro, my eyes feasted on the distant mountains with their soft rolling ridges; and the marshes of Lake Poopó, which, despite its badly desiccated state, still held me rapt. 

The statue of the Virgin was dedicated on Feb. 1, 2013. The Altiplano was dedicated by God millions of years before. I forgot about my Maryknoll companions. I all but forgot about the marvelous statue and fixed my gaze on the world around me. I was being conducted into prayer by the gospel of creation God was preaching to me at that hour. There are very few places I want to be when I die. This could be one of those places where I could die peacefully, transported by the vision of heaven on earth around me. 

Joshua took many photos from our perch on top of the world. I will retrieve the best of them from him and share another album with you soon. 

Earlier that morning, we descended into the pits of the world when we visited the Santuario de la Virgen del Socavón. The church, which is of relatively modern construction, sits atop a mine. For 12 bolivianos (special rate for outsiders; Bolivians pay less) the Maryknoll crew went on a guided tour of the mine. Not only did we get a quickie course in mineralogy, but we also got a religious and spiritual history of the miners who toiled and died long before their time. It was they who cultivated a devotion to La Virgen del Socavón, protector of the miners, and also a devotion to the tíos or gods of the mine. The miners were very clear that the tíos were not demons but deities in their own right, to be supplicated with offerings of alcohol and cigarettes and other gifts for their safety. While the official Church may have frowned upon this vernacular polytheism, the miners had no difficulty synthesizing their cults to the tíos and to La Virgen. As we concluded the tour by ascending to street level from 70 feet below, I realized for the first time, as I took in breaths of fresh but thin air, grateful for the sunshine, how harsh, how merciless it was to work in those cold damp pits. Unremitting darkness. Dirt in the air. Cancer in the air. Sulfuric fumes, acidic water. No space to move around. Danger from dynamite. Danger from collapse. How many lives were sacrificed for the metals that provided convenience and luxury for others? 

From one history to another, we proceeded back to the church for a private guided tour of the “sacred museum,” which was a few rooms replete with archaeological artifacts, from fossils to the ceramics, stonework, and textiles of the Incas and their predecessors. We were whisked forward to the colonial and post-revolutionary eras and the Christian art and artisanal works of both the criollos and indigenous peoples. Coming up to the present, we beheld numerous masks from the artisans who make their living from Carnaval de Oruro. I felt saturated with history, living history, by the time we were through beholding these many items. I needed rest for my soul: the life-force emanating collectively from these objects was overwhelming to me. We adjourned to the church itself for a good 20 minutes or so. It was a relief to view the more contemporary, more familiar icons and statues around the sanctuary. By this time it was nearly one o’clock, and definitely time for lunch. We had traveled almost four hours in the car with Profesora Viviana and Samuel her husband, and we had absorbed the shock of Oruro’s cultural and spiritual dynamite for about two hours. We needed a break! 

So off we went toward the Chilean border to the one-room cottage where Profesora Viviana’s grandmother, or abuelita, had once lived. It stands way to the south of Oruro’s city center and on the shore of Lake Poopó, or what would be the shore if the lake were full. Talk about living off the grid: there is no water or electricity there, and almost no access to wireless Internet. It is also a perfect little fortress of solitude, with an amazing view of the lake and the vast expanse of the Altiplano looking toward Chile. It was here that we enjoyed our picnic lunch of hamburgers, beef or lentil; green beans and carrots; and rice with vegetables. A hearty repast for everyone, and we ate with grateful hearts.

We lingered at the cottage until it was past two-thirty, then made our pilgrimage to the Virgin and infant Jesus on top of the world. We left Oruro at about four that afternoon. Profesora Viviana and Samuel brought me to the corner of Avenida Heroinas and Calle 25 de Mayo just after eight that evening. They were as generous as a couple could be to a group of cultural expeditionaries as green and wet behind the ears such as us. 

It was good to have made these travels this week. It is also good to return to the routines of Convento San Francisco, Cochabamba: prayers, meals, studies. With Brother Scott here, we have a little Capuchin fraternity within the local Franciscan fraternity. Onward to a new term of classes; onward to the place Jesus prepares for us with God.