Que Buena Onda, Po.

While on my mission: I had rocks thrown at me, I was kicked, I was swung at with fists and a 40 ounce glass bottle, I was mugged (of all 150 pesos we had between the two of us), I was yelled and sworn at every single day, I was called a liar, a devil, and an idiot. I would say a good 70% of the people I met on a daily basis hated me. Sometimes it didn’t bug me. I was being ridiculed for doing something that I believed in. It didn’t get to me because it was the message they hated, not me. The more resistance that was put up around me the more it seemed to validate what I was doing there. Other times it really got to me. I hated them back for doing what they did without knowing or ever talking to me.

This isn’t a knock on the Chilean people, though. I am pretty sure that is how it is for all missionaries around the world, but in Chile, unlike the majority of the world, you could knock on a random door and ask to use the bathroom and be let in and given a drink and bread, no matter how poor they were, or how much they hated America or Los Mormones—that is as long as we promised not to talk about God. Other than our message, the average Chilean would be willing to talk to us about almost anything. They are such a caring and friendly people, where strangers are innocent until proven guilty, and I love so many of them so much. I still cry some nights because I worry about them, and because I feel I have betrayed them by losing contact (I lost the notebook where I had addresses), and because of who I currently am. If I had one wish, it would be to go back, and talk to Paula and let her know I haven’t forgotten her and her daughter, and tell her I love her and that rarely a day goes by where I don’t think and wonder about her. I would talk to Felipe. He would smile his big smile and scream, “Elder Estenrood!” and would go to do the handshake we made up, and see that I have forgotten it (what is wrong with me!). I would go to the Loyola’s. They would make dinner and we would have a mate around the table and laugh for hours. I would find Ximena and tell her that if she was the only person I ever met while in Chile who wanted to talk to me, and if every other day before and after our time with her was absolute and total hell, my time spent there would have been more than worth it. I would walk La Isla, La Cisterna, San Joaquin, and Lo Espejo.

I can’t do any of these things, and at this point in my little exercise I am finding that it is having the opposite effect I was going for.

La Isla de Maipo

I was born in a little town out in the country called La Isla de Maipo. You see, your first area is where you are born. Your first companion is your dad or ‘Papito’. If there are other missionaries living in the apartment you start in, they are your uncles. If your trainer trains other missionaries, they are your brothers. If you are someones last companion, you kill them, and so on. My papito was Elder Wolfley. He was just over five feet tall. I am 6’2” so we looked kind of funny walking through the sector. Whenever someone brought up how funny we looked Elder Wolfley’s joke was, “Hay Gringito y Gringon.” Funny at first, but after 3 months it wears on you.

We got along pretty well and had some good times. One of my favorite mission stories has to do with Elder Wolfley.

It rains a lot during a Santiago winter, and this winter brought the most rain the country had seen in a long time and there was flooding everywhere. The only thing to do all day was to walk around town and look for people who needed help. I didn’t really have any clothing suited for a flood, so I walked around in jeans and a Foursquare hoodie. Elder Wolfley on the other hand was decked out in water proof gear from his head to his boots, and he made sure to remind me that he was perfectly dry all day long.

Almost every where we went we were up to our knees in water. We tried to stick to the sidewalks where we could because they were raised up a bit and the water wasn’t as deep. While walking on the outskirts of the town we crossed a pretty wide intersection, and I found the curb on the right side of the road and we started up the street with Elder Wolfley at my right. After a few steps there was break in the curb and I dropped down four inches. I tried to warn Elder Wolfley by shouting, “Hole!” but I was one step too late. Elder Wolfley literally disappeared into the hole. Being as short as he was the hole was deeper than he was tall. The concrete hole was there to help drain water off the road, but obviously wasn’t much help at this point. He popped up from the water screaming. Laughing, I asked him if he was okay. He didn’t answer and I kept on laughing. There were three people walking behind us when he fell into the hole, and I will never forget their faces. Three of the most classic faces I have ever seen. They stood there wide eyed, while the grumbling gringito pulled himself out of an invisible hole, and while the gringon made fun of him. I don’t think I stopped laughing the rest of the day. He didn’t find much humor in it at the time, which made it funnier for me, and I reminded him that despite all his fancy clothing he was now just as wet as I was. Not to mention that he just fell into a huge hole.

El Dieciocho

After I came home from Chile I talked about how I found myself at the dieciocho. I have long since lost myself again. I sometimes imagine a transparent me waiting at bus stop eighteen for me to go pick him up again. So that is where I will start.

I lived in La Cisterna on La Gran Avenida above the eighteen for seven months. The Gran Avenida is one of the busiest streets in Santiago. We lived in a corner fourth story apartment above an intersection. The windows were always open because the summer was very hot and there was no air conditioning. When the light turned green and the busses proceeded through the intersection I would have to pretty much yell in order for the person next to me to understand over the first gears of all the busses. There was no need to set an alarm because the busses and the taxis tocando sus bocinas would wake me up, but I don’t ever remember really being annoyed at all the noise.

Just looking out the windows at all the people was enough entertainment to last all day long. And walking up and down the avenue was some of the most fun I had while in Chile. I remember when Colo-Colo won the Chilean Cup and the street filled with people and traffic could not get by. Hundreds of people flooded the street waving Colo-Colo flags and singing the club song and chanting, “C-H-I, Chi! L-E, Le! Chi-Chi-Chi! Le-Le-Le! Colo-Colo de Chile!” and the four of us joined in while hanging out our windows. We watched the crowd until the police were able to break it up so traffic could get by.

I saw eight different missionaries come and go while at the dieciocho. Four of them my own companions. Elders Huerta, Gonzalez, and Meza left the mission from the dieciocho. Elder Cordoba started there. I remember crying when Elder Huerta left. I remember getting so mad at Elder Wheatly for chewing SO loud, and then being even more angry when Elder Meza showed up and chewed even louder. I remember taking on Elder Campbell after Elder Meza went home, and while showing him around the sector the first day I puked on the side of the street from food poisoning, and had to stop at two different members houses that were less than a mile apart, so I could exlpode from both ends, before we made it back home. I remember climbing through a vent in our kitchen ceiling so we could get on our roof to see the Independence Day fireworks, and scream ‘Viva Chile!’ with the others on top of their roofs. I remember getting my Dear John on Christmas Eve and calling my family on Christmas day. We ate at Pizza Hut as a zone for our Christmas dinner. I remember Martes Loco at that same Pizza Hut where we would get 2 for 1 every Tuesday. I remember the four of us drinking mate (accent over the ‘e’. I don’t know how to do that on a computer) at night and telling each other about all the crazy people we met that day

It’s sad because all I can do now is remember. I am glad for the memories, but sometimes they just aren’t enough.

Scratching the Surface

I have been happy before. I don’t exactly remember what it was like, but I remember being it. I want to be happy again; I think that would be nice, so I am going to write some posts about the last time I remember being happy. It was when I was in Santiago, Chile serving as a missionary. I am not going to write about real personal experiences I had there, because I don’t really want to talk about them here. I just kind of want to reminisce about the place and people I love and miss so much. Please bear with me over these next few posts. I will try to keep the posts as short as I can. I can do nothing more than just scratch the surface about how I feel here, but I think they are worth writing and I hope they will be worth reading.

I apologize in advance for all the ‘I remembers’ and the ‘I woulds’ but writing it like that is best way I know how of getting across how my mind works when I am laying in bed at night and it wanders it’s way back to Santiago.