Dear Andy,

I miss you already.  Kathy Siebert called me on Tuesday just before I was heading to class, tearfully telling me of the Facebook post by Orion that you had passed away, presumably quite peacefully, though certainly unexpectedly, last Monday.  We shared our shock and sadness, but also the great joy in our last "5 year reunion" - the three Lakers and Amy, at Mount St. Helen's last summer, in which we hiked and talked. And rotating through my screensaver are picture of our previous 5 year reunion in 2010 in John Day Oregon, camping and talking, which really cemented our long standing friendship.

Oregon Reunion - 2010

St. Helen's Reunion 2015

I pulled out my tattered old letters from you last night, and decided on my morning walk at sunrise that one last letter was in order.  We had a very special relationship - I believe it goes back to 1972 or thereabouts, likely when we were probably teamed up for a Girls Athletic Association show as prop men (boys to men maybe?).  Girls sports in those days - field hockey and GAA - required us to help them build stuff for the Orange team.  I think we bonded then, and also in the small room above your parents garage that we remodeled into our own place to hang out, and evolve our philosophical pursuits, for our inadequacy in finding girlfriends was well known, at least to us!

These letters, even your poor spelling, which you admitted!  We have written off an on over these past 43 years, and I have kept them all.  We shared a few over around the campfire last summer, for they are timeless in a way, a track of our personal history.  I relish them now, and will share them with your family.  We wrote of our trials and tribulations, of love lost and gained, of school, of prophecies forming in our heads, of politics and people, and the family we kept,  You even presaged your final destination of Hawaii with a letter in 1980 regaling of your trip to the big island and backpacking, followed by tales of your new found love - "Ramy" in 1983. I treasure these, and enjoyed the journey through our collective past.

The summer of 1973, you fled to Idaho to work in a camp, I to Florida to work in an Architect's office.  You wrote to me on August 18th of that year:

I got my check from Mr. Wilkens.  I charged him $20 as a base and added our reciepts onto that. Mine was $22.56 and yours is $28.88 about.  I haven't seen yours because I think they probably mailed it to your house.  Your lawn is doing fine. 

We were "class" carpenters, you and I, at least in our own minds.  We were paid to construct several picnic tables for Birchwood Lake - they were beautifully built as I recall, quite sturdy and eminently suitable for all the carved graffiti that was sure to follow.  But we had a history as carpenters, having constructed the "smoking lounge" off the school lunchroom, a lean-to roof shed to protect our smoking classmates from the elements.  That could never happen today - it would take some kind of a bond issue or act of the legislature,  or at least 16 different permits, and professional carpenters that something like this could ever be done today.  Simpler times, to be certain, and to think the school let us do this, in full view of all the students, and we secretly hoping for the admiration of the girls that were never to satisfactorily arrive.  And so we struck with hammers our "philosophy" and our dreams.  Yours to become a forester, mine an architect.

Remember our hike up Looking Glass Rock?  I had just completed my 300 mile post-graduation backpacking trip along the Appalachian Trail, and you came to visit in North Carolina, where we spent a few days hiking, knowing that this was likely the last meaningful time together for us as we sat overlooking the Blue Ridge mountains from that marvelous vista, considering our future pathways.  You wrote on September 26th, 1974:

Yes, I finally got to Oregon. It seemed like ages after I left your place till the time I left New Jersey. . . I've been here 2 days now and lovin it.  I'm on the top floor of my building and the building is coed.  The two floors directly below me are women's floors.  It makes life interesting, I tell you that much for sure.

Over the next several years, we would write often, - using our new typewriters, to which we both quite attached.  These were some pretty deep ramblings, we were hitting our prime in 1974-77 writing of technology, society, religion and the end of the world, even UFO's.

I have been deep in thought, that is why the first, handwritten part of this letter does not seem to follow much ryme or reason.   This also explains my lack of haste in replying to your latest communication.  The written part of  this letter contains the usual bullshitlike crap, how are you etc. whereas this part on a completely different sort of subject which is easier written on a machine of  this nature.  

My thinking, in the last couple of monthes, has been pretty complicated and rather hard to express, particularly by mail, but since a phone call would be out of the question this will have to do.  

This is the first time that I have discussed this idea with any of my old friends, not that there are too many of them, besides you, who I consider to be real friends.  I have talked to  other people who feel the same way I  do  but never to an unintroduced person.  What I am getting at is that I feel that we are in for some real catastrophy this year some time or in the very near future.  It's difficult to say exactly what it will be but I feel it is certain to come.  This probably comes as quite a surprise to you, hereing this kind of talk from me but this is really me.  I have not reached this decision arbitrarily but have done some deep thinking, reading and historical research.  I feel that all of our familiar, old and cherished traditions in life are due for a jolt.  "Progress" is just too much for the human race.  Even I feel greatly displaced by our technology . . .

To which you later wrote, on the very eve of our 19th birthday, February 5, 1974:

Having re-read my last communication and read your rather lengthy disertation, I realize that I did communicate a rather dismal picture of my present outlook on life.  My original letter did require some clarification on semantics.  I think however, that you noticed these areas of vagueness and have guessed correctly at my real meaning.  At a later date, I will hit upon the subject again, but for the time being will be content with bullshit. . . Well - how does it feel to be almost 19.  Yah, I know - big deal.  At 17 we could drive, at 18 drink, at 19, what's so great about 19 except that you're 1 year closer to 21?  At 19 I can drink in Wash. or Idaho, but not in Ore.

Oh Andy, we did reflect a lot in those days, and I am fortunate the end of the world did not happen, and that in fact you embraced technology in your career to help save the world in the Forest Service.  And to think, so many of your subsequent letters spoke about your interest not in forestry, but in being a schoolteacher.  And we shared the questions of our own destinies with each other, and offered advice to each other, even as I was questioning my pursuit of architecture for history.  Your advice, October 14, 1975:

Peter, I found my typewriter long ago and neglected to respond to your last correspondence . . . I too am in the stage of questioning my objectives in life and really wondering if college is going to do me any good besides educating me how to be poor! With a degree in elementary ed I stand a good chance of getting a job because I am male and there is supposed to be a demand for male elem. teachers, that demand is now, what about 4 years from now?  Since you asked for advise, I will gladly provide some, not to say that I know any of the answers, but . . .  My cousin graduated from college with a degree in history and is presently unemployed!  The market is flooded with History teachers and a degree in history is little use to you unless you plan on being a history teacher.  Certainly it is alright to take hist. for your own edification but don't get your heart set on a career!  I was thinking however that your pursute of writing as an academic endeavor would be a good idea.  You have a talent with the pen.  Perhaps with some refinement you could make a go at being a novelist or essayist.  The trouble with that type of work is that is it very insecure . . .

But then life steps into your later paragraphs, which I treasure most:

At this point in time I am decidedly unattached romantically, and loving it (except sometimes)  With my present financial situation I don't even have any money to take myself out let alone a girl!  For now I can only browse the many curvatious young students and dream.  

Dreams are the feathers of the pillow of life,
and reality is the dirty pillowcase which keeps them from getting out of hand

That just came to mind as a lay back to rest my tired fingers.  You better keep this manuscript because when I become famous (ha ha) this will be a valuable pv original!  

I suppose I ought to get back to the brain drain of homework.  We learn something only to find out there is more to learn.  Go walk your path and I'll walk mine and until our paths cross we can through (throw) paper at each other!

And in one of our later typewritten missives, on February 26, 1977, and our ripe ages of 21, you were deeply questioning religion, the condition of the human race, and your being "turned on" to outdoor education, when you questioned:

• Is there a god, can he be explained scientifically or not?
• If  there is, who is he, where does he come from and why and how has he affected humanity?
• Are religious beliefs the product of doubt, the product of a need or a suppreem being to explain away all our troubles or is there something to these beleifs that men have had since the dawn of civilization?
• Is there something in the human being which separates him from the other primate and animals of different classes.  Is this great "soul" which men have believed in for so many years?
• What happens when we die? Is there "life after life"?

I think you now know the answers, my friend, sitting there on your mountaintop, no doubt sipping a beer. There is life after life - your life in our hearts.  Thanks for the memories, and our enduring friendship.  I'll catch you on the other side of that mountain soon enough.

Roy the muralist

San Ramon exists, a city of plaster, concrete and corrugated tin.  It is everywhere, whether on houses or the numerous screen walls that shield many inner sanctums from the bustle, and perceived dangers of the street.

Roy exists, thriving on these walls of concrete and plaster.  His mark is everywhere.

Roy is a true graffiti artist, or as I might endeavor to suggest, a muralist in the graffiti style. His work is everywhere around town, providing a surreal imagery on otherwise drab exteriors.  Any concrete wall is his canvas.  I was enthralled with these when first seen three years ago, and that has not diminished in these years since.  And on this trip, on my first morning walk, I ran into him near our hostel, having started a mural on a nearby wall.  Over these past two weeks, I have witnessed the image expanding, a happy image of a girls face and a smiling toucan (I am certain they don't smile, but just look happy), set in a tropical background.  Some of his images are a bit haunting, surreal, others uplifting and full of a story.

Caty interviewing a relaxed Roy describing little of his Guanacaste heritage

So Jenna and I paused our walk as we passed, and I asked "Roy?"

"Si!" with a faint smile.

All I could say, over and over, was "bueno, muy bonito!" I needed to know more. He speaks no English, but his appearance speaks volumes as an artist, and not a stealthy, fly-in-the-night graffiti tagger (for I think he could not run fast enough into the shadows).  He is unkempt, frumpy, his worn clothes drooping on his wiry frame, his eyes hidden by sunglasses even on this cloudy day.  The very image of an artist.  A few days later, I again spotted him on my walk back to the Hostel, so I brought Caty back to extend my conversation.

With his three canvas shopping bags full of spray paint canisters nearby, I asked him questions of his inspiration and practice.  He does not teach (he would make a bad one, as he stated).  He is one of five graffiti artists in town (as he pointed to an obviously lesser quality piece across the street on the stadium wall), and sometimes he has a plan sketched out for the piece, but other times, he just paints whatever comes into his head.  And though his appearance might better suggest that of a beggar, he is a business man, averaging around $400US per mural such as he was presently painting.  That is pretty good money around here.

And it must be worth it, for San Ramon is a better place with his muralistic creativity and imagination.  A perfected technique that seems to weather well, he is a master of reflections in eyes, in crafting some three dimensionality, but also of creating people and creatures in all manner of disposition and allegory.  Those faces just loom out of the concrete as if embedded in it, watching, haunting, surprising or just delighted.  And it has inspired other artists to do the same, making the neighborhood streets a walk in a mural museum.

It just comes from his head.  Concrete never looked this good, Roy.

Back gate to the Farmer's Market

A Roy mural in the company of others - ever changing as artists add more

A changing concrete "canvas"?

Classic Roy eyes, peering out of a street divider

Alejo

One thing about being a "regular" on this trip is that, during these second weeks, the students are generally hunkered down for their project work, enabling me the opportunity to venture on some side trips, to gain new perspectives, make new friends or just simply explore.  These past few days have occasioned just such diversions, and I write today (after returning home) of my old friend, Alejo, whom I first met three years ago on our first tour.

I called away Caty, our Spanish speaking student, and Emily, the wetlands student, along with Dustin, to venture back up to the former President Orhlich's ranch, north of Piedades Norte, the site of my first visit and the birthplace of the Costa Rican revolution, to show Emily the headwaters of one river that feeds Piedades Norte, and ultimately San Ramon and Palmares, and to show that indeed, there  are clean rivers here.  This is a visual riddle as much as a physical one, as to how Piedades Norte, sitting atop of a hogback ridge, seemingly well above all adjacent communities and farms, can get its municipal water by gravity, with no power assist.  It is the same problem that perplexed me three years earlier, and once on site, I posed the same question to Emily.   As she pondered this, we were able to reconnect with Alejo, the coffee farmer environmentalist and his associate that runs the local watershed, to learn more about the President and the unique natural (and unnatural, even supernatural) qualities of this place.  Meanwhile, the river runs full, clear and drinkable in these parts, spring fed higher up into the cloud forest. 

Alejo is a character: short, a radiant smile, a twinkle in his eye, and a talker with both hands and mouth.  He has thick, ruddy hands from his coffee picking, and a weathered, crusty disposition, at least as I read his body language, for he speaks no English.  And yet, somehow, through that, as we are close in ages, we seem to get along famously, for we visited again last year as well and walked up toward the spring fed source of this river in the cloud forest.  On this cloudy, misty late afternoon, standing by the weather beaten and neglected memorial to Orhlich, he spun a yarn about a couple in these parts many years ago when this place was still a lumber mill, the wife of whom had disappeared, only to be discovered having fallen into the turbine that ran the saws, eviscerated, gone.  That twinkle in his eye as he tells this makes you wonder the truth of this tale, but as we went to the back of the buildings on this site, I spotted pieces of an old, larger diameter pipe running over the creek, descending toward the building.  The turbine shaft, rusty, falling apart, and certainly large enough to host a lonely wife, and perhaps even now, her ghost, for this place, when empty and deserted, has a definite, haunting quality to it, softened only by the constant gurgling of the nearby creek.

Emily did eventually solve the riddle - the same gravitational flow that charged this turbine so many years ago, feeds Piedades Norte miles away, for this point, this ranch, is still higher yet than Piedades, and therefore the pipe that feeds it is fully gravity fed, even descending into valleys and climbing up the other side to the tap.  Head pressure, the source always higher than the outlet.  Simple physics, but if you didn't know it, its secret would be hidden by all the deceiving undulations of the landscape.  

And for this, speaking so colorfully and knowledgeably about this place, with so much obvious passion for the landscape and the environment, I know Alejo's one true love, beyond this lovely landscape, is "carne" - beef jerky from America.  All the bumpy ride up here he kept giving me a knowing, yet slightly questioning look about "carne".    Did I have any, smacking his fingers to his lips?  I would not say, my deception premeditated, for only after he went through his passionate, colorful narrations, and was interviewed by Caty for her project, did I then pull out several bags of carne, to his obvious delight, accompanied by a rapid fire exclamation in Spanish that I don't think even Caty could understand. 

Delight is so obvious in any language.

Next year, as old friends would do, we agreed to a two hour hike in the cloud forest.  I will plan on it, the walker that I am, carne in my pocket, knowing somehow we will communicate just fine.

Hangin' Around

We are living the monkey's life.

Away for our weekend getaway to the Pacific Coast, we have descended (literally) from the highlands of Alejuela Province to Punta Arenas Province, covering the coast of Costa Rica. Specifically, we are staying in the hotel/hostel El Faro adjacent  Manuel Antonio National Park, a resort of sorts near Queppos on the southwest shore, featuring a typical hostel, and a luxury hotel, but the unusual commonality is  that both are made from recycled steel freight containers.  And with a commanding presence above the hubbub of the main road to the park, and a very steep climb to get there, the Hotel El Faro is where my colleague Ann and I have rooms, or perhaps better stated, each packed into our own containers!  It is an embarrassment of riches that we should be so fortunate to be quite high and above the "hostel students" below (they are, indeed, quite friendly!).  But we did not make these arrangements.  And the air conditioning is a plus.

Emily, Craig, Jenna, Ben, Joe and Collin in the Park

Ann and I began the day with our complimentary breakfast burritos on the magnificent terrace overlooking the ocean, intent on an early start into the park.  Descending the hill, we checked in with the students, and six accompanied us to the park, which is only open from 7AM to 4PM (only Caty and Sarah pursued hominid monkeys on the beach and shops, or so it has been reported),  Getting to the gate requires traversing a gauntlet of hawkers, everything from cold water to cut coconuts with a mix of souvenirs thrown in.  Access is limited, backpacks are searched for snack type food or fruit which is not allowed in the park.  We quickly separated as a group, with Joe, Ben, Jenna and Craig splitting off at a faster pace, and Ann, Collin, Emily and me pacing more methodically, following Emily's slower crawl and her adeptness at spotting wildlife where wildlife seemed not to be, nearly hidden in the verdant density and tangle of the jungle.

The view from Punta Catedral

An amazing wander, once deeper into the park, past the more popular beach, we traversed the less crowded pathways, covering all but one path in this 1983 hectare park.  The forest floor and canopy revealed the first visible activity, including deer, raccoon, sloths, a large, squirrel like tail-less rodent called an agouties, and the somewhat mysterious dark grey, long tailed coatis.

Capuchin monkeys ("capuchino") just hangin' around

Soon, the forest canopy started to boil with raucous activity, whether from capuchin monkeys, squirrel monkeys, and the rarer howler monkeys, providing this photographer a challenge even getting a picture in focus.  So often, they just hung around lazily on tree branches or railings, absorbing the humidity, seemingly unconcerned by our presence. Not unlike our students, where the poolside loungers closely resemble the "capuchino" monkeys, if not in feature, then perhaps in a momentary disposition of familiar relaxation and solar absorption.

Squirrel monkeys checking us out

The flora, a verdant sea of green, a riot of textures and patterns, a sinewy tangle of roots and vines, an iridescent dot of bright red from a wild hibiscus or a bitterwood flower spotlighted by a narrow shaft of sunlight in the dappled shade. The light was magical, playing with our senses, shielded by the dark damp recess of a deep root fin, yet back-lighting a crown of light green new leaves, a constant incandescent  play of light on dark as we moved slowly through the terrain..

Simply magical.

Bitterwood flower (Quassia amara)

Seeking light

Shades of verde

Texture and light

A wicked defense mechanism

Following a cooling off period late afternoon, including a dip in the magnificent pool overlooking the ocean, we all congregated on the Faro restaurant deck, enjoying three rounds of drinks and some food, and of course our mutual companionship.

Round one to witness the sunset

We too are just hanging around.  Tomorrow afternoon, we are headed back to San Ramon, and back to work, certain to nurture these memories a very long time.

The sunset view from the Hotel El Faro terrace, as seen through a Magarita

.

The Value of Water

We take for granted our water, magically appearing out of our tap: clean, clear, fresh, healthy and cleansing.  And so this adventure has exposed my senses to this vital resource in a way that I have so often overlooked, presuming someone else's problem, especially when it comes not from the tap, but what happens after it swirls, laden with all kinds of substances, down the drain.

The edge of the estero

You can't help but notice this, and this year especially for me in Ethiopia, Honduras, and now Costa Rica.  That swirling effluent finds its way into the gutters, ditches and creeks that we walk past everyday, wondering how this same white duck, stained from the brown water, can remain in this one fetid pond every day.  That is why I appreciate so much one of our projects this year - the "Laguito Restoration"  (Lagoon) - examining the entire watershed of this small creek that flows eventually under the city toward a larger stream on the eastern side of San Ramon.  I stand on the surrounding hills during my morning walk scanning the unending rooftops, seeing each with their own septic systems below the house, and wonder how much of this untreated effluent, both gray and black water, finds its way into the creek.  I suspect most of it.

Emily Wahlstrand inspecting outflows

Our student team focused on this project includes Emily Wahlstrand, a petite, serious, and curious student studying wetland restoration - our resident expert - anxious to feel the dirt between her fingertips to ascertain its essential qualities.  She is accompanied by Ben Gillard, a serious, muscular and driven veteran formerly working for the Army Corps of Engineers with some experience helping to create silt barrier islands in the Mississippi, and Collin Coltman, a lanky, inquisitive Bio-Based Engineering student with a passion to understand.

 

Collin, Emily and Ben tracing the higland

The four of us decided to walk the watershed perimeter yesterday, to gain a better understanding of how it is functioning, identify its upstream qualities, and assess the pollution sources.  Five miles of hiking took us from the edge of the "estero" and its muddy, brown, oil slicked over-silted and overgrown wetland, past an old sewage treatment plant, tracing our steps past monstrous bamboo thickets, upward around a neighborhood where white foamy washwater could be seen flowing directly from houses into the gutter (and thus into this wetland), higher up, close to the source of one spring fed creek where the trickling water was relatively clear, and to the highest ridge top,  enabling a visual survey of the undulating watershed basin spreading out to the edge of town below us.  To see this, and all the other watersheds extending far into the distant hills, each draining to its tributary creeks, we can realize that our focus on this one creek is but a small part of a very large problem in Costa Rica. This country prides itself on its National Parks and emphasis on conservation, and yet the very lifeblood of all our existence is wantonly polluted and wasted, with no apparent care or attention.

Ben diminished by this huge bamboo thicket

So can these students at least frame a solution that places a value on water and its conservation? Is this a land of riches and abundance of water that its waste is not taken seriously?  It is sad to see.  It is likely we will not change the world with our work, but if we could only change a few minds about the value of water, perhaps we can call that a success.

Contrast this with our zipline tour through the rainforest canopy this afternoon, shrouded in a mist induced fog, moisture evident by glistening leaves and illuminated droplets on their leaf tips, and the river below us, zipping over the rocks below, flowing clear and rapidly with  an audible boil, down, down down toward distant cities, its purity about to be compromised. Water in abundance.

I cannot help but continue to reflect on this on my daily walks, to wonder what happens below my feet.  Maybe it isn't as bad as I make it out to be, by local standards anyway, and I am certainly no civil engineer, but this filthy flowage  seems just wrong.  We will do something to try and change a mind, if only one - it's a start. While my very existence here makes necessary my personal pollution signature, perhaps I can write it small this time - short cool showers using my biodegradable soap seems a reasonable start.

Ziplining the canopy - feel the mist!

Pura Vida 2016 - Team Building

For the third year, I once again have the honor and privilege to accompany eight great students and a faculty colleague on an adventure to San Ramon, Costa Rica.  We will grind through two projects: a wetland restoration project on the University of Costa Rica campus, and an expansion to an orphanage to accommodate older children.

Yesterday we traveled, tomorrow we start, but today we play!

It turned out to be an all day affair to get all the chickens in the roost yesterday - the travel day. Three different airlines, Delta and American both late.  An extra three plus hours waiting for the last student to arrive before we could make the early evening ride to Hostel Sabana for pizza and decompression. The weariness of the students was worn like their shirts, yet their anticipation of the trip, the visual intake of all this new scenery and impressions, was palpable.  I will provide a more detailed introduction to them in a later post.

I arrived 25 minutes late to the "Peter Hilger Walking Club", my usual morning jaunt, having soundly slept, and overslept - a rarity indeed.  But Jenna and Ben both patiently awaited me and accompanied me on a tour of the neighborhoods and the downtown - the usual Sunday bustle with the basilica hosting mass, and folks quietly out and about, including a chance encounter with "Roy", a very well known muralist locally, painting a new mural a few blocks away.  A great start.

Our raft descending the Rio Balsa

Anticipation!

But the "play" - I should perhaps call it "team building" - involved a whitewater (Class III) rafting trip down the Rio Balsa, clearly enjoyed by all.  We saw several sloths and an iguana in the trees along with the usual abundance of flora.  This was followed by a visit to Carlos and Magdalena's farm for a traditional Costa Rican lunch - all from the farm except the rice - including yucca, plantain, frijoles, pork, a cabbage carrot salad, and another cold, spicy salad, also with plantains, accompanied by star fruit juice.  Carlos took us on a tour of the farm, muddied a bit by a pounding, but brief, rainstorm while eating, exposing us to the rich diversity of crops, coffee and cacao.

Carlo and Dustin lead the "coffee story"

Melissa, Dustin, Magdalena and Carlos

Caty sucking on slimy but sweet cacao seeds

 We finished the day over dinner at the hostel, setting the stage for the two weeks of project work that starts - tomorrow!

Building Brick by Brick

Brick.  And stone.  There is much of both here at Nuestro Pequenos Hermanos (NPH).  It is also a metaphor for the children here - a large family supporting their individual structures, pieced together day after day, year after year to a structure of hope and possibility.  I like coming here - it inspires me.

The Conference Center rising

 And so it is that I could inspect the work of the surgery center, to start the construction of the new stone chapel, and the Conference Center and Dormitory, to check on its progress, elevated higher and wider, brick-by-brick by eighty workers.  There is little equipment here, It is mostly hand work.  Men moving dirt via wheelbarrow, at least they have packers to compact the soil. The building has its form defined: the great hall is now set by its length and width, its height only imagined.  The rooms are also defined, causing my speculation on the future inhabitants - how they may see the verdant landscape and the spirit of this place from the windows and courtyards, as I do.  Progress is slow, but expectedly so, but quality is good, unexpectedly so.  Much greater care and attention.

Brick by brick

Worker safety is not always a top priority in Central America, but there is an evolving culture of safety here.  The crew has constructed their own steel scaffolding, rather than using cobbled wood structures to gain height, causing delay and very unsafe conditions.  Hardhats, vests and signs advising of safety are now part of this culture.  We do not need accidents.  But my only observation over these past several days is  the absence of good footwear for work.  Many of  the workers barely have their shoes staying together, flopping around.  And with all the stone and brick work, that is a recipe for an accident.  We must get some better shoes out here - it will be a bonus well received, where even though Honduras has a strong shoe manufacturing industry, that does not mean the locals can afford them.

And speaking of stone, the vision of the main wall in the great hall made of local stone, quarried by hand and further honed by hand was perhaps a nice idealistic dream where brick is so common, but these workers created a beautiful stone wall, well crafted, as if to rise out of the very platform of stone we build upon.  It will be a magnificent backdrop to a convention of doctors or a celebration of volunteers.

The Keyhole window

And the tens of thousands of bricks, locally made in Tegus, are culled by hand from the output of the factory, an aging red-colored place with two wood fired tunnel kilns.  The bricks must be good, not cracked, so we observed a load being picked up by a crew of workers from NPH, to make sure we have the best.  It was interesting to walk through this site, not as productive as perhaps it could be due to limited work.  That is why this is such an important project - we are providing a vital source of work and pride for the locals where diminishing opportunity exists.  Pride built brick by brick.

The brick yard

Brick extruder

And then there is Axel - I am his Padrino - godfather - and also we are "tocayo" - people of the same name.  In all my prior visits, I have not had the opportunity to spend as much time day after day with him, as he schools in Tegus.  But this is now over, he has one year left, and strong ambition to become a doctor here on the Ranch.  It will take many years, perhaps 10 or so plus his service to the ranch after high school.  But through our walks and talks, in the hills, I can see his life coming together, full of ambition and warmth for his NPH family here.  His life is building as well, brick by compassionate and thoughtful brick. I only hope I can continue to be one ingredient of many in the mortar of his future that builds a strong house.

Axel and Axel: "tocayo"

Sunset on the ranch