On August 19 the year I was in Bolivia, a revolution broke out in the city. The people were rebelling against the communist governor who had been appointed. Those in Santa Cruz where I was were fighting Communism, believing that the simple folks in the Alta Plana (the high plains, where eighty percent of the population was illiterate) would be gullible enough to believe the promises of the Leftists. We heard rumors that truckloads of wild Indians were trying to arrive to fight for Communism, but they were blocked. Communists threatened to burn the university; some people were killed in the fighting in the plaza. We cancelled church a few times; members of the congregation had been threatened. Schools were closed, and we were under a 10:00 curfew. The only planes flying belonged to the army. Fighting had extended to the capital, La Paz, and both the president and the vice-president had fled the country. Externally, all was fine at the orphanage, far enough outside town that we were removed from the fighting. We had to live on rice for a bit, because the trucks carrying produce couldn’t get through. Prices were skyrocketing as a result—bananas went from 25 cents a stem to $1.00. Kerosene was also in short supply; I imagined that I would soon be quilting by candlelight. The biggest problem I had was that the phone lines were cut, and there was no way to assure my parents that I was safe. Perhaps the most important gain I had in that month was the realization that God would have to take care of my parents. My prayer time was devoted to begging God to give my mother (the more nervous one of the pair) some peace. Later, I would learn that she was calling New York Times and the Bolivian embassy daily. As soon as the phone lines were restored, I went into town (we had no phone service that far out of town) and called her. When we decided it was safe to go into town, I saw snipers on the rooftops. That was about the extent of the excitement for me. Mr. S. was fairly blasé about the whole thing, telling me that revolution was the Bolivian national pastime.
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Baptist GirlI was a conservative Baptist girl who grew up to become a career Christian, working first in a Baptist school and then in a Baptist college. For about three decades, it was very good until it wasn’t, and I had to leave. But the Baptists formed me. This is my homage to the good times and good people of the world I left, finally, at forty-three, when I became an Episcopalian. These are my memories; others might disagree with my recollections. So be it. Archives
January 2024
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