David’s face was etched with hints of the thirty one years on the mission field  but he carried it with such grace I marveled at how much he still resembled the youthful photographs I had discovered back in our home office in Illinois tucked away in an old shoebox with a note that simply read—remember. 

Report From Caranavi, Bolivia

Until a week ago, Caranavi was as much a legend to me as the Jungle Book. 

For years, it was a place only found in my imagination and in faded photographs from the past. 

The roots of Cup of Cold Water Ministries are found burrowed deep in this small, yet significant city. I had heard the stories of VAMTI Ridge, saw the photos of our early  missionaries,

Phil and Sara Kittelson,

John and Carminia Donhowe,

and David and Marivel Hiller,

practically machete hacking their trail through the jungle in order to create what would one day be called The Life and Truth School, a Christian school for Bolivian children. 

On the day I finally arrived in Caranavi, It was overwhelmingly clear to me it wasn’t easy to get to this place even 36 years later. There is one road to Carinavi and it’s a four hour  downward spiral from the top of the snow capped mountain ridges of the Andes to the bottom, where the jungle heat awaits you.

The road, is respectfully and appropriately named, “Death Road”. Although significantly upgraded from the days of the Kittelsons, Donhowe’s and Hiller’s, it is still a bit of a risk of life to get to your destination.

The trip down death road is sprinkled with some of the most jaw dropping beauty I have ever experienced. With mountains all around you, luscious greenery, bursting waterfalls and an occasional spot of wildlife a person like me would only find in the zoo. It’s difficult to drink it all in. How fitting that one should risk nearly dying  first to experience it. 

David Hiller stood taller than I imagined him during our almost weekly zoom calls with the CCWM missionary team. Pointing down the dust filled road he added,

David was  giving me the tour of the legendary city now  come to life.  I could imagine it well, the three missionary families together…a team who would create something great, little by little until the ghosts of the past quietly slipped away leaving David standing here in the road telling me what it was like, showing me what it came to be. 

He and Marivel were the last of the original group to remain.

David’s face was etched with hints of the thirty one years on the mission field  but he carried it with such grace I marveled at how much he still resembled the youthful photographs I had discovered back in our home office in Illinois tucked away in an old shoebox with a note that simply read—remember. 

The city seemed frozen in time as well, although I was not here in the early days  and photographs were not available to show me what progress had actually taken place. The roads were mostly dirt, the small city  built into the ridge of a mountain and with steep mountain blocks being a daily routine for the residents to walk. Outdoor markets lined the streets where you could purchase lunch, car batteries and even the latest swimwear. 

Older women dressed in the traditional clothing, colorful hooped skirts and long braided hair stood side by side with trendy young women dressed in the latest style you would find in Chicago. Hanging from a light post I saw a stuffed dummy— a warning to all that lynching is the penalty for serious crime. Something David and Marivel both had witnessed. 

One thing I sensed immediately about the city that seemingly never sleeps —not only was it hard to get here but it was indeed  hard to live here. 

David drove just a few blocks up from the Donhowe and Kittelson homes to his front gate. Dr. Marivel, David’s wife, a small beauty of a woman with equal brilliance of mind, hopped out of the front seat of the pick up in her heels, to unlock the door for us. I sensed myself feeling dirty, dusty and frumpy next to Marivel who had perfected the art of grace and gentleness in a place that seemed to do all it could to toughen one up. 

With a smile she opened the gate. I was instantly overcome with the flowering jungle that was the Hiller’s  front yard complete with a Mango and papaya  tree as well as red winged macaw birds. This took time, attention and love. Despite the harsh reality of the outside world around them, in here, was sheer peace. Perhaps the secret of their longevity, an understanding of the small activities on a consistent basis that amount to greater things than we could do in one day. 

Marivel showed me to my room and I unpacked some items, turned on the fan to help circulate the somewhat suffocating humidity. Sitting on the edge of my bed I considered where I actually was. Here in the place it all began. Tracing back thirty six years CCWM looked very different than it does now. It was indeed simply these six missionaries  trail blazing here in Bolivia. 

Today, CCWM has 50 missionaries in 17 nations. All because our founder, Odell Kittelson, longed to bring humanitarian aid to the people of this city.  The project he settled on to do so, the building of the VAMTI, was rejected by his mission board who otherwise did approve of his Christian radio station and the church growth vision but not of providing all-terrain vehicles to the Bolivian farmers. Odell knew the VAMPTI would assist the farmers well, helping them with the heavy burden of hauling crops down from the mountain ridges. He believed the Gospel should be brought both in proclamation and demonstration and so he started his own missionary sending agency to send himself and his wife Margaret. He named it Cup of Cold Water Ministries and with the help of his team, family, and friends back in Illinois he built nearly 30 VAMTIS for the Bolivian farmers. The rest is history. 

And here I was where the first pen to paper of that story was lived out. 

I had much to reflect on after the short tour.

The hot equator sun was going low and I thought I’d catch an early nights rest after dinner.

But I was wrong. 

Remember, Caranavi is the city that never sleeps and neither did the Hillers, it seemed. 

After dinner we joined a prayer meeting at the church started in unity with the Bolivian believers of Caranavi. A  church where you could clap when you worshiped (an unorthodox concept thirty six years ago). The youth Pastor Samuel, brought out his guitar while one of the women, adorned in the long braids and traditional clothing, sang worship in Aymara, one of the three largest indigenous languages in Bolivia, dominant in the Northern high plains and those who migrated to Caranavi.

The prayer meeting was interrupted with the idea to move it up the mountain to visit a sick man we will call Robert. By now it was 9:30pm. I was getting a good grasp of David’s heart, his life style and his passion. Still dressed in shirt and tie he headed to the truck as our driver while the whole prayer meeting hopped in to the back—-when in Caranavi do what the Caranavi people do! I followed suite, standing in the Mitsubishi pick up truck holding onto the metal bars for stability, not realizing where exactly we were headed

The next twenty minutes could be described as the adventure of my forties, hanging on for dear life while David skillfully managed to drive up steep (it felt seemingly vertical although I’m certain that is an exaggeration) and washed out dirt roads. The stars overhead could be seen through palm branches and the city lights sparkled like diamonds below —-providing me a clue that if it were daylight I  would discover the sheer mountain ledge we were traveling on. Higher and higher we went until we stopped at an old iron gate that looked 12 feet tall. Marivel, again hopping out this time through weeds and mud in her heels still—-to open the gate for us. In the truck headlights it looked like an impassible drive and I wondered  we would have to climb out and walk up in the dark but David pressed the gas and forward we went. More up up up and just when I wondered if we were lost In the jungle the truck stopped. 

The headlights went dark, the moon so bright, surrounded by the noisy jungle sounds of night. As my eyes adjusted I noticed a small building, open sides, with wooden benches.

This must be Robert’s home, I surmised, as I followed the Bolivians out of the back of the pick up truck and into the shelter. 

a weak but happy sounding voice broke through  the night air. 

This was Robert. I could see his thin face through the glow of Marivel’s phone. He looked like he was a handsome man, worn out from Illness. After he was certain we all had a seat he sat down to in a worn out lawn chair next to David.

David began to speak with him and Marivel translated for me. I learned that Robert had been sick for months describing the agonizing pain in his back which he thought could be the result of a curse of the leaf cutter ants, who he has constantly fought and exterminated on his property because they kill his decorative plants which he so painstakingly cares for. That is the animistic worldview -that everything is alive and can have supernatural powers. The leaf cutter ants had supposedly cursed him in retribution for his ill treatment of them. Robert asked us to pray for him, and we did. 

I was humbled and taken back by The gentleness of David who until now I had only characterized as the Life and Truth school Director —a demanding work with now 790 students. I imagined David behind his desk managing, problem solving, hiring and firing. I had failed to see David the dreamer, David the all-terrain truck driver, David the prayer team leader and David the visitor to the sick and lonely. But I was seeing him now in the light of the jungle moon as I had not noticed him before.

We prayed for Robert until all the prayers were out of our hearts and given to the Lord and then we traveled down down down the ridge until the distant twinkling lights of Caranavi  became street lamps above us. 

I hit my pillow a bit after midnight. 

I’m certain David and Marivel were up much later. 

The rest of the week went like this. The normal ebb and flow of their day was next level for me. I was constantly trying to keep up the pace of the Hiller’s and even without my heels it felt impossible. 

When David finally took me to work with him, where I had always envisioned his daily activities I was again surprised by his lack of desk work and instead a focus on the well being, and equipping of his teachers and students. 

The school itself was alive with activity, students everywhere. The atmosphere in the place was light, full of energy and, may I add, joy. A leader fosters the atmosphere. The staff and students who spoke with David were relaxed, although respectful. It reminded me of the words in first John.

The thirty six year anniversary of the Life and Truth School was set to take place on Friday, but I had a flight out of LaPaz Friday monrning so the decision was made to move the event to Thursday! This was unbelievable to me. But I learned Bolivia is powerful when the people work together. Last minute parties are no problem at all. Oh the things I could learn from this culture were many! 

Thursday night we were back at Life and Truth School after a full day of family visits and scholarship student meetings and the long awaited trip up VAMTI Ridge

to finally see with my own eyes, Odell’s radio caranavi station,

the first school buildings the original VAMTI shop.

As a writer, a dreamer, and the current acting director of Odell’s Cup of Cold Water Ministries, I couldn’t help but consider the personal significance of walking in the footsteps of our founder. That afternoon I was so very near the past while God was planting ideas for future expansion within my heart. It was a gift to be there and I knew it.

I determined it was my favorite day of my twenty-three day journey in Bolivia in terms of enrichment, learning and future planning for the ministry.

But the day was not over, the night was young—-and there was an anniversary celebration to take place.

We arrived a little late, as to my understanding the event was to start at 7pm. No worries! We were in Bolivia where life is slower, and schedules are “flexible.”

7:30pm decorations were still going up.

8:00 pm the school begins to fill with students and parents and 8:30pm the party anniversary begins.

A stark contrast to my lifestyle in the United States and I wondered how we come across to the Bolivians. Perhaps I’d rather not know.

My heart felt as if it would burst as the cakes arrived, the worship team took the stage and all the pieces came together.

David spoke, (my loose translation from memory):

I agree. Yes, only God could do this. But he takes His people and includes them.

He invited Moses into a work in which Moses had no authority to perform.

He invited young David to take down Goliath with a stone.

He invited Mary to birth the Messiah.

Yes only God could sustain a missionary this long in such a harsh place. But the missionary must give his yes first. 

David and Marivel have continued to say yes when yes was costly, dangerous, lonely and tiresome.

They say yes until way after the sun goes down and yes when the sun comes back up again. 

I packed my bags the next morning wondering how I would manage to tell all I have seen here in such a way to give Glory to God as I know David and Marivel would want. 

As I left Caranavi, this time traveling up up up the death road I wondered how on earth a man could be sustained here for such a length of years.

Then I remembered the smiles of David’s staff, the green garden in his front yard, the laughter around his table as he and Marivel and their daughter Dr. Abigail shared memories of tarantulas, dangerous river crossings, asthma cured by eating grubs, Gods provision of teams and the joy of the family from Illinois who came to see their mission over the years, and I knew in my heart to give glory to God through David and Marivel’s story was simple, because God was here with the Hiller’s  through it all—and will be until the mission is complete.