La Vida en Perú

Starting new

2008-09-01T08:10:00.001-07:00

One year after my last post, I'm taking up blogging again.

I'm moving to Chad. New country, new blog. My Africa stories will be posted at www.howeareyou.blogspot.com.

But I don't leave until September 29, and won't actually arrive there until the first of October. So give me a little time to get started.

Let's stay in touch.

Love, Ansley

Home

2007-09-06T15:06:00.000-07:00

We live as those who are on a journey home, a home we know will have the lights on and the door open and our Father waiting for us when we arrive. That means in all adversity our worship of God is joyful, our life is hopeful, our future is secure. There is nothing we can lose on earth that can rob us of the treasures God has and will give us.
John Oxenham

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
2 Corinthians 4:18

For our citizenship is in heaven.
Philippians 3:20

Ending

2007-09-02T17:36:00.000-07:00

On Friday morning Carly and I sat down at the table and made a plan. The newbies washed the dishes as we drew maps of Pucallpa and wrote lists of things that needed to be accomplished.

Carly's job was harder: she chose to take the five new student missionary girls into the center of town where they would change money, buy mosquito nets and tupperwear bins, use the internet, and call their families in the States. Each step must be led and guided by Carly through the city, the girls don't know their way and must have a translator at every stop.

My job was simpler: spend a few mintes telling the neighbors goodbye, take a taxi to Shirley's to get the truck keys and the truck, then take the truck to the airport to pick up Jenni, Brent, and Mr. and Mrs. Neish, who were going to visit for a few days. Then I would leave Jenni with the truck to get work done in Pucallpa while I returned to 38 in a taxi in order to buy groceries and go home to cook dinner for a crowd--our household of 17 people.

Everything went smoothly. I met our newest arrivals and helped them with their luggage, I stood on the edge of the pista and flagged a taxi. I sat there, sharing the cab with four adults and three children, and the wind whipped our faces.

This is my last day in Peru, I thought to myself. This is my last day.

I cried all the way to the market.

The trees speak

2007-08-09T08:04:00.001-07:00

Modern plumbing

2007-08-08T19:42:00.000-07:00

On August 2, 2007, running water arrived at Km 38. This was a most momentous occasion, as for 12 months we had been hiking to a pit toilet for the potty, taking bucket baths, and washing hands and dishes in a plastic tub. There is just nothing like running water.

The shower was completed first. Then the utility sink behind the house got hooked up, and suddenly we had a place to scrub potatoes and wash the rice. The next day when we returned from errands, the toilet, complete with toilet seat, was ready, and there was even a tiny sink in the bathroom.

I couldn't handle it.

"Carly!" I squealed, "There's a SINK in the BATHROOM!"

Emily, being inside the house, yelled out, "There's a SNAKE in the bathroom?" Emily is one of the new student missionaries, who arrived just days ago.

Before I had a chance to reply, there was a scream from behind the bathroom door, occupied by Kristin, another newbie.
"There's a FROG in the TOILET!" she hollared.

There actually was a frog in the toilet. Carly and I looked at each other and laughed. Welcome to Peru.

The Newbies

2007-08-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

If you're happy and you know it

2007-08-08T19:22:00.001-07:00

The kids listened with remarkable silence as Carly read the story of the birth of Jesus from our Children's Bible. Carly held up the felt board we made out of a large piece of blue felt and a cardboard box and she juggled the pages of the Bible while I placed our felts on the board at the appropriate time.

The star felt moved across the vast blueness and came to rest above a felr stable, littered with golden straw. The three wide-eyed wisemen trotted across the board in pursuit of the felt star, and the children laughed.

We often start our program with only a handful of kids, 30 or 40, and they steadily trickle in as we sing "Adentro, afuera, arriba, abajo," or "Las gallinitas pica."

We love to see the kids come from our families, the kids who we talk to every day, whose pets we know the names of. We see them arrive, dragging their younger siblings behind them, and we beam in their direction.

The story finishes, and as Carly puts the felts away in the market bag, I lead the kids, all up on their feet, in the closing song. There is an enormous and energetic crowd of them now.

We sing "If you're happy and you know it," which in Spanish translates, "If it's true that you're saved____" and then an action, like stomping, or handclapping, to illustrate that you are, indeed saved.

The last verse says, "If it's true that you're saved, say amen!" And then the kids chorus "AH-MEN!" yelling it out, and throwing their arms out wide away from their bodies, as if preparing to give someone a huge hug.

The moment is beautiful, and both Carly and I feel the joy of it.

We are overcome with the chorus of children, belting their lungs out, and throwing their arms open to Jesus.

Health workers

2007-08-08T18:42:00.000-07:00

Carly and I have two jobs. By day we are public health workers, and at night we are child entertainers. Our public health program is called Familias Saludables, which is Healthy Families in English. It is a brand new program, designed by the project physician, Dr. Richard, and tweaked in many ways by us, the implementers.

We have found many things that look nice on paper but don’t actually work in the field.

The basic idea is that we have a list of families for each of us, families that have chosen to learn and work in the program, and we visit them every work day for a month, which ends up being about 20 days.

We tried to pick needy families, which isn’t hard because all of them are needy, but we did go to the edges of town, to the run-down, rolling-over, bottom-up houses.

This in itself proved to be a problem because it is hard to talk to someone about nutrition when they don’t have any food to eat. How can you say “Let's work on adding more protein to your diet,” when they don’t even have access to the most basic of carbohydrates—rice, yucca, and platano? It has been a challenge.

Every day during our house visits we fill out a check sheet which allows each family points in five areas—nutrition, hygiene, financial planning, home environment, and family cooperation. This means that even if the family can’t afford food to rank up points in the nutrition area, they can get points for picking up the trash in their yard, or having more time together with the family, or working together to achieve family goals.

We’ve learned a lot about what it means to be a family, and how a family can address and work through many kinds of problems. We have learned about teamwork, responsibility, and the importance of trust. It is important that they trust us, and it is important that we build good relationships.

Gringa

2007-08-08T18:40:00.000-07:00

Wherever I go in the streets of Masisea, my presence is well announced by the children of the neighborhood.

“Grin-GA, Gring-GA!” they yell, “Mira la gringa!” they say to their friends.

Look at the white girl.

Usually I will call them out. I will call them right over.

“What is my name?” I ask them.

They always know. This whole town knows by now, especially the kids.

“Ani,” they respond.

“Right,” I say, “My name is not ‘Gringa,’ my name is ‘Ani.’”

They wriggle, they tip their shoulders to the side.

“Okay, thanks,” I finish, “See your later.”

‘Gringa’ is not necessarily an insult. It is a label that we have endured all year now. If you look it up in a Spanish/English dictionary, the definition is simply a slang word for foreigner. Everyone calls us gringos. The students, the adults, the shopkeepers.

And we put up with it. We are foreigners, we are white, we are different.

But how much nicer to be called by my name. How sweet when the kids wave from their porches and yell, “Hola Hermana Ani!”

We might not all be the same color, but we are still brothers and sisters. It’s important to treat each other with respect. I want to learn their names, too.

Remedies

2007-08-08T18:36:00.000-07:00

Only in the jungles of Peru could you ask people about their protein intake and they would reply, “ardilla!” or “huevitos de tortuga!” which means “squirrel,” or “turtle eggs.”

I love it. I love being so far out in the selva boondocks that the people have their own dialect and traditional clothes that they wear just because they do, not because there are tourists around who want to take pictures. They eat interesting foods, like squirrel and turtle eggs, and a drink made by spitting out chewed up yuca and then letting it ferment. Mmmm.

They fish for piranha and still go to traditional healers when they get sick.

As the word has gotten out that a foreign nurse is in the village, I have been summoned on a handful of occasions to make house calls for wound care. Melina fell and sliced her shin on a piece of taut wire, Adrien was hiking when a nail pierced his shoe and consequently his foot as well, Felisa’s nephew skinned the back of his arm on a falling tree branch, Merlita split open the bottom of her foot on a piece of glass while traveling from Masisea to her community, an 8 hour walk away.

I find each of these people with their own unique remedies for treating their ailments. Some drink potions of brewed local plants, some tie herbal medleys about their necks, some carry a charm in their pockets. Do any of these creative methods work? Who am I to say? Believeing in something works wonders. If you believe it is working, sometimes it really is.

Let's go

2007-08-08T18:30:00.000-07:00

Domingo, the leader of our Bible worker team of four, really wants to go to the States. He finds some way to bring this up at every opportunity possible.

“Ani,” he says to me, in this slow and wise voice, “I want to go to your country. To preach.” He often speaks in fragment sentences.

“We will take the tent,” he continues, “to baptize, to convert the people. And we must have Tarzan, our guardian. And all of your children want to go, too.”

Tarzan is our favorite Masisean dog, who is barely older than a puppy, and who sings, or rather howls, on command. He stays in the big evangelistic tent when no one else is around, and keeps watch.

“My children” are the 150 kids who come literally dashing from their homes each night for our children’s program. I love them, and do feel a wave of warm fuzzies when the run up and yell, “ANI!” and throw their arms around my legs and waist, so many at a time that I can’t walk at all and begin instead to trip over the crowd of them.

They are precious, but I can’t take them home with me. I can just imagine the plane headed north—filled to the brim with Domingo, the Brethren, the huge tent, all rolled up in an enormous orange and blue hay bale, Tarzan the singing dog, and all of my kids, all together.

Nest

2007-08-08T18:27:00.000-07:00

I am going to miss this house so much. The seven rooms, the creaky beds, the stains on the floor where someone spilled diesel or paint. I will miss the bird songs, the flutter of bat wings, the funny noises the dogs make as they wrestle in the yard. And the smell of the kitchen when the rice is almost done.

I love looking out the front window and seeing the greenness—the vibrant grass, the squat lemon trees, the little peeks of the caretaker’s house beyond. So many mornings I have gotten up and opened the crooked wide window that John and Jackson built—the window that opens to a vast plane of lushness and the jungle beyond.

I love the big table, smoothed down with the wax from our drippy candles, and the benches that wobble when you sit on them.

So many times I have awoken in this house and thought, “today is a new day,” and so many times I have fallen asleep here inside my mosquito net on the little wooden bed frame, all quiet and peaceful.

How sad I am to leave.

Happy Birthday Carly!

2007-08-01T09:16:00.001-07:00

Mystery animal

2007-08-01T09:10:00.000-07:00

What is this? ¿Qué es ésto?

Las Familias

2007-08-01T09:07:00.000-07:00

Went to swim in the Ucayali

2007-08-01T09:03:00.001-07:00

All the little munchkins

2007-08-01T08:55:00.000-07:00

Clarification

2007-07-31T13:45:00.000-07:00

I wrote a recent blog about some of the mothers in our health program. I think that the things mentioned were less than complementary--the pigs wandering through the house, the parasites, the naked children.

I did not put into words the compassion and care of these kind women for their children, the warmth of their hearts, their generosity to us and to their neighbors.

They are soccer moms, too. Although they walk to the games, and sit on in the grass instead of in comfy, portable, side-line chairs, they are still there, cheering.

They wash the uniforms, the fill the plates, they help with the homework, they chase the chickens and turkeys up into the trees so they won't get lost in the night.

There lives and their homes may be different from mine, but they are good people, good neighbors, and I am lucky to know them.

Sabbath afternoon

2007-07-27T13:41:00.000-07:00

We're sitting in the big meeting tent, having a Bible study. It is a hot and calm Sabbath sfternoon, the breeze has been blowing through the central tunnel of the tent, and we are having a good discussion about judgement and the close of probation--just me and Carly.

Jen walks up. Jen lives next door, a tiny boy of nine who looks like he could be six years old. He has wide eyes and an easy, crooked grin. Jen likes to hang around us, watch what we're doing.

As Jen stands by, and we take notes in our journals, some bigger boys pass on their bikes. They yell and whistle at us, and say some words I won't repeat.

I watch Jen's reaction.

He looks down at the ground, and shakes his head, like a wise old adult, shunning the foolishness of youth.

Carly and I exchange a look, rolling our eyes. We're used to it.

"Ellos son feos," says Carly, and we laugh.

And then Jen laughs, too, and we are pleased to see he agrees.

Do not use an aerosol can as a hammer

2007-07-27T13:23:00.000-07:00

(When Carly locked the keys in the other room, she had to scale the wall to get them, thus providing a good picture of our kitchen/storage/closet).

Siesta, the period of an hour or two after lunch when everyone sits around and does nothing, was wrapping up, and Carly and I were preparing our paperwork for the afternoon visits. I invested in five minutes of housecleaning in our kitchen/storage/closet. We still had a little wall space left, so I decided to tack up one of the posters we had made featuring last week's memory verse.

I dug through one of our duffles for the baggie of tacks and nails, then looked around for a suitable hammer. I grabbed our super sized aerosol can of Repel, 40% deet, thinking, "It looks like metal, so it should make a good hammer," and ignoring the "WARNING, Contents Under Pressure," message, printed neatly across the bottom.

You would think I would have understood, it was even written in my mother tongue.

I raised the can and swung. Wham, Wham, WHAM, POW! There was a deafening explosion, and suddenly a thick fog of bug spray filled my field of vision as it hissed in every direction around the room. I was spooked, and befuddled at first as to what had happened.

I lept from our kitchen/storage/closet, spraying can still in hand, then hurled it into the dirt yard.

Bug spray drenched my khaki shrts, the walls of our room, and the poster.

"Well," I thought, "That wasn't one of my brightest moments."

And so I learned that an aerosol can was not made for use as a hammer, just like I learned last week that a giant 100 floor puzzle was NOT made for 100 children. Maybe I can just leave that scenario to your imagination.

A big handful

2007-07-27T12:59:00.000-07:00

Tonight we read the story of David and Goliath with the kids, then made David and Goliath fingerpuppets.

It seemed like a very simple process. Carly and I had already made copies of all the David and Goliath templates, then cut them out ourselves. All we had to do was distribute them to the kids to be colored with crayons, then tape them in a round finger puppet loop when the coloring was finished.

When we have story time, after the singing, all the kids sit on the fat steps of a concrete amphitheater in the plaza, and we stand at the base, our own concrete stage, reading out loud, as loud as we can.

Then the kids come down and spread out over the big cement patio to color. It is very hard to divide them into groups, then sit them down, and then have them wait their turn to be passed parers and crayons. You will remember that we have around 150 kids every night, and there are just two of us.

The kids think that if they are not standing right in front of you with arms outstretched, trampling your toes, they won't get their share. So no matter what you say, they follow you around in this tight pack.

We found the best way to address this is by playing a game called "Grupos."

"¡GRUPOS DE UNO!" I will yell, and all the children will miraculously separate themselves across the plaza, being careful not to touch anyone else.

"¡GRUPOS DE TRES!" and with screeching and clamoring they arrange themselves in little packs of three people.

"¡GRUPOS DE UNO!" back they go into their individual spaces.

We do this for a few rounds, and when they begin to tire and lose energy, I bark, "GRUPOS DE OCHO, y después, SIÉNTENSE." The kids find groups of eight, and sit, sometimes even in nice circles.

They have learned that this means the coloring time is about to begin.
The love coloring more than anything else. They will sit and wait for the crayons, but there are still some kids who will get super grabby when you put a big handful of crayons down in the middle of the group--the kids who reach out really fast before you can say greenbean and roll 90% of the crayons into their personal coloring space.

Sometimes I have to reach down and take their arms firmly in my hands and we have to have a stern little talk about sharing. I'm getting pretty good at this talk.

All of a sudden, they are done coloring, and they are ready to have their puppets taped. All of them--100 shoving kids who think the tape will run out unless they are standing on your feet, breathing in your air.

"HAZ UNA FILA, POR FAVOR," I yell. Make a line, please. Make a nice pretty line.

And they do, sort of. But not really.

Sweet Lemons

2007-07-27T12:43:00.001-07:00

Deidamie taught me how to eat sweet lemons with salt. "Why have a sweet lemon if you're going to salt it?" I asked.

She shrugged. "That's just the way we eat them!"

We laughed together, and I watched so I would spit the seeds out on the dirt in just the right way, even though I lacked that gold tooth to add the special sparkle.

Deidamie has a sister named Iliana, who lives farther down the mud lane, and both of their families are in our program. One day this week when I stopped in for my daily visit to Iliana's house, Deidamie was there too, swinging in a hammock made from a recycled fishing net with a baby on her stomach. Iliana sat on a little wooden bench nearby, tucked back in the shade.

I wanted to remember that moment, their tranquility, the heat, the peels of oranges littering the ground.

Deidamie is 42, and Iliana is 36. Both of them are grandmothers.

Liliana lives on the other far reaches of town, in a tiny house with her husband and their seven children. Both Liliana and her next door neighbor, Lidia, are in our program. Lidia only has four kids--Natalia, Marcos, Ever, and Lorgio, but her in-laws and her three nephews also live in her house.

Whenever I am visiting at Lidia's, the new piglets come and go through the front door, rooting around in the mud of the floor.

Liliana has a two year son who is always naked, I have never seen him with a stitch of clothing on. The whole family had some serious parasite problems, and when we treated the two youngest boys with anti-parasitic medications, they had worms exiting through their noses and mouths, as well as the other end.

The very calm mother informed me of this the next day. She addressed the situation with composure. "We found worms in their bed this morning," she said, "and they have been coughing them up all day." I think I probably would have flipped if my kid had worms crawling out of his nose.

We have another family in our program in are quite fresh from a Shipivo community. They speak Spanish shyly, and with a distinctive accent. The women aren't too stressed about wearing shirts. When Carly or I make our rounds at their house they often tie traditional beaded bracelets or necklaces on us. One day they gave me a necklace with a crocodile tooth.

Ciro and Emita

2007-07-27T12:26:00.000-07:00

The hospedaje where we are staying is managed by a kind elderly couple, Ciro and Emita.

Ciro wears pirate pants every day--trousers that have been roughly trimmed into capris with a pair of scissors, then cut into big fringes all the way around. I know one else who has pants quite like this, and since Señor Ciro has three or four pairs, I'm curious to ask after the inspiration for his style. But I'm too shy, and afraid, perhaps, of a miscommunication that would hurt feelings.

Emita is a tiny little lady, who puts up with Ciro's off-color jokes and faithfully feeds her chickens each morning. She stands on the porch and calls them, a different call for the hens, for the rooster, and for the chicks, and then she stands there and laughs as she watches them eat their corn.

Emita sings all the time, dear little songs about children and heaven and how much she loves Jesus. I love her sweet, wavering voice, seldom on tune, cheering us through our day.

When I am old, I want to be just like that: singing songs and feeding my chickens.

Ciro and Emita are obsessive about sweeping their yard. They have a dirt yard with a fence that includes the two hospedake buildings, the outhouses, and the shower shed in its reaches. The fence also includes a handful of bread fruit trees, who are always shedding a half-orange, half-green leaf in the wind.

Down comes the leaf, and over to its resting place rushes Ciro or Emita, broom in hand, to sweep it up. They make tiny piles of these leaves, then burn them in the yeard. The smoke filters into our room and makes our eyes smart, or gives breakfast an odd flavor.

We missed them when they went on a trip to Pucallpa for a week. We have only known them a month, but they are an important part of our existence in Masisea.

Then they came back, and as Carly and I did paperwork, we listened to Emita sing a little song in the room next to ours.

"I'm glad she's back," said Carly.

Me too.

Peaceful

2007-07-11T12:46:00.000-07:00

Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in him, for he shields him all day long, and the one the Lord loves rests between his shoulders. Deuteronomy 33:12

You have rescued me from death; you have kept my feet from slipping. So now I can walk in your presence, O God, in your life-giving light. Psalm 56:13

La Huelga

2007-07-11T12:28:00.001-07:00

This week, the Department of Ucayali is on strike. A department here in Peru is like a state back in my country. Imagine what would happen if the state of New York went on strike. No teachers in the schools, no doctors in the hospital, not a store open where you could buy food, not a car on the road.

Transportation has come to a halt. We're stuck in Masisea because there are no boats. Doctor can't got to 38 in the truck because people will destroy it and him if they catch him on the road. If you ride a bicycle into town, rocks will be thrown at you. The airport in Pucallpa has been taken over. 60,000 people are marching in protest in the streets every day.

The strike is causing many problems. Businesses are not allowed to be open, motocars are not allowed to drive, no one can make money, no one can buy things like rice and toilet paper, no one can take more money out of the bank.

We're at a standstill. There are lots of problems because the hospital is closed, and all the doctors and nurses are on strike, too.

The word in Spanish for strike is huelga. The word "huelga" has been written in grafitti along with the word "indefinida" and "26 Junio," all over walls and buildings and schools in the city. The stike will go on, we are told, until a compromise is made.

The "h" in "huelga" is silent, and I have had a hard time learning this new word because it has too many vowels, and an odd combination of consonants, and feels like something soft and slippery in my mouth.

There is, as of yet, no sales tax in the Department of Ucayali. It is the poorest department in Peru, and the only one that doesn't yet have a sales tax. The national government of Peru wants to now institute a 20% sales tax on everything bought and sold, from boats to chewing gum.

Thus, the strike. The Ucayali citizens don't want to pay a sales tax, and have said that they will strike until the president of Peru, Alan Garcia, changes his mind.

I'm not usually too interested in politics. But we have families in our health program who haven't had food for two days now. They have sent some of the men folk on a trip to walk 8 hours into the jungle to their community where they have yuca and fish available.

It makes me sad when people don't have food to eat.

In Pucallpa we hear that the members of the Adventist churches are eating "out of the common pot." There are families who are starving, and so the church is organizing meals where everyone eats together and shares what they have to make the food go farther.

I hope the strike ends soon.

Heaven

2007-07-11T12:25:00.000-07:00

I find in myself a desire which no experience can satisfy, the most profitable explanation is that I was made for another world.

C. S. Lewis

Don't bite me

2007-07-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

The bugs are bearable if you wear long pants, long sleeves, socks, shoes, and cover yourself in a generously thick layer of deet. Even then, they bit us right through our pants.

Even worse than the mosquitoes are the huge blood sucking flies, although I must say that as time goes by we are getting better and better at stopping them in their tracks with a deafennig smack before they have chance to take flight again.

The locals here have turned bug smacking into an art--they can grab the right flies out of the air without looking and snap them dead between their fingers. We find this quite amazing.

Masisea has reported six cases of malaria in the month of June, and Carly and I are taking our bitter anti-malaria pills each week religiously. Malaria medicine day is Sabbath, and because the tablets must be taken with a full stomach early in the day, we remind ourselves never to go to Sabbath school without first taking our weekly dose.

Trapped

2007-07-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

Carly and I have a problem with little kids who are always coming and idling outside of our kitchen/storage/closet door. They watch us intently. They eye our every move. They are cute and all, but we'd like to eat our oatmeal without an audience, thank you.

So we're always trying to come up with creative ways to tell them to go away. Usually, whatever we say is useless. They continue to loiter, no matter what clever expressions we invent. I told Carly that we need a sign that says, "No Loitering" to hang on our door, in Spanish, or course.

This evening, we told some kids to scram, in so many words, while we were cooking dinner. Then we shut the door to help them get the idea. We heard then hanging out. We waited.

A minute later we tried to go out to fill our pot with water. We found the door locked--from the outside!

Those punksticks had locked us in, then wandered off! We weren't too distressed, actually we thought it was hilarious. Except the we-can't-get-out part.

We could see through the big cracks in the walls that the brethern were moving around over by the tent, and finally Miqueas came over close enough so we could yell at him to rescue us. He was very surprised and also amused to find the two of us locked up in our own room.

Travel

2007-07-11T11:53:00.001-07:00

We woke at 2:50 in the morning, brushed our teeth, and loaded our stuff on the back of Kely's moto. I was surprised at the fierce army of mosquitoes that were attacking, even at that hour, and was thankful for my long pants.

The little dirt road from Masisea to the river port is 8 kilometers long. This is a trip of about 40 minutes in a motocar. We had been traveling for about ten minutes when Kely stopped the moto. His front tire was flat. We inspected it with our headlamps.

There was a tack stuck into his tire.

"There's not much work right now," Manuel explained, "Other drivers ambush other motos in the night, to steal the work away."

Kely took off at a rapid walking pace for Masisea again, and we waited in the darkness, rubbing our eyes and swatting at bugs. A few motos went by. The peki pekis start leaving the port at 4:00 am for the four hour trip to Pucallpa.

I wasn't planning on learning how to change the tire of a moto, but now I know how.

We started off again. I remember feeling very tired, but we were so excited to go to Pucallpa to communicate with our families.

A little while later there was a loud crash, and we looked back to see that the large plastic basket of Manuel's dental supplies had fallen off the back of the moto. It had been tied, but somehow came loose.

Boxes of gloves, bottles of alcohol, blue drapes, and ampules of lidocaine littered the dirt road. We all piled out of the moto to help clean up. Hundreds of dental needles had spilled out of their cartons.

"You know," Carly said to me, as we put handfuls of needles back in the basket, "I sometimes wonder if things like this happen for a reason. Maybe we just weren't supposed to catch that first boat. Maybe God is protecting us from something, and he just needs a little extra time."

I smiled.

He's got the whole world in his hands. I can travel a long, long ways from home, but still be safe in his protective grip.

Progress at Km 38

2007-07-11T11:42:00.000-07:00

Work continues on the septic pit.

The newly constructed sheep corral and sheep hut.

We still lack a second water tank, but the tower is finished. Carly and I use it for secret meetings.

Some of our friendly lawn-munchers.

Soon we will have lot of little lemon and orange seedlings to plant, thanks to our greenhouses.

Masisea

2007-07-10T13:00:00.000-07:00

I haven't learned how to drive a moto yet, but one of the families in our health project has promised to teach me.

Andrea's house.

Carly at lunch with "The Brethren," Manuel, Felipe, Domingo, and Miqueas.

This tiny plane brought the doctor to Masisea for a mobile clinic day.

When the river bed dries up, the villagers transform it into a rice field.

My cup runneth over

2007-07-10T12:34:00.001-07:00

There is not a day when I come back to our place of lodging with my shoulder bag lighter than when I started out.

Our project for healthy families takes me on a long pilgrimage up and away from the center of the town to a neighborhood called Barrio Alto. Along the way up the hill I pass by the house of Hilda, a Jehovah's Witness, who always yells, "God bless you, friend!"

Hilda often trots herself over with a gift of toronja, Peruvian grapefruit. I love toronja.

Then a little farther up on the right past the bridge is Tomasa's bakery, with her house attached to the side where she lives with her elderly sister. Tomoasa makes wonderful dense cake, sometimes banana and sometimes orange. I stop and buy slabs of it for our supper, 50 cents a person, and Tomasa throws in a bunch of my favorite type of bananas, manzanitas, for free.

These people have nothing, barely enough rice to feed their children, and yet they won't let you leave their homes without a gift of some kind of fruit from their backyard.

Carly and I have a wooden crate in the corner of our tiny kitchen room, and it has been heaped with fruit all week. We can't keep up. We have a mountain of toronja and naranjas (oranges), for making juice, we have three gigantic papayas (which we don't really care for, but eat anyway), we have sweet bananas, green plátano, and six golden coconuts that one of Carly's families donated, then hand carried to our hospedaje for a special delivery.

We are overwhelmed by their generosity, and trying to think of ways we can give back. Tomasa said we could use her oven as long as we shared our recipes (we want hers, too), and I think we're going to bake brownies to give to our families. But somehow, brownies just don't seem to hold a candle to a fresh jungle coconut, heavy with sweet milk.

I just feel so blessed to be here, blessed to walk these dusty streets in my flip slops and wave at the little old people who sit on their porches all day long, watching people like me walk by. I love the village life.

Kids

2007-07-10T12:16:00.000-07:00

The first night we did a children's program we had 40 children. They didn't know there was going to be a program. They heard the singing, and they showed up. The next night there were 70 kids, and they next night we handed out 100 stickers to 100 eager beavers, and ran out. We now consistently have 120 kids at our program each night. I usually go to bed somewhat hoarse, and always exhausted.

They are energetic and attentive and a little wild. They love to sing, and they love to color even more. It has been a challenge since we carefully planned our six-week program with copies and activities for a maximum of 50 kids each night. But every minute is worth it. Whenever they burst into the Spanish version of "I Have Decided to Follow Jesus," which is "He Decidido Seguir a Cristo," I feel like crying tears of joy.

Fruit

2007-07-10T12:09:00.000-07:00

Bethy Luz

2007-07-10T11:53:00.000-07:00

There is a lady who idles at the hostel where we are staying whose name is Bethy Luz. Bethy is 25 years old and she is fitting to burst with the pregnancy of her second baby. Her due date is in two days.

"But this one will be late," she tells Carly and I, "I can tell."

We sit and chat with her on the narrow little porch of the hospedaje, looking over the plaza of Masisea. It is dusk, and our view of the plaza is from the backside, a slanting downward sort of view.

We slap at mosquitoes, smearing the blood over our shins. The sphere of Betty Luz's belly is imposing. She shifts awkwardly around it, uncomfortable.

I try to think of anything I can give her. In this corner of the world, prenatal care and prenatal visits are almost unheard of.

We do have a few cartons of women's vitamins, which come in the form of foil wrapped chocolate cherry flavored chews. They are a donation item from the United States. Our Peruvian Doctor makes fun of them, this extravagance of American culture.

For the same amount of space and weight, hundreds of compact, bitter multi-vitamin pills could be sent down, instead of these sweet vitamin-enhanced candies, which turn into goo in the jungle heat, and come in clumbersome cartons of 60.

Or better yet, the kind people in donation countries could send chickens. Chickens to lay eggs that could be traded for fruit or vegetables to give pregnant mommies natural vitamins. Chickens to produce more chickens to be sold to finance an education or put a tin roof on a house.

But for today, we have chocolate vitamins. They may seem frivolous in the face of so much need, but Bethy Luz accepts them with sweet appreciation. For this moment, it's the best I have.

For sale

2007-07-10T11:52:00.000-07:00

In Masisea there isn't a central market location. Instead, the market roams the streets. The townspeople put the fish or oranges or coconuts or tamales in big colorful plastic bowls and then put the bowls on their heads, then they wander the neighborhoods, yelling out an announcement of whatever it is they think you want to buy.

Kids come to the fenced yard of our hospedaje all day long to display their wares. One lady drops in with fresh milk from her cow in glass bottles and fresh bars of white cheese wrapped in clean 1-ply sheets of toilet paper. We’re scared of the milk, but the cheese is yummuy.

Quite often when the fishermen return from their morning catches, they spread a piece of plastic down in the plaza and display all their fish. This provides an excellent lesson in fish anatomy, as some are ceremoniously cut open to display their gooey insides.

I also enjoy watching the crowd that forms—the neighbors and store beepers and chacra workers all gather around in a big circle and begin their fish bargaining.

Arrival

2007-07-10T11:32:00.000-07:00

Somewhat dazed after a five hour trip in a leaky peki peki.

"We will call this new land 'home,'" they said.

Our friendly hospedaje, "Anita Isabel."

Carly eats breakfast in our kitchen/storage/closet.

Where we live

2007-07-10T10:04:00.000-07:00

We live in a tin-roofed shed that is infested with bats, rats, and cockroaches. The rooms are so small that when you walk in the door to our room, one person must pass around the door, then shove it back before the next person can squeeze through.

There is only space for a twin bed, which Carly and I are sharing, and a teeny tiny table. Our personal stuff is literally stuffed beneath the bed. The room is smaller than a walk-in closet, and costs $0.45 a night.

We also have another room that houses our trunks of children’s programming supplies, medicines for clinic, health program supplies, and our stove, rubbermaid bins of food, (thus-far rat proof), and our dishes and cooking supplies.

To eat our meals we sit up on the trunks which are stacked on the mattressless bed frame, resting our feet on the bed’s edge.

The rats scurry from room to room of our dusty habitation at night, chirping. The bats chirp, too, a higher pitched squeal and a flutter of wings. Carly and I hear them and cringe, then laugh.

Where else could we live, so very close to nature?

The yard of this hospedaje houses eight or nine stray dogs at any given time, not to mention the chickens, ducks, and roosters. Pigs and sheep also come and go at their own free will.

At night we tuck our mosquito netting very tightly around our mattress. This is a precaution not only against the mosquitoes, who seemed to show up in plague force in the dry season, but also to prevent the entry of our resident rats and bats.

I am well adjusted to sleeping all tucked up in the layer of filmy netting, and I know I will miss the security of its transparent walls when I return to the States.

June 11, 2007

2007-06-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

O Lord, that lends me life, lend me a heart replete with thankfulness.

William Shakespeare, Henry VI

Osvaldo

2007-06-11T09:58:00.001-07:00

Osvaldo is short and flat footed. He is old, but he still works hard. He walks with a swagger, leaned over a little, with a tendency to veer off to the left.

Although he had been a Catholic all of his life, Osvaldo converted to the Seventh-day Adventist church a few years back, and moved from Lima to the jungle after his family rejected both him and his new religion.

Now he lives near us, and some of his belongings are stored in the caretaker's house. The caretaker is long gone, but his label remains. As does his trash in the yard.

Osvaldo makes his living selling sugar cane juice at the little stand by the road. His entire business consists of four tall glasses, a sugar cane press that is cranked by hand, a dirty styrofoam box for ice, and a little old wooden crate where he keeps his change. I call his stand The Honey Hut, because he sometimes sells honey in recycled soda bottles as well.

One day last week he invited Carly and I into The Honey Hut for a drink. He mixed up a concoction of sugar cane juice and fresh orange juice, then poured for us with a flourish. We had a nice talk with we sipped. The conversation was easier to get down than the drink.

Today Osvaldo told a story about me in church. The discussion in Sabbath school was about Biblical health principles. When we got to the principle of drinking water, Hermano Osvaldo stood up to make his comment.

"Sometimes I have health problems and I talk to Hermana Ani [me], because she is a nurse. One day I had a very bad headache and wanted some medicine," he paused, letting this sink in, "But Hermana Ani told me to drink water. She said, 'Hermano, Drink A LOT of water.' So I did, and then, I felt better."

He grinned, "So we can see that water is good for health."

True story, poor guy. He found me, complaining of headache. "How much water have you had today?" I asked.

None. He hadn't had any. So I wouldn't give him any medicine. I told him to go drink 5 cups of water, and then three more later.

Osvaldo is one of those people I look forward to seeing in heaven. I think he'll have more teeth when I run into him there, but I wouldn't be surprised if he talked with the same endearing gummy Spanish that we know so well.

I can imagine him coming up to me with an outstretched hand, smiling so hard his eyes disappear.

"Hola, hermana," he'll say.

And maybe, just maybe, we can sit down for a glass of sugar cane juice.

A day in the life

2007-06-11T09:42:00.000-07:00

Carly and I returned from our bucket baths and began putting away the various supplies--shampoo in one spot, dirty clothes in basket, hang up towels on the towel nails. The evening was very dark and we moved around the room by the light of our headlamps.

Suddenly I shuddered as I felt the grippy feet of a bug hop on my arm. I flicked it off by impulse before I even saw it, then illuminated its little green body with the beam of my headlamp. Or should I say big green body.

"Whoa!" I said to Carly, "Look at this huge grasshopper!"

We peered. It must have been four inches long. Enormous.

"Oh, goodness," I said, "Look."

The grasshopper clung to our wall with his sticky feet. On the same wall in the upper corner was a shiny brown cockroach, antennae twitching. And then near the floor was a fat black spider with red spots and hairy leges.

We took it all in. All these lovely creatures we get to share our house with.

But Carly and I are not bug people.

"Which one should I get first?" I asked. I gripped my Sabbath school quarterly.

"Get the spider," replied Carly, "I hate spiders!"

I went for the spider. The "whack" of the quarterly startled the grasshopper, and it leaped, which startled Carly.

"Get the grasshopper!" she shrieked.

I went for the grasshopper. I missed. It jumped again, deeper into our room. Then we couldn't find it. We looked around our feet, squeamish, lifted up our heels and peaking around the backs of our legs.

"Okay, at least get the cockraoch," Carly said, "At least he's still there."

I nudged the cockroach to scurry down the wood wall, then smushed him on the cement floor.

"Oh, gross," we said.

Practicing hospitality

2007-06-07T16:27:00.001-07:00

We ran into Hermana Sarita, a kind church sister who has worked with us as a Bible worker, at the vegetarian restaurant in town. "I want to come visit you at 38!" she told me.

And she did. She even brought her sweet mother, all clad in pink. We had prepared cookies and orange juice, because in Perú, there must always be refreshments when someone visits.

We had fun sitting around the table and talking. Sarita assured Carly and I that she had a single nephew for each of us. We talked about the weather, about the price of gas, and preventing colds in the winter.

It was lovely.

Sheep

2007-06-07T16:14:00.001-07:00

We had waited for Dr. Richard all day long. He had said he was going to arrive in the morning, but as we sat down to supper in his absence, we finally decided that he wasn't going to come.

Ten minutes later, the truck drove up. I went out to meet it, and was quite surprised as Dr. Richard and Domingo heaved three sheep out of the back of the truck.

They laid the animals down in the grass, their little hooves still tied together. The sheep bleated. They didn't sound like normal sheep to me, they sounded like sheep in a washing machine, wet, wrung out.

Doctor untied the legs of one and helped him stand up. He released his hands from the fuzzy body and chuckled. Suddenly, the sheep bolted. He just took off on a run.

"DOCTOR!" yelled Domingo, "Grab him, he won't come back!"

Doctor Richard took off after him, stumbling in the dark.

I laughed.

The sheep are our new lawn mowers. The project administration is tired of paying for fuel for the cultivator. So now we have sheep. There are two females and one young, smaller male. One of the females is grossly pregnant. They all say she's going to have twins in a few days. Twins!

The boys seem to think that the sheep can live quite nicely off of the grass that is in our yard. They said the furry munchkins need grass, nothing more. This concerns me. What about grain? A breakfast carrot? I'd be pretty dismal if all I had was grass to eat.

Animal week

2007-06-07T16:10:00.000-07:00

This puppy was born when my parents were visiting. They are so big now!

Joey has taken a liking to using my mosquito net as his hammock.

Carly loves the puppies.

One of our new lawn mowers.

This one is roly-poly, like a little bear cub.

Naranjas

2007-06-05T08:36:00.000-07:00

Quite suddenly, we are up to our ears in oranges. There are about a dozen trees on the land at the project site that I know about, and we have more oranges than we know what to do with.

We have a little hand-powered juicer, and have been making juice every day, sometimes twice a day. It takes a lot of time because the oranges must be peeled before juicing, otherwise the fruit tastes bitter.

I enjoy climbing up into the trees when we run out of fruit that can be reached from the ground.

Keeping house

2007-06-03T14:09:00.000-07:00

Our new and improved toilet.

The house at sunrise.

Banana bread for the neighbors.

Manuel watering his lemon tree hopefuls.

Carly, Manuel, and Mauro after church.

This week at Km 38

2007-06-03T13:53:00.000-07:00

Sharing

2007-06-03T12:15:00.000-07:00

I come home weary.

The day was long, the city dusty, noisy, busy. As I plod down the trail to our house, I'm making a list--we have bread, sugar, canned milk. There are mandarins, bananas, and biscuits left over from breakfast. I duck under the branches of the lemon trees. We can have tea, and a simple supper, and then go to bed.

As I reach the concrete porch I am greeted by a strong smell. I stop and sniff. There is a pot, boiling away on the stove. No boys in sight. I lift the lid.

A little bit of the Ucayali river is boiling away in my kitchen. The pot is brim full of fish--heads, tails, fins intact. They peer up at me though glassy eyes. I suddenly feel very possessive. My kitchen. My pot. Not my fish. Someone has thrown in chunks of green plátano as well.

This is their favorite food. As I love summer squash and lentil curry and cinnamon buns, these guys love their river fish and green plátano. They eat the entire fish, head and all, crunching up the bones.

Gross, I want to think, gross gross gross.

But I know better. And I'm learning to calm the turning stomach and bite the tongue and even make rice for them, to accompany their favorite dish.

Although I want to make rules about animals in the house (must be furry, warm, breathing, and by the name of Joey the cat), I also want Edwin and Mauro and whoever else to feel like their house is their home. It is. This space is shared. It is a home for any worker or passerby who happens to want to help out with our project.

There's tea and bread. I don't have to partake of their dinner, and they don't have to partake of mine. But we can share the same table.

Besides, no one has to know how much soap I will later use on that pot. That's my secret.

Delay

2007-06-03T12:01:00.000-07:00

We're cooking breakfast when the gas runs out. It is a dark, blustery morning, unusually chilly for the jungle.

There are not many times when I miss electricity, but this is one of them. I'm just about to heat the water for oatmeal and put the muffins in the oven, but I can't get the oven to light. I try again. Nothing. It's kind of a complicated process, so Manuel comes to help. Nope. He tries one of the burners. No.

I sigh. Then I say, "Bueno, podemos comer desayuno un poquito mas tarde." That means, "Okay, breakfast, later."

So we detatch the purple gas tank from the plastic stove hose. I carry the tank in my arms and Carly and I hike to the road. We flag a motocar. Ten minutes later we're in Campo Verde.

The gas lady sits all day in her gas storehouse, a tall brick building full of purple tanks. We haul in our empty tank. We pay her. She points to the mound of full ones. We make our swap. The full tanks are very heavy. Carly and I manage by carrying it between us.

The townspeople stare from their dusty porches as we cross the street. "Treinta-ocho," the moto driver calls out. They know where we live. We bargain for the price we always pay.

Back up the road, then sticky-footed again through the mud, our flip flops spraying mud on the backs of our legs. Paint that is purple chips off in our hands. Home again. Hook up the line. Find a match, fire up the stove. In go the muffins, full blast flame under the oatmeal water.

Then I stand there, appreciating the soft heat, the bubbles on the bottom of the pot. Enough gas for about three more weeks.

Tranquilo

2007-06-03T11:55:00.000-07:00

Carly and I went out at sundown to pick flowers for the supper table. The house was calm because Edwin, Manuel, and Mauro were gone to play fútbol in Yerbas Buenas. I was content because the floors were freshly swept, and there were brownies in the oven.

The evening was cool, the wet grass tickling our legs as we wandered down the muddy lane towards the church. We admired the orange trees, bent with fruit, and avoided the bushy places where we could hear the lizards scampering away to their little dens.

We gathered handfuls of the stalky purple flowers that grow in the back of the churchyard--somewhat weedy but still beautiful.

I wanted to take that moment and bottle it--to keep for a later, duller time. The sunset, the happy bug noises, our grasps of flowers and the smell of brownies as we tiptoed through the mud to home.

Tower raising

2007-05-31T13:03:00.000-07:00

Putting up our water tower was a little like an Amish barn raising. The boys built two sides, dug deep holes, then collected a whole bunch of our neighbors in the back of the truck to come and hoist the heavy pieces up and into place.

Some lifted, some placed braces, some heaved with ropes. I was pretty scared during the whole process and hid in the house. There was a lot of yelling and hollaring and guys running round in an excited manner, waving their arms, telling each other what to do. If those beams had dropped, they would have killed whoever was beneath them.
I came out and documented after it was all over.

Baby

2007-05-31T12:44:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to put pictures in my blog. It's not working too well. This is the only one going through, and it is pretty random. Carly and I rode into town today with this little baby, eating her breakfast orange. Cute.

Abuela

2007-05-25T11:09:00.001-07:00

I sat on the plane from Atlanta to Lima next to a Peruvian grandmother. She was short and round, and her chin melted into her chest.

I said good afternoon to her and she was off, telling me about her seven children and twenty-three grandchildren, who lived in Peru, Chile, and the United States. She said she liked to live in all three places, and she thought the food in Chile was particularly fantastic.

She talked with her eyes wide open, using her arms for emphasis, and every sentence ran into the next. I couldn't press a single comment in.

She stopped and gasped for a breath. She said, suddenly, "Oh! How cute your Spanish is!"

And then, she leaned right over and patted my cheek.

Thanks, grandma.

Family

2007-05-21T17:00:00.001-07:00

Cousin Jonah

I am now the shortest of all the cousins, except for Jonah

Grandpa and Uncle Tim making ice cream

Family picture with Papa

Beth and Grandma on Mother's day

Wedding

2007-05-21T16:55:00.000-07:00

Paul and Petra prepare to tie the knot

The wedding choir

The bundled bride and groom

Mis padres lindos

Different

2007-05-18T15:33:00.000-07:00

My impulse language is Spanish. After 10 months in Peru, my first reaction to someone handing me change is "¡Gracias!" and when I'm leaving a store I call "Buenas tardes," over my shoulder. I have to bite my tongue to keep from responding to my parents' questions in Spanish, and I'll sit at the dinner table and translate the conversation back into Español in my head.

The people here are very tall, and very pale. The check out person at the grocery store was not very friendly yesterday.

There is no trash along the highways. There are also no taxis, no chickens in the streets, no motocars.

I love the running water in my house. I love turning the lights on, and then off.

Most of all, and this is the best part about being home, I love seeing my friends and my family. I love going jogging with my mom in the morning, eating fruit smoothies with Grandma Carolyn, staying up until the middle of the night with my friend Rika. I love reading "Jorge el Curioso" to baby Jonah and making cookies with Petra, my cousin to be.

Petra is marrying my cousin Paul, hence a wedding and a family reunion. And this is why I am here, in the States.

But I am going back. I fly to Lima again on Wednesday.

And in the confusion of going back and forth, I realize that home is wherever I am, wherever I choose to find rest. Home is in the ant-ridden jungle, and home is in the chilly western woods of Maryland.

I'm really happy to eat lettuce, to take hot showers and sleep burrowed under a down comforter. But I'm glad to return to cook rice and platano, to hike through the mud to church, and to find our little dog, Lola, waiting for me on our doorstep.

And a few more

2007-05-15T06:16:00.000-07:00

Snapshots

2007-05-15T06:09:00.000-07:00

I've been sorting through the year in pictures, organizing and making slideshows and burning CDs for the other teamsters. Here are a few of my favorites, all a little random, which never made the blog.

Machu Picchu

2007-05-02T16:01:00.000-07:00

I was pretty excited to visit Machu Picchu last week with my parents. Sadly, my camera was stolen a few days later, and at this point I can't load photos. But you can picture the smiling parents and sister of the Howe family, perched above this ancient Inca ruin. We sure did have a good time.

Photo by Hiram Bingham.

McPapas

2007-05-02T12:07:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting at McDonald's on a leather couch, eating McPapas, the Peruvian version of french fries. This is the classiest and cleanest McDonald's I've ever seen.

Leather couches? Seriously!

Across the street I can see the massive and imposing Embajada de los Estados Unidos de America, or the American Embassy. It is circumferenced by a Jericho wall, painted a slick gray.

The first time I saw the embassy was on Monday, shortly after I hugged my parents goodbye in the Lima airport. The taxi driver pointed, "There it is, the temple of your country."

Oddly enough, it did kind of look like a temple. A really big, impersonal rectangular one. I was immediately embarrassed by the size and grandiose nature of the place.

My passport was stolen on Sunday morning, hence the trip to the embassy for a new one. Along with my passport, I lost my camera, wallet, guidebook, and every form of ID that I had. It wasn't, as you can imagine, the best of days. I was thankful to have my father's shoulder to have a little cry upon.

Now I'm doing a lot of waiting. A lot of making plans, then changing them again. A lot of paperwork and phonecalls and forms and proving my identity with a police report.

I wasn't allowed to enter the embassy on Monday afternoon, because they only passport cases in the mornings. Then Tuesday was a national Peruvian holiday, and the offices were closed. I finally was able to get the process started this morning, Wednesday.

Oddly enough, I didn't see a single American during my entire morning at the embassy. I guess I kind of imagined the buildings would be filled with smiling and English speaking North Americans, who would say kind things like, "Hey, we'll take care of you, our own flesh and blood." Alas, it was not to be.

Throughout security, paperwork, background checks, and solemn oaths to insure I really was who I said I was, all the facilitators were Peruvians who spoke to me in Spanish. The doors were dreadfully heavy, the security officers tense, the reds and blues of the flag faded in the hazy Lima sunshine.

As I passed out through the gates, still needing to return yet another time for my passport, I wanted to shake the embassy chill off of me. It is a no-man's land, not really Peru, certainly not the States, not a place that wants to claim me.

I came to McDonald's to watch the kids play in the McJuegos, and to eat McPapas. I'm feeling better.

Sick baby day

2007-05-02T11:37:00.000-07:00

Today was sick baby day. I don't know why, but for some reason all the sickest little ones came today, on Tuesday, all together in the afternoon, when we were beginning to get foot sore and weary.

Some were limp over their mother's shoulders, cheeks mushed, too weak to hold up their heads.

Jenni calls them fever babies. "We've got another fever baby here," she'll tell me.

Great.

That means I have to give a shot.

Patient after patient, they bring their prescription slips from the doctor to the pharmacy window, and I pull up the teeny cocktails of ceftriaxona, gentamicina, dexamethasona, and metamizol sódico in the syringes, the different thicknesses of medicine swirling together.

We drape the babies over their mother's laps, bottom up, and while the mom firmly holds the torso, Karen pins down the legs and thighs for me. Usually the babies start craying way before the actual needle stick. The wailing begins as they are placed on their tummies and see a white girl in blue scrubs fussing with alcohol and cotton.

But they scream later, when the medicine infuses into their little muscles. They scream so hard they forget to breathe, then choke as they gasp for air. I put on a cute colorful bandaid, and Karen gives out stickers, but it doesn't seem to help much.

I feel terrible. I hate to make them cry.

So today, when it was just one sick baby after another, I wore out real fast. In a few families we even had to give shots to siblings, which was a traumatic experience for all involved, especially the mothers.

I got to my eleventh or twelfth shot and my hands were trembling. The screaming was getting under my skin.

"Jenni, can you help me?" I asked.

I gladly traded with her and took over crowd control.

Patience

2007-04-30T18:17:00.000-07:00

Lord, please help me to have patience.

When the puppy chews a hole in my Spanish book, when the taxi music is so very loud, when the big lady in the market steps on my foot, when I find the kitchen full of ants after somebody left food out on the counter, when the tractor, the Jeep, and the generator are all still broken, when the customer service is terrible and three people jump in front of me in line, when the turkeys eat our garden, when the dates for clinic change again and again, when I can't find my watch or my waterbottle, when the cat wakes me up at 3:00 am, biting my hair, when we have yet another pleading mother, returning to the pharmacy to beg for more vitamins, please, Lord, help me.

I know better than to get upset over these little things. I know better than to keep thinking of myself. I know better, but still I am so frustrated, all ruffled up. I'm the farthest thing from patient that there is.

But because you say, "Be still, and know that I am God," I will be still. Because you tell me to "Wait for the Lord, be strong and take heart, and wait upon the Lord," I will wait. I will trust you.

I know you are yearning for me. That it's hard for you to have patience with me, your stumbling and confused daughter. I know you have every right to be frustrated when I step on your toes and when I break down, and when I fall asleep when I'm talking to you.

But you are patient. You love me anyway. I want to sit at your feet, and learn from you. Fill me with your love and your patience, that somehow, in some way, others can see you in me.

Amen.

Psalm 46:10, Psalm 27:14

On saying no

2007-04-30T17:54:00.000-07:00

Every time our medical team holds a clinic, we have to turn people away. We give out 70 tickets in the morning, and 70 tickets after lunch. Usually, a handful of urgent cases show up with fevers or severe diarrhea, and our numbers climb to about 150-170 patients per day.

But there are many who don't get a ticket. As the days of the week pass by, and word spreads, more and more patients are waiting for us in the mornings when we arrive at the clinic site. Often people will start standing in line at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning. We don't get there until four hours later.

They call out to us as we unload the boxes of supplies and medicines from the truck. "Please, Doctorita, please," they say, "My baby is sick, my grandchild has worms, my aunt can't walk." They pull on our clothes, stand in our way. They plead with us.

Sometimes they come up to me more quietly. "I have a question," a young woman will say softly, "I didn't get a ticket, they are all gone, but I need someone to help my little boy."

We look at them. We feel for a fever, give them a quick run over. But unless it's an emergency, we have to say no.

Maybe they can get a number tomorrow. Maybe. But no, I'm really sorry, no for today. We say a lot of nos.

Fridays are the worst. Sometimes 300 people will show up, and we can only see half of them. Friday is the last day of mobile clinic, and in the morning the crowd is frantic to get their tickets--pushing, shoving, butting in line in front of their complaining neighbors.

I find this so frustrating. We are here to serve them, to offer free, quality care, to give to the community. Why can't they serve each other? Why can't they wait their turn? Why can't they have patience?

But I don't know what it is like to be them. I don't have to worry about my baby, who is ill, when I don't have a single cent to buy medicine for her. I have never experienced a disease where I didn't know what to do, or where to turn for help. I don't know what it's like to live in a malnourished, parasite infested family. I have not experienced the burden of the unavilabilty of healthcare.

We can't see all of them because we need quality time with each patient. Each patient deserves the best of our time, our best smile, our most patient explanation, our kindest encouragement. There is not enough time in the day for the need. We can't herd them through like animals.

Where, then, is the balance? How can we say no, and yet, how can we not?

Ant combat

2007-04-16T16:37:00.000-07:00

We've tried a barrier of duct tape rolled around sticky side out. We've tried layers of tightly tied plastic bags. We've tried hanging the bags of food from string in the middle of the room.

Still, the ants beat us.

They cross the stickiness of the duct tape, chew through the layers of plastic, crawl upside down across the ceiling to reach the hanging bags of tastiness. They endure a great deal to get to our food. They must be very hungry.

But I am not willing to share.

I was greatly distressed last week when I found the ants had gotten into the precious bags of pecans and walnuts my little brother had hand carried from the States. They had feasted themselves right through the unopened pachages. We can't buy nuts here, so I carefully sorted out every last ant and put the nuts in tupperwear containers.

The moat works best. Jenni taught me the moat method. Ants don't swim, or at least ours haven't learned yet. I wouldn't put it past them.

You place the food in an open container, like a cereal bowl. Then you find a bigger container, like a tupperwear lid placed upside down, or a big bowl or pot. You our an inch or two of water in the bigger container, than put the bowl of food smack down in the middle, so all sides are well surrounded by water.

Presto. You've fooled the ants.

When I lived with Hermana Fredde she demonstrated a different way to deal with the ants. She would leave a small piece of raw meat on her counter, straight up give the ants an invitation and a feast. Then, after a large and hungry crowd had gathered, she would dash boiling water on them, killing them all instantly, and creating a steamy and wet mess in her kitchen.

I found this method a little too intense for my liking.

Apple juice

2007-04-16T11:56:00.000-07:00

One bright morning during our stay in Inahuaya, John and I were up early, searching for breakfast, as hungry children do. We divided in our conquest. I wandered down a street that bordered the square, looking for bread.

I ran into a fruit juice lady, with her table arranged right there on the path. Various blender parts and pitchers of juice littered the table top. Yum. I like fruit juice.

"What flavors are there?" I asked.

She beamed.

"I have surtido, and manzana," she said. Manzana is apple.

"Surtido?"

"It's a mix of fruit," she answered, "Papaya, camu camu, platano, and mango. It also has egg and milk."

I remembered that raw egg is often blended into juices here as a remedy. Gross. Apple sounded much safer.

"I'll take apple, por favor," I said

She filled a tall and heavy glass and I stood there, drinking slowly. The juice was so-so. It was kind of thick. Finally, I finished, and handed the glass back to her.

I stood and chatted with her for a few minutes. She refilled the apple drink into the blender I had just drank from. She poured in a few cupfuls of opaque brown river water, sugar, three raw eggs, and a scoop of thick cooked apple pulp. She turned on the blender.

I hope she didn't see me grimace.

If the eggs weren't bad enough, that river water might as well be sewer water. There are no sanitation systems here, and everyone dumps their trash in as well.

I walked away thinking, I hope I don't die.

Stars

2007-04-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

I walk outside in my flipflops, to brush my teeth. I have my already pasted toothbrush in one hand and my nalgene full of well water in the other, the painted label and measurements long worn off from use.

We brush our teeth outside in the yard because we don't have a sink, and the grass is a good place for spitting. When I first came to Peru it felt a little like camping to go brush your teeth outside, but now it is perfectly normal.

Tonight the stars take my breath away. I can't tell you how stunning they are, there seem to be more stars than sky. The great Milky Way spreads itself across the heavens above our insignificant little house, with its green yard and the dogs sleeping in the dirt.

I stare at the stars as I brush.

I'm thankful for the lack of a water system in our house, which forces us out several times a day as we take our baths or brush our teeth or make a pilgrimage to the maggot hole out back. I have not before witnessed so many sunrises or so many sunsets or so many stars.

It's not that in my Stateside life I didn't want to witness these wonders of the heavens, I just rarely took the time.

What a blessing it is to get out. To breathe the fresh air, to tromp through the mud, to take the time to watch the sunrise, to see the lovely pinks and golds.

I hope that when I come home I will go outside every now and then, and brush my teeth, and see what's going on out of doors and up above.

You should try it, too.

April 11, 2007

2007-04-11T14:17:00.000-07:00

What do we live for, if not to make the world less difficult for each other?

G. Elliott

Easter

2007-04-11T13:56:00.000-07:00

I'm stretched out on my narrow therm a rest, on the dirty metal floor of our launch boat home, Henry IV. I am one of two gringos on this entire boat, and as I walk around I feel the eyes of the other passengers following me, staring without shame. They don't see a lot of white skin and green eyes in these parts.

This is a Peruvian boat filled with Peruvian passengers. They are not just Peruvians, they are the stalk of the jungle, the people of the wide brown waters and great green rainforest. Their conversation is of fish and fishing, of rain patterns, of the mosquitos and malaria outbreaks. They are short and muscular, they are a sun deepened brown with dark brown eyes and even darker hair.

One thing I notice about these people is that they are remarkably patient. A stop in a village that should take ten minutes drags into an hour, but no one complains, they just hang out. Small children will swing in their hammocks quietly for hours, entertained only by looking around the launch and observing others. I wish this patience were contagious. I am not very patient.

I'm up in my hammock, then wandering around the hopelessly crowded deck, then stretched out again on my mat on the floor. I can't sit still.

I am reading a practically useless but entertaining book about a guy who wandered the Appalachian Trail in various sections. His lengthy descriptions of sleeping in hotels with air conditioning and television, washing clothes in machines, and eating Little Debbies and hot dogs are tiring.

There are three older men sitting on a bench near my feet, involved in speculations about our arrival time in Pucallpa tomorrow. One says 5:00 am, the other puts in his vote for noon. Another says, no, no, much later, say, maybe 4:00pm, or 5:00, even. I wish for sooner rather than later, but it's evening time now, and we have at least 20 more hours to go.

A small child dashes down the corridor between hammocks, stark naked. His mother follows him in hot pursuit, his clothing in one hand. She deftly dodges hammocks and people in her chase.

The air is heavy with the sounds and smells of not only the hunmanity on this boat, but also practically a zoo of animals that has been smuggled on board--turtles, chickens, ducks, monkeys, parrots, dogs, and a handful of jungle rodents that will be roasted on spits in Pucallpa for dinner tomorrow.

We're picking up momentum after a quick village stop when an older gentleman plunks a hard coconut down on the floor in front of my head. (Before I came to Peru I thought coconuts were dark brown and furry, but here they are actually a slick shiny hardness with a golden yellow color). I look up at him from my book, surprised.

He says, "I just picked some coconuts outside by the port, and I would like to share with you and your brother."

I am yet a little bewildered. I manage to grin and say, "Thanks! I love coconut!"

Which is true. I do love it.

Ucayali

2007-04-11T13:54:00.000-07:00

A day out

2007-04-11T13:34:00.001-07:00

After three hours of shivering, it was still raining, we were still deeply cold, and Inahuya was still no where in sight. A Peruvian held a dim flashlight in the front of the boat to illuminate the grassy banks and floating islands of lush plants. The night was stormy and dark.

I was incredulous--we're navigating the mighty Ucayali by flashlight? We're going to die! I was not thinking positively. It was a dismal end to what had been a fun and adventurous day.

We had left Inahuya at 8:30 in the morning, and it had only taken about an hour to get to Canchamaya by chalupa, a dinghy sort of paint-peeling metal boat. (I like chalupas, and I like saying their name even more).

Canchamaya is this incredible little village of about 500 people that have their own exclusive language. Many of the villagers knew some Spanish, as well. There is no motor traffic in their town, only feet, paws, hooves. The people there have no official occupations. They fish, grow little gardens, harvest bountiful supplies of fruit from the jungle, and trade with their neighbors.

From Canchamaya we hiked about an hour through dense, muddy, and stunning jungle, green, and full of mossy vines, to the oddest river I think I've ever known. It was hot. The whole river was hot, not just a part or area, and it was so hot that we couldn't even immerse our feet in it, they got burned. We actually hiked a little farther upstream where it was a little cooler, like the hottest hot tub you've ever been in.

There were stunning waterfalls, and the steam hung heavily in the air. I was on my guard, it looked like anaconda heaven to me. Or maybe water viper territory. One of our companions, Julio, told us that the water was way too hot for fish or snakes. Still, I was looking for them.

We returned to Canchamaya in the early afternoon, ready to get back to Inahuaya for a quiet evening in our home base.

The chalupa hadn't been disturbed since we left it, but the motor wouldn't start. Julio and the boat driver, Gunter, tinkered away with it. Nothing.

It started to rain. Nothing. An hour passed. No motor function. It poured. We five gringos sat helplessly on the porch of one of the houses up on stilts, shielded by a grass roof. A kind villager lady brought us hot platanos she had baked in her fire. We devoured their warmth.

After several hours, it was decided that a peki peki would take us back to Inahuya. We were going to be traveling against the current, and peki pekis might even be slower than they sound.

It was the beginning of many hours of great wet, and great cold.

Bring your own hammock

2007-04-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

I like bananas

2007-04-11T13:13:00.000-07:00

Manzanitos hanging in our kitchen.
This is chapo, served at a local Pathfinder campmeeting.
Tocacho con pancitos y huevo.

One of the staple foods in the jungle is plátano, known as plantain in the States. The locals make an amazing amount of foods from plátano, either while starchy green, or so ripe the entire skin is brown.

Chapo is a soupy drink made from blended green plátano, milk powder, and sugar. It has a bland, somewhat bitter bananaish taste. Many times, chapo is served warm.

Tocacho is a hard dry ball made of mashed green plátano with additions of peanuts, onions, or garlic. It looks like a pale yellow snowball on your plate that scatters crumbs everywhere when you try to cut it. I'm not really a fan of tocacho, but you'd be surprised what you can eat when you're hungry enough.

Plátano can also be simply peeled and boiled. This method of preparation gives it a very different texture. I like boiled ripe plátano, but boiled green plátano tastes like cardboard. Many people like it in their soup.

Ripe plátano can be shaved into very thin slices and deep fried and salted--the resulting chips are called chifles.

My favorite type of plátano is maduro frito-the sweet ripe slices that are cooked in a pan. Many times they are too greasy for my liking in the menus, but out at the land we cook them without any oil at all, and they are delicious with our beans and rice. I like the burned ones, too.

We eat bananas, known as plátano dulce, nearly every day, and often twice a day. There is a variety called manzanitos that are fat and short. They have a dry, starchy sweet flavor. No one likes them, except for me and Alex. I always feel like a little monkey when I eat them.

Speaking of monkeys, as I write this I am staying in a sketchy hostel on the banks of the Ucayali river, and a pet monkey named Jorge lives here as well. (I asked his owner if she was familiar with "Jorge El Curioso," but she wasn't).

Jorge is very clever. He will peel a banana carefully using his four paws and agile tail. Then he will eat it very fast. If you reach out your hand to him he will scramble up your body and pull your hair.

Francisco

2007-03-29T15:31:00.000-07:00

The Pediatric wing is divided into four rooms, each with a large label above the door. One is for infants, one room is for crawlers, one for toddlers, one for school aged children.

The baby I'm here to see is in the infant room, although he is three years old. His name is Francisco, and that's my blood hanging in the bag above his bed, dripping into a line in his foot. We're both O positive.

The room is big, with fading paint, a peeling ceiling, and cracked glass windows. About 12 patients and their mothers and a few fathers share the room; there are no curtains, no privacy. Francisco doesn't seem to mind his screaming neighbors or the nurses in their turquoise pantsuits, hustling around. He doesn't seem to notice anything.

When I first saw Francisco I thought, "That baby is going to die." His arms and legs were like pick up sticks. His head looked like a bare little skull with skin pulled over it. I could, and still can count every rib in a protruding row down to his sunken stomach.

His diagnosis by the hospital is marasmus with pellagra. Both of these are a result of poor nutrition over a long period of time. At three years old, his muscles are severly atrophied. He has never walked or even crawled. His symptoms include skin discoloration, nerve dysfunction, mental symptoms, thinness, poor muscle development, and chronic diarrhea.

When I look at Francisco, it hurts my heart. And it makes me upset. There is enough food in the world, I think. It's not fair. No baby should have to be so hungry for so long. No baby should have to suffer like this.

Franciso has been so long without adequate nutrition that his body rejects whatever formula his family or the nurses try to dribble in his mouth.

We met him at our last clinic. We met his mother, eight siblings, cardboard house, lack of paternal presence, and total lack of financial support or food sources. Francisco, as the baby, was the worst off.

Jenni and I launched into action, getting to know the family, providing emotional support for the mom, organizing frequent home visits, bringing small donations of food specifically for the baby, and little by little, trying to monitor the situation. But Francisco got worse.

His limbs started swelling, and he began to vomit uncontrollably, and he was hospitalized. Some insurance is available for children like him, and although medicines and supplies aren't provided, he can stay for free.

And now I stand at his little bedside, looking down at him. I am afraid to touch him, afraid that his discolored and peeling dry skin will melt away in my fingers. I watch the blood drip in. Will it help? Will he make it?

I look at his face and it is hard to have hope, hard to know if anything good will come of this. But I want to believe that this little guy is going to make it. I want to believe it so badly.

These pictures were taken two weeks later. I went on my weekly visit to see Francisco and was thrilled to see him sitting up with support, and not only eating, but feeding himself. His cheeks were a great deal rounder than before. When his sister wiped his face, he squawked at her. Victory! This was the first time I had seen him display any emotion. He still has a long road to travel, but I praise God that he is doing better, little by little.

Last week

2007-03-29T15:27:00.000-07:00

Chasing waterfalls

2007-03-29T15:23:00.000-07:00

Goodbyes

2007-03-26T07:02:00.000-07:00

It's Monday morning. I'm still in my pajamas, but I wandered out on a noisy Pucallpa street to get a little internet before Jenni comes back from running errands. We're going to head to Yarina Cocha so I can donate blood for a baby who is sick at a hospital there (we're a perfect type match), then pick up the generator at the mechanic, and take a taxi to Km 38 to get started on another week of work.

I'm sad. Last night I took my brother Alban and our friend Aaron to the airport here in Pucallpa, and this morning they are well on their way home to the States. I miss them. I don't like goodbyes.

Alban and Aaron were visiting for their Spring Breaks, Alban from Walla Walla College and Aaron from Loma Linda University. They cheerfully embraced the Peruvian culture and the life that I have come to love.

They endured hours of bumpy bus rides through the jungle mountains, bravely tried chicha morada and papas huancaina, took bucket baths with us at the land, played with our pets, met our neighbors, and corrected our Spanish. We found time to explore ancient ruins in the desert, hike through cloud forest to a very big waterfall, sing lots of hymns, and play many rounds of Rook, Scum, and Spades.

I'm so glad that they came.

Love the brother

2007-03-19T10:50:00.000-07:00

Love the market

2007-03-19T10:47:00.000-07:00

Teamwork

2007-03-19T10:41:00.000-07:00

The A.M.O.R. Projects team. Front row: Jenni, Karen, Ansley, Anthony, Ryan, and Doctor Richard. Back row: John, Jackson, Alex.

Gracie

2007-03-10T14:25:00.000-08:00

Gracie came to clinic with a fever of 104.1, a thin eight year old with narrow eyes long tangled hair. Doctor prescribed an injection to combat the fever and infection in her lungs, and wrote a note for her to return in six hours for a reevaluation.

But she wouldn't let me give her a shot. She lay on the bench in the pharmacy, yelling and screaming, refusing to turn on her tummy so we could inject her backside. I sat with her and talked to her for awhile. "The shot will hurt a little, but it will help you feel much better. It is a very fast thing, and then you'll be able to rest and sleep." She pushed me and refused to turn, even when I tried to gently help her.

The mother tried to assist in the situation, to no avail. Gracie cried even more, and that started her toddler brother on a sobbing spree as well.

I was beginning to get frustrated. I didn't want to pin her down and just proceed; I didn't want her to be traumatized and despise gringos from this day forward. But there were other people waiting for their medicines, and this little girl had to have that shot.

I called for the Doctor. He came in, moments later. "What's going on?" he asked.

He didn't need to inquire. He could see the situation immediately. "Are you ready?" he asked me.

I took the alcohol swab in my hand. Doctor scooped Gracie up in his arms, turned her over, and managed to hold her still enough that the injection could be adminstered, although she was screaming hysterically the entire time.

She couldn't walk home. She was too weak, too exhausted. Her mother had the toddler to carry, so I volunteered to carry Gracie.

We walked up and down rough muddy streets with little rivers of sewer water running down their middles. Trash covered the landscape. Neighbors eyed us from their crooked doorways. Gracie borrowed into my arms, her head heavy on my shoulder. She cried a little. I was soaked with sweat from the sun, but her skin was dry and taut.

We arrived at their house a while later, a thing of cardboard with a scrap wood roof, built up on stilts. They had one room up above a murky marsh of water below. There was one small bed on the floor. I laid Gracie on it, softly, and her eyes closed as she rolled over.

I touched her head, pushing back her hair with my fingers. "Take care, little one," I said, "We'll see you soon."

When I made it back to clinic the team had stopped for lunch. I sat down on a bench, trying to find the appetite to eat. How could I eat?

What an unfair world, I thought. I was numb. I could still feel her in my arms, burning with fever.

Surgery by flashlight

2007-03-10T14:00:00.000-08:00

Our operating room is made of tarp walls and the dirt floor and tin roof of a small house or church building. It is a challenge to keep the chickens and dogs and curious children out. The patient lays down on a kitchen table borrowed from a neighbor or a church pew or one of our dental chairs. Several student missionaries or Bible workers hold flashlights to illuminate the surgical site while Doctor Richard operates.

We repair hernias, remove cysts and tumors, remove bullets and keloids, and last week we did three circumcisions. Mostly we remove tumors. From foreheads and legs and necks and backs and behind ears.

To prepare for surgery I pull supplies when there is a quiet moment in clinic. I put the instruments we'll need to soak in iodine, then grab sterile gloves, lidocaine, needles and syringes, gauze, alcohol, scalpel blades, sutures, tegaderms, and clean gloves on a tray.

(As I'm sitting here writing this I'm struggling to remember the words for some of these things in English. I've grown so accustomed to calling a scapel a "bisturi," and a needle an "aguja").

Jenni and I take turns scrubbing in with the Doctor and being the circulation nurse. By scrubbing in we put on sterile gloves and assist with cutting and dabbing and holding instruments. There usually is no water for a scrub before the surgery.

When we do surgeries it is usually at night when clinic is finished and we are tired. But I enjoy it, I enjoy talking to the patients during the operation and being aware of sterile field and learning how to anticipate what the doctor wants next.

Many of the patients have been bothered by these tumors and cysts and hernias for some time, because they have no way to afford the simple operations to remove or repair them. I'm thankful that we can provide free and good quality care to them.

March 10

2007-03-10T12:33:00.000-08:00

Accept, O Lord, my entire liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my will.

All that I am and have thou hast given to me; and I give all back to thee to be disposed of according to thy good pleasure.

Give me only the comfort of thy presence and the joy of thy love; with thee I shall be more than rich and shall desire nothing more.

St. Ignatius of Loyola

Give to receive

2007-03-10T12:15:00.000-08:00

We, the A.M.O.R. projects team, have been developing the land at Km 38 under a legal agreement with the Seventh-day Adventist church for a year, preparing to start building the clinic and trade school in cooperation with mission trip teams from the States this spring and summer. The land, all 247 acres of it, is now available for us to purchase, and we're working together to raise $30,000 to buy it, by the end of March. The following is a letter written by one of our team, in order to shed light on some of our needs and future goals.

TOP TEN REASONS TO SPONSOR A CLINIC AND TRADE SCHOOL IN PERU:

1. It won't have chickens running through the hospital or monkeys in the operating room.

2. No killer bees lurking in the bushes.

3. Real restrooms and not just maggot-filled holes in the ground.

4. Jungle property at bargain prices! (247 acres of land in the Amazon basin for a mere $30,000.)

5. They'll be able to sweep the dirt off the clinic floor instead of sweeping the….dirt….floor.

6. You like earning more than $1 a day. (Poverty plays a huge role in health problems. Our trade school seeks to combat poverty through education to increase students' ability to earn income.)

7. You like eating. (Well, so do Peruvians. However, they often go hungry because they have no money. To address this, the trade school will include a fish farm, chicken farm, bee hives, and orchard to support the clinic and teach people skills that will enable them to afford better nourishment.)

8. When you run out of money, the hospital won't be required to "run out of treatment."

9. If you get appendicitis while in Peru, you can get surgery instead of dying because you can't afford the operation.

10. Because you care, and because we care. It really will make a difference. Give as if you were in our shoes asking for help.

The challenges that face a large majority of Peruvians are many and extreme. Little education. No work. Not enough food for the table. No money to obtain needed health or dental care. No hope to better their situation.

Touch of Love is a grassroots project started by a Peruvian doctor who saw these needs and sought not only to address the immediate health problems but also the poverty that sometimes causes and almost always complicates them.

ABOUT "TOUCH OF LOVE" AND A.M.O.R. PROJECTS

Ambassador Medical Outreach and Relief (A.M.O.R.) Projects is a nonprofit organization based in Loma Linda, CA. A.M.O.R. was founded to run medical outreach clinics for people in the poorest rural and jungle areas near Pucallpa, Peru. We realized that we need to build a clinic to better serve advanced medical and surgical needs in a centralized location; and a trade school to address the issues of poverty and unemployment. Thus, "Touch of Love" clinic/trade school project was born.

For the price of a restaurant meal, a ticket to a football game, or a short vacation, you can enable us to heal and relieve suffering for some of the poorest people in Peru – and ultimately, seek solutions to the intertwined problems of disease and poverty through education and easy access to quality medical care.

Every little bit helps. For example, $0.50 can buy a baby chick for the trade school's egg farm; $0.67 will buy one child anti-parasitic medication; $1.23 will cover the cost of treating one general medical patient; $17 can purchase a calf for the dairy; and $162 will purchase an acre of the land. Your help in any amount will enable us to move forward with the project in a very tangible way.

If you would like to donate, you can send a check payable to A.M.O.R. Projects to this address:

A.M.O.R. Projects
P.O. Box 212
Loma Linda, CA 92354

All donations are tax-deductible. Thank you for your support.

Escort

2007-03-07T19:34:00.001-08:00

She is of the kind whose Spanish is the hardest to understand. I will call it Gummy Spanish, because she speaks through a toothless mouth, a rapid speech that has had 77 years to practice its gossip. She tells me she is nearly blind, but she hops out of the moto with a surprising bounce and marches along the street, holding my arm for balance.

I strain to understand her words for a little while and add a comment when I can, but she is way ahead of me.

Before we enter the small but plush city clinic for her x ray, I try (in vain), to smooth down my fluffy hair. It's been a typical day, my scrubs are splattered with stains and my sandals and ankles are caked with mud. I pull my lip gloss out of my pocket. She looks at me.

"Hey!" she says, "I need some lips, too!"

I share my lip gloss with her.

Her name is Amalia. She is a little thing with wide feet and salt and pepper hair, puffed up behind a head band. She came to us this morning, to our tiny and chronically muddy mobile clinic set up, wondering if we could operate on her mangled pointer finger. Doctor couldn't operate without seeing a better picture of the finger, so I was nominated to escort her into town to this air conditioned place with sparkling clean tile floors. I don't think I've ever been able to describe anything as "sparkling clean" in Perú.

A young doctor with big glasses and a bad haircut shows me into a consult room for a brief conference before the x ray. Amalia waits in the waiting room, watching Peruvian soaps on TV.

I explain our work and mission and ask him to lower the price of the x ray. He in turn asks me many questions. He tells me he will lower the price by 50%, and I tell him that we are very grateful. The x ray and visit will cost about $8, instead of $16.

"Why do you do what you do?" he said.

Good question. I thought for a minute.

"For the love of God," I tell him, "and because I want to learn how to serve others."

The trip is over in less than two hours, a miracle by Peruvian schedules.

"Wasn't that easy?" I ask Amalia on our way back to her neighborhood.

"Everything is easy when there is money," she says, "how hard it is to be poor."

I didn't say anything. I just sat there with her, thinking about it.

New words

2007-02-28T18:00:00.000-08:00

The word for rain in Spanish is lluvia. I remember the word lluvia because it reminds me of the English word jubilant. And that is exactly what the rain is like in the jungle--a triumphant, glad, glorious sort of thing that comes in a wave across the sachi inchi fields on a sweltering February day. It's jubilant.

The verb for "to wait" in Spanish is esperar. This same verb also means "to hope." I like how hope and wait are wrapped up together in one word. If I say, "I'm waiting for Jesus to come," I'm also saying, "I'm hoping for Jesus to come," at the same time. Which is just what it is: hopeful waiting, and a waiting hope.

The church choir

2007-02-25T18:59:00.000-08:00

This picture is from our little Adventist church at Km 38. As you can see, when the church choir sings, there are more people amongst the performers than in the audience.

The past few weeks I have sat in church and watched a little bird build a nest in one of the open windows. Sometimes when we have prayer meeting on Wednesday nights, a bat will fly through, chirping, or we will hear a little rat chewing on something tasty in the rafters.

The church is very small, only about 20 or 30 people attend each week, but the members are enthusiastic, quirky, and warm. They have made us feel like family, despite our social blunders and bumpy Spanish.

People

2007-02-25T18:54:00.000-08:00

Gisella and I at clinic in Tarapoto. You can read more about Gisella in the blog "Ansley at the wheel." Our new student missionary, Ryan, (who has decided not to shave during the six months that he will be here), and Margarita, who hangs out with us on weekends to practice her English.
Joey, one of the kids who lives down the street. He showed up with his cousins one afternoon and helped me dig a pit for burying our sharps from clinic.
Hermano Osvaldo and our goofy puppy, Lola. Osvaldo cooks his meals over an open fire every day.
Some of the teamsters eating breakfast in Tarapoto. Left to right: Anthony with Joey the kitten, Karen, Jackson, Ryan, Doctor Richard, Jenni, and Jenni's mom, Joann.

Lunch

2007-02-25T18:50:00.000-08:00

The best of the season

2007-02-22T20:41:00.000-08:00

I was beginning to worry that the rainy season wouldn't be rainy at all. It seemed to me that our dry season was wetter than what was supposed to be the wet season.

"Why isn't it raining?" I asked some of our local friends.

They shrugged. "Weird weather patterns," they said. Whatever that means.

Then, this week, the rain started.

On Tuesday night I was awakened by a fierce storm. The lightening and thunder carried on for what seemed like an eternity, and just when I thought it couldn't possibly rain any harder, the racket on our tin roof would increase.

It was so loud that I was afraid, in my sleepy irrationality, the roof would actually cave in and we would all be drenched and mushed under the tin sheets.

I knew that the rest of the house's inhabitants couldn't possibly be sleeping. It was way too loud.

This is silly, I thought. We are all just laying in our beds, awake, listening to the rain, unable to sleep. We should get up and read stories or play a game or something.

Finally, I fell back asleep. But the rain did not rest. It poured down relentlessly.

In the morning Cousin John came with me to haul our buckets of water for breakfast from the well. We slogged down the lane in our bright blue rain jackets. The lane was a slick and goopy muddy mess.

Back in the kitchen, it was so dark that we had to light candles in order to start breakfast.

"John," I said, "I decree that we have hot chocolate and biscuits with jam for breakfast, to accompany our oatmeal. It's just that sort of day."

He grinned. "I second that decree," he said.

A tongue twister

2007-02-22T19:14:00.000-08:00

My friend Claudia taught me this tongue twister to help me practice my Spanish pronunciation. See how fast you can pull it off.

Tres tristes tigres comen trigo en un trigal.

The translation is "three sad tigers eat wheat in a wheatfield," which is just oh so much easier in English.

Ever

2007-02-22T18:51:00.000-08:00

Ever (pronounced EH-bear) was the boat driver of a Christian medical launch boat on the Ucayali River for many years. He was also the coach of a neighborhood soccer team that won the championship game of the region. We are honored to work with him out at the project site at Km 38, and love to hear his animated stories.

This week, while Ryan and I were washing dishes, Ever leaned against the wall and told us this story.

"Several months ago my wife and I met a young boy living in our neighborhood," he said, "The boy was in need of many things, and we wanted to help him, even though we don't have much. We treated him like a son, he ate with us and we brought him to church with our family.

"He was a great kid, he had lots of potential."

Ever sighed. "I had recently purchased a moto, to help my family earn money. One day this young boy asked if he could use it for the day, to raise some money for himself, transporting people around. I trusted him, and agreed.

"He used my moto for about a month, always bringing it back in good shape at the end of the day. We were happy to help him.

"Then one day, he was gone. He took the moto, and we haven't seen or heard of him since. This happened last October. I had taken out a loan of 1000 soles to purchase the moto, and I just finished paying off that loan this February."

Ever saw the sadness on my face, and tried to dismiss it with his words. "God knows," he said, "God knows everything, and he provides. I have still been able to feed my family."

La cocinera

2007-02-22T18:17:00.000-08:00

For the past five weeks I've been the cook out at Km 38. Usually there are seven or eight people for breakfast and supper--me, our Peruvian friends and fellow workers Ever and Alfredo, the four American boys, and the conference President's son, Fernando. For lunch I usually feed ten or twelve, depending on which mechanics, electricians, well digger guys, or other tractor fixers are out to work that day. And most days Jenni and the Doctor are around to eat, as well.

I go to town every day to buy food at the market. We don't have a fridge, and it is so warm that leftovers cannot be kept. Instead, we feed the leftovers to our dogs, Lola and Cheva. Vegetables don't keep very long, either. The carrots get droopy pretty fast, and the tomatoes are eaten away by fruit flies.

So I go to market. Some days I walk, which takes about an hour. Some days, if I am short on time or if it is very rainy, I take a moto, which costs 60 cents.

The people at the market know me. They know my routine, and they know what I like to buy. As I wander past the vegetable stands the ladies call out, "Miss, we have basil today!" or "Little Sister, today the truck came with fresh green beans!"

(Green beans and basil are ingredients that I like to buy, but usually aren't part of the typical Peruvian cuisine. When they come into market the ladies look out for me).

When the people in the market don't have the right small change to give you, they'll make a small cutesy comment, and laugh, and hand you an extra mandarin, or toss in another bulb of garlic.

I always buy fruit from the same older gentleman, who is a little shy but cheery. I will ask him how much lemons cost. He will tell me "Ten lemons for one sol." I will say that I want to buy a sol. He will wink at me, and put twelve lemnos in the bag. You can buy about 36 bananas at his stand for a dollar.

I like to cook, and I like to feed my friends, but sometimes I get tired of it. I work throughout the morning preparing lunch; cooking, cleaning, carrying food scraps to the chickens, and after four hours the boys and the workers come in to eat. In 30 minutes, the food is gone. And then it is time to start thinking about supper.

I've learned a lot about cooking since I came to Perú. Nothing comes in a package. Nothing is premade. When I want to cook spaghetti sauce for pasta, I have to start with tomatoes, onions, and garlic. When I want to make locro, a creamy Peruvian stew made from squash, the ladies cut two kilos off a huge green squash in the market, and I take it home, hack it up with the meat cleaver knife, peel it, scrub it, and boil it before it can be used.

I love the time of day when the supper dishes are done and I can go and get a bath at the well, and not have to worry about food until the morning.

Ani

2007-02-22T18:01:00.000-08:00

Usually when I am introduced, or when I introduce myself, there is a problem with my name.

"I'm Ansley," I say.

I usually get The Look, as if I had told them to feed their cat purple crayons.

I say it again. "ANS-ley." I even let the "aa" be an "ah" which is more familiar to the Spanish-speaking tongue.

The new aquaintance will say "Oh! Ozley!" or "Anshee?" or "Ashley, how nice to meet you."

I learned the Spanish alphabet out of necessity because I needed to spell out my name. I'm pretty good at firing it off.

"No," I'll say, "ANS-ley, like ah-enay-esay-elay-ay-i-gri-ega."

So maybe we can get through this, maybe they can figure it out the first time. But the next time we see each other, they either can't remember my name at all, or they come up with something totally different.

It's just a hard name.

As I get tired of spelling out and repeating and then being called something funny, I usually just go with Ani. It's easy, and familiar. I'd rather have the wrong name that everyone gets right than the right name that everyone gets wrong.

One church family in Pachacutec called me Anita for a few days of medical campaign, taking Ani and adding the affectionate "ita" ending. Whatever, I thought.

I also get Angie a lot. I'm to the point where I'll pretty much answer to anything. "Hey, you, gringa," works too, although I'm not too fond of it.

For my close friends, the families I stay with, and the people who know me well, I am Ansley. But for the church members, the people we work with in clinic, and for our campers at campmeeting, I am Ani.

One of our Bible workers, Germán, started calling me Francie in Masisea. I thought this was hilarious, and made the mistake of not correcting him. A few weeks ago, when Germán's work in Masisea was finished, he showed up at Km 38 to work on our tractor. I came out of the kitchen in the caretaker's house and saw him pulling up in a moto.

"Francie!" he yelled, "How are you, my little daughter?"

Inca Kola

2007-02-19T09:24:00.000-08:00

I put on scrub pants to protect my legs from mosquitoes, grabbed my Bible, Spanish hymnal, and a candle, and followed John, Ryan, and Jackson out the door. It was a dim and cloudy night, no stars to light our way.

We walked a kilometer in the direction of Campo Verde to the neighbors' house. About six or seven adults and a handful of children were gathered around a big table, lit by candlelight. We had to work our way around the table, shaking hands and kissing cheeks until each person was properly greeted.

I sat down on a sketchy little bench and pulled an old bookmark from my Bible. I lit my candle on Bria's candle, dripped some melting wax in a puddle on the bookmark, then sat the candle upright in the cooling wax to make a candleholder, so the thin candle wouldn't tip over.

A older Peruvian gentleman led out the prayer meeting. We had personal testimonies, a lesson read from the Bible, and an assigned memory verse, then several prayers.

After the closing hymn and one last prayer we sat around and chatted politely for awhile. I was giving knowing looks to John and Jackson that meant, "Okay, let's start looking like we're leaving," when the sisters start bringing out food. It was 9:00 at night and I had brushed my teeth two hours before, but what could we do?

They passed around a plate of dense and mildly flavored cake, then poured us cups of the worst soda I've ever had in my life. It's called Inca Kola, and not only is it warm and lemon yellow, but it tastes just like bubble gum. The bubble gum flavor always burns back up my throat in little burbs.

Everyone in Perú loves Inca Kola, it's the famous Peruvian gaseosa, and serving soda to your guests is considered more classy than jungle juice or lemonade.

I'd take jungle juice anyday.

Our neighbors

2007-02-16T03:51:00.000-08:00

Moto pictures for Ted and Grandpa Odie

2007-02-16T03:49:00.000-08:00

Recipes, please

2007-02-14T06:37:00.000-08:00

The recent edition of a new gas stove and oven to our kitchen has greatly increased the variety of food that we can make in the jungle. It has also made me aware of the cooking rut that I'm stuck in--we pretty much eat the same menu week after week.

I would like to ask you, kind readers, to email me a recipe or two. I am looking for anything that is somewhat simple and substitute-friendly. (We don't have electric mixers for whipping egg whites for 10 minutes, for example, and since we don't have a fridge, storing something in the fridge for two hours is a little difficult).

Here's some ideas of some things I would like to experiment with: pita bread, tortillas, anything thing to do with beans: bean soup, bean salad, etc., sticky buns, cookies, hummus, falafels, recipes for potatoes, crepes, granola, currys to put over rice, scones, Spanish rice, crackers, and pretty much anything else that you like to eat.

Ingredients are sometimes a challenge to track down, but I find that as time goes by I am getting better at rummaging in the markets until I can actually land us some vegetable shortening for pie crust, or raisins for cookies. It's really amazing what you can find hidden in those markets.

You can send recipes to my email address: laurelhowe@southern.edu. I'll be sure to write back and tell you how it turned out. Thanks for your help!

February 14

2007-02-14T06:23:00.000-08:00

Today marks my halfway point.

I have been living and learning in Perú for exactly six months now, and I have six more months to go until next August.

This morning I came into Campo Verde to buy food at the market. I stuck my head briefly into a sketchy internet cafe to check email and contact a few friends who live in another part of the country. It is always an odd experience to read the emails and blogs of my family and friends, so far away and experiencing such a different kind of life.

I logged out, wandered into the blazing sun, and headed over to the market. The lemon ladies had their fruit and their children spread out on the ground. The babies sleep on pieces of cardboard in the shade, and everyone keeps and eye on them.

The bread lady called to me, "Little Sister, are you going to buy my bread today? I made it for you!"

The air is thick with the smells of the butcher stands, the decaying piles of vegetables, the menús where ladies fry potatoes and yuca.

I have so much more to say about my experience here so far, and also about how I feel about it being half over. But today I don't have the words in my head or the time to write more.

So I'll save it for another day.

Mango Season

2007-02-08T20:49:00.000-08:00

I know I'm in the right place when I look out the window at the mision and see the ground littered with mangos, freshly plopped down from the trees.

I love mangos. I love how I can walk out the door any time I want and eat them.

These are the kind that fit nicely in the palm of your hand, and the kind that are still green when ripe. If you eat the flesh your teeth will fill with thick pulpy strings.

I've gotten lazy because of the abundance of fruit. I eat the mangos like the Peruvians do: bite off a chunk of peel at the top and spit it out, then suck out all the creamy juiciness while the pulp stays inside. You can mash up the fruit while it is still protected by the peel by squeezing it in your hands, and that is how you get out the most juice.

Fire season

2007-02-08T20:21:00.000-08:00

When it gets so smokey in the caretaker's house that I have tears running down my cheeks, I throw the bean pot in the dishpan to soak, scoop up Jenni's orange kitten, and trot out the back door. The air is hazy with smoke, and I run with my eyes half closed, which leads me into various vines and sticks along the way.

There is a fire over to the right which is getting awfully close to Jose's chacra, there is another one back behind it close to the pavilion, and there is yet another to the left near the border of our lawn past the houses. The fires are loud and snappy because there is so much greenness that they are burning up. They change directions often, because the wind is wild and unpredictable.

The boys and the Peruvian workers started these fires, and now they are running around wildly, trying to manage them. The fires are for clearing the land, killing the poisonous snakes, and making way for school buildings and orchards.

I don't like fire days. Our houses usually get quite smoked, and then our clothing and bedding reek of smoke for days. The houses also get ash baths, and the boys track in feathery ash bits on their shoes.

The burned ground smells bad after the fires, and it smells even worse after it rains.

But most of all, I am afraid. I am afraid that the fires will get too big or change direction suddenly, and our houses will go down. Or worse, that someone will get burned while working on a fire, or breathe in too much smoke.

I sit in our house with the little kitten and worry.