Aguaje

Jenni, our project team leader and guide in this new land, has been gone to the States now for a month. She'll be back soon, but our Peruvian friends and neighbors have begun to think that we, incapable foreigners from the north, are starving and desperate without her.

They address this obstacle with food donations. We are sometimes more excited to accept than others. Tayna, a pastor's wife and our nearest neighbor at the mision, has hand carried breakfast over to the apartment several times-hot milk, papaya, bread, jello.

People are always coming up to us and asking, "Are you hungry? Do you have food?"

One of the most common donations is a basket of aguaje, a jungle fruit the Peruvians find especially delicious (I'm not sure exactly how to spell it, if you know, please tell me).

None of us like aguaje. It has a thick brown scale layer like a pinecone that you have to peel off with your teeth and spit out, all fibrous and bark like, before you can get to the fruit. The inner part is a bright orange melon color, and the layer of edibleness is surprisingly thin-two bites and you reach the hard pit.

John described the flavor as "rancid." Jackson shrugged and said "disappointing." I think it tastes like rotten cheese.

Anyway, the current joke is that everyone-Tayna, the Medinas, Hermana Blanca, Veronica at church-is so excited to give us aguaje. We'll be in their homes and they'll hold up a huge basket of these nasty fruits. They ask, "Do you like aguaje?"

And what can I say?

I always smile and nod and of course they give us the whole entire container. Or maybe it's aguaje juice, or aguaje pops, or aguaje gelatin.

Luckily, the Peruvians who work with us out at the land love aguaje, and it is never wasted.

Peru flu

I woke up at 11:00 pm, shaking with chills. I had a desperate urge to throw up and knew I had to find some sort of container, fast. But as I felt around in the darkness for my headlamp, I couldn't find it anywhere. Hadn't I left it in my tent before I fell asleep?

There wasn't time to look. I headed to the storage room, where I thought we had left an old cook pot. While on my way there, I kicked into the cultivator blade on the cultivator that had been left on the floor, slashing open my shin.

After I had emptied the ocean out of my stomach, I decided I needed to find a light. I was shaking so much that I couldn't walk straight. I couldn't figure out why I was so freezing cold. My hands were bumping clumsily along the walls as I tried to feel my way to John's room.

John handed me his headlamp, then immediately fell back asleep up on his high bunk. I was a little surprised. How had they all slept through my violent vomiting?

I found a thermometer and checked my temp: 103.2. I remember thinking that it was rather high, and wondering if I had malaria. I didn't have much time for musing as I dashed out the door, controlled by my old enemy, diarrhea.

I was up all night, alternating between miserable attacks of nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. Sometimes I burned with fever, sometimes I was so cold I could not have burrowed any deeper into the covers. The whole night I lay in a puddle of sweat and self pity. I kept thinking to myself how dreadful it was to be sick without water or plumbing or electricity. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.

When I threw up at 4:00 am, Alex woke up and walked over to my room.

"Are you okay, Ansley?" he asked.

I wasn't sure how to respond.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I whispered.

I stayed in bed all day, exhausted, sweaty, empty, and unable to bring my fever down.

But the next day, I was better. I was seven pounds lighter, but the fever was gone. I got up, and went to make breakfast.

The glory of God

En el estaba la vida, y la vida era la luz de los hombres. La luz en las tinieblas replandece, y las tinieblas no prevalecieron contra ella. San Juan 1:4, 5.

How to start the day

Alex and I left the house at 5:00 am to go running. John was resting due to strained arches, and Jackson was coming later, behind us.

The sun was on its way up, but for the moment a thick mist hung down across the grass fields, and the air was cool. We listened as the jungle birds sang their lusty morning song.

We ran awkwardly at first, trying to push ourselves forward while muscles and nerves seemed too sleepy to communicate with each other. Slowly, we found rhythm and picked up the pace, no longer needing to give thought to movement.

I watched as the sun embraced the sparkling tops of the trees at the edge of the jungle, stretched out its rays, and worked itself across the dirt road towards us.

The sticky warm wind blew across our bare arms and faces, already slick with sweat.

It was a beautiful morning.

I thought, I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Food

My sole occupation for the past three weeks has been filling the stomachs of the team of workers out at the land. I am cook, cleaning lady, and dishwasher. By the time the breakfast dishes are completed, it's time to haul more water from the well and start lunch.

This week, in edition to John, Alex, and Jackson, (who eat like horses), I've also been feeding the Peruvian doctor, the Peruvian chainsaw guy whose name is Alfredo, and Osvaldo, who lives on the land with us. For a few days we provided food for the mechanic and the well drilling guy, as well.

When there are this many people, we run out of chairs, and I sit at the table on an overturned bucket. This experience is a little demoting, as the table then comes to my shoulders, but I wouldn't dare offer the Peruvians a bucket seat, and the SM boys are so much bigger than me that they wouldn't fit on a bucket.

Breakfast is always mazamorra--watery sweet oatmeal that you drink in a cup. We also often have brown bananas and dry bread, which can be dipped in the mazamorra. Sometimes there are mandarins or a pineapple for a treat. Sometimes I boil eggs, which the Peruvians love.

Lunch is usually beans and rice. I sometimes make lentils, and sometimes locro, a thick soup made from orange gourd and potatoes that is spooned over rice. We eat pasta about twice a week, but it is expensive. On good days when there is extra time I make Indian flat bread in a pan, and often a salad of onions, basil, and tomatoes. There is always boiled yucca, the bland starchy staple of Peru.

For supper we dip bread into Ecco, Peruvian tea made from barley. I sometimes make a pot of soup, and twice we've had popcorn popped in a kettle. Often there is more fruit, or we'll fry the leftover yucca from lunch.

I am able to feed the team for less than a dollar per person per day.

We are planning to purchase a four burner stove with a little oven in a few weeks, and I'm very excited to gain baking abilities. All my bread pans are hanging on the wall in the kitchen, waiting.

Safe and warm

One afternoon I was working quietly in the kitchen during a rainstorm, deep in thought. Little Carlos walked in the door, and as he passed me, his shirt pocket peeped. I turned around to look at him, and he gave me an impish, toothy grin.

"What's in your pocket?" I asked him.

"Oh," he said. He reached in with both brown hands, and pulled out two downy white baby chicks.

"The mother chickens are forgetful," he told me, "They don't remember that they are mothers when it rains, and abandon their babies."

The chicks can't survive without the protective warmth of their mothers' feathers. Carlos and Javier will carry them around all day, if they have to, to preserve them.

I like the hear their sleepy peeping noises as they travel by little human feet, up and down the hall.

Mud and Popcorn

John had lent his watch to one of the Peruvian carpenters, Hector, and when we didn't see Hector or the watch for a few weeks, we decided to set off to Hector's house and see what could be done.

I sat in the backseat of the Jeep, praying with my eyes closed for most of the drive through the jungle. We traveled in a rainstorm that grew steadily worse, the driver couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him. We crossed a wooden plank bridge that was partly washed out, slid around in a great deal of sloshy mud, and barely missed slicking off into ditches to join many other misfortuned vehicles. What a mess. We splooshed through a brown lake with great flair, then finally arrived in front of Hector's wooden house.

Hector and all of his family were there, maybe twelve people in all, some sitting on the floor shelling beans. We entered the house and joined them-Alex, Jackson, John, and me. Because of the tin roof it was too loud to talk; we just sat and smiled at each other. We looked out the front door as the incredible rain created craters in the earth.

One of the women in the house got up and made us popcorn in a huge crusty black kettle, another lady made a sweet syrupy lemon drink that reminded me of hummingbird food. The savory crisp popcorn was perhaps the best I've ever tasted in my life.

You can never be sure when these hearty jungle people will serve you boiled grubs or fried ants. Harmless and legless popcorn is an extra special blessing. I'll save my grub story for another day.

We were able to retrieve the watch and when the rain finally died down, about an hour later, we set off again. I took up my post in the backseat, not looking, just praying.

My Cup of Gratitude

I'm thankful for the days when we lose track of time. We've gone several weeks without any of us having a watch, and the clock in the Jeep always tells us that it's 2:00. We get up and lay down with the sun. We work hard, but we don't have to hurry, no running around from place to place.

I'm thankful for beans and rice.

I'm thankful for a language barrier. I am challenged to consider carefully what I'm going to say before I say it, whether speaking in Spanish or in English. My mind always has to be in action--translating from one language to another and then back again. I am learning to appreciate the depth behind the words.

I'm thankful for laughter, and for all the moments during the day when we stop and laugh at ourselves. Our senses of humor become strong defense mechanisms; they are key to daily survival.

I'm thankful for the quiet evenings we spend out at the land. We are tired from the long hours of work, but we remain cheerful. We sit around and speak in Spanish and eat dry bread dipped in milky Peruvian tea, our feet propped up on each other's chairs.

Fire

I was sitting at the table in the caretaker's house, chopping vegetables for lunch. A pot of beans was cooking on our little gas stove in the room behind me. The boys-Alex, Jackson, and John, were farther out in the jungle, working on our house.

Suddenly I heard a large gasp of fire. I whipped around and saw that the stove, the pot, and the whole gas tank were enveloped in blue flames, three or four feet high above the counter. I jumped to my feet and grabbed the five gallon bucket of water I had just carried from the well.

Carlos and Javier had heard the roar and came running from their rooms, wide eyed. Nine year old Carlos saw the fire and fled out the front door.

I hoisted up the bucket of water above my shoulder and dashed the contents across the flames. It had no effect whatsoever. I glanced at the thin wooden boards right behind the stove and knew my time was running out.

"More water!" I screamed at Javier. I doused the fire with the plastic bin of dish water, then with another five gallon bucket from the caretaker's kitchen. Nothing. Still the flames lept higher, while I, and the rest of the tiny kitchen, was soaked.

At that moment I somehow had the presence of mind to reach into the fire and turn the lever on the gas tank. I burned the bottom of my arm, but gasped a breath of relief as the fire coughed, sputtered, and died.

I turned around to look at Javier, his eyes brimming with terror. "It's okay," I told him, trying to be confident, "No more fire."

As I walked quickly back to our houses to get the boys for a situation assessment, I marveled at the fact that I had thought to turn the gas switch off at all. I have very little experience with or knowledge of gas stoves, and no person in their right mind would plunge their arm into such flames. Also, at the time I thought the gas was seeping out of a leak in the tank. If that had been the case, turning the switch would probably not have made much difference.

Alex and I inspected the stove a few minutes later. We found that a large hole had burst in the connection tubing, and the fire source was actually in between the tank and the stove.

Javier said, "A few moments more and the tank would have exploded, it would not have been able to handle the heat."

Jackson said, "I call a time-out from cooking."

He looked at our sad, charred, sopping wet kitchen, "Let's go to Campo Verde and eat at a menu for lunch."

Carlos came creeping into the house and I hugged him. "Thanks be to God for his protection!" I told him.

I think maybe his heart was pounding even faster than mine.

Stampede

We came back to the house after breakfast and found it absolutely crawling with ants. There hadn't been any when we had left it, barely an hour before. Ants covered the floors, trailed in mad races across our beds, walls, and doors. Millions and millions of ants. It was the closest thing I've ever seen to a plague.

Lolita and I both yelped as the ants bit us--they were jungle fire ants, and their bites are vicious, like bee stings.

Afraid that we would never get our house back, we ran to the caretaker's house to get some advice from the natives.

When Jose came to inspect our insect invasion, we were puzzled to see that the numbers had decreased greatly. "Don't worry," he told us, "These ants go overland in masses, eating every cockroach, spider, and pocket of spider eggs in sight. They'll leave everything else alone, and then they go on their way."

Amazingly enough, an hour later we couldn't find one ant in the whole house. The boys were pleased with the fact that our neighborhood cockroaches were gone, but I am not ready to forgive the red welts covering on my feet and ankles.

(Later in morning the stampede of ants decided to attack the beehives. John and Jackson fled to the house and watched as swarms of furious bees bees emerged from their hives and began to wage war on the herd of turkeys, the nearest animals around. The poor turkeys danced wildly and squawked and cried as their smelly bodies filled with stingers. Lessons learned: stay away from ants, also stay away from bees).

Clinic in Pucallpa

Just looking

Lucas, the doctor's baby boy, engaged in one of his favorite activities.

The benefits of getting up at 5:00 in the morning....

This scary statue welcomes all who come to Pucallpa by the main road. We call him "Platano Guy," because he has a huge bunch of green platanos tied to his back.

We miss Karen during the week! She usually stays in Pucallpa to organize kids' programs and care for Doctor's children.

The Jeep--broken down yet again.

My kitchen out at Km 38. Ecco is a type of Peruvian tea. Ayudin is green spongy soap we use for dishes.

Look, Ted, the well has a cover!

No more dead turkeys in the water, no more little bats that fly up at you when you're trying to draw water for a bath, and no more little frogs that live in the cracks. We're pretty excited.

Calm

It’s Thursday evening, near the end of another long week at Km 38. The weeks are good, but they are hard, and we look forward very much to the Sabbath rest and running water back at the mision.

I sit alone in the dark caretakers' house. Supper is ready. There will be a few minutes of peace before the loud and hungry boys arrive, fresh from their bath at the well. The air is rushing through the open house-breezy, damp, and cold from the rain. This is unusual. Most of the time it gets even hotter after the rain.

Carlos and Javier burst in, yelling and squealing. Their bare feet leave wet prints as they hop down the wood hall, nearly naked and slick with rain. They yell expressions in Spanish that I do not understand, but I catch, “It’s cold!” and “Don’t touch me!” as they dash past. I love to hear their laughter.

This afternoon John built a loft bed and I measured, squared, and sawed the boards for him while he nailed. We only have handsaws, and I wore out pretty quickly. I also learned how to use a plane and Jackson and I took turns planing and holding the windows still on their edges.

The house has presented us with many problems, mostly because we have limited tools, and we are all amateurs. The big saw cut the trees into crooked boards out in the jungle, the walls went up crooked, and the frames for the doors and windows are all uneven. We literally spend hours adjusting the actual doors and windows that we build in order for them to fit into their spaces.

I hear the teamsters coming down the muddy path from the well. I get up, take the tea off the stove, and walk to the door to greet them.

How the morning goes

Our scheduled departure time for the clinic in town was 8:00 am. We (John, Jackson, Alex and I) were packed and ready at 8:00. The doctor arrived on his moto with his wife, Shirley, at 8:40, which is typical. We were still missing Anthony, a key member of the tooth extraction team.

Doc and Shirley led the way to Anthony’s house on their bike, and we followed in the jeep several minutes later. We met up with Anthony as he came walking down the street, but then we couldn’t find the doctor anywhere. We drove around the wild back streets, looking for him, because we didn’t know where to go in Pucallpa without his guidance.

Finally, we went all the way back to the mision to get the cellphone. Jackson talked to the doctor on the phone for about 10 minutes, could not figure out where to go, and decided to head to town anyway.

After only a few minutes of driving, the jeep ran out of gas. We pulled over in an alleyway, choking and crying from the fumes. The whole jeepload had tears running down their cheeks—we looked at each other and laughed.

Jackson grabbed the Pepsi bottle that we keep for such a purpose and headed off to find a gas station. The doctor suddenly showed up on his moto in time to chase off after Jackson. The rest of us sat there, quietly. Anthony slept with his ipod and headphones. I wrote in my journal. John took pictures of blossoms on a nearby bush.

We were neither surprised nor bothered. We just waited.

I am not your mother

A small bug bite on the back of my forearm started bothering me on Monday. It ached when I jotted notes for a grocery list or wrote in my journal, it itched at night, and was sore when I woke up in the morning. I have many bites, so I ignored it.

By Wednesday, I could feel a firm nodule about the size of a nickel beneath the skin. The area was becoming more inflamed, and it was painful. I showed the site to the doctor.

He pushed around and probed and looked displeased. “I think it might be a parasite,” he told me, “Put charcoal on it and I’ll look at it tomorrow.”

The charcoal did not offer any relief. The next day I was able to release some pressure along with thick yellow pus and blood from the site, but the deep soreness remained.

“Bring me a needle,” Doctor told me that night, “Let’s open it up and get that thing out.”

I gathered the supplies, and Alex held headlamps for us. Jackson and John both pinched some of my fingers with all of their might to try to distract me from the pain in my arm. Still, I could not help from hollering as the Doctor plunged the needle around.

The doctor found a tiny white larvae amongst the drainage. It was small and serene—how could it be causing so much trouble? We all stared down at it, intrigued and disgusted.

Doctor held it up on the gauze. “Look, Ansley, it came from your body, it misses you, it’s calling ‘Mama, mama!’”

He has a sick sense of humor.

I stared at him. “No, “ I said, “I’m not the mother, get it away from me.”

1000 words

Carlos, our buddy

Carlos helps John study Spanish

Katie the cat and our puppy, Lolita

Sunset over Km 38

Last day of September

11:00 pm Saturday night found John, Karen, Jackson and I sitting around in the office, swapping stories and laughter. I jumped up when I saw Hermano Abraham, one of the mision employees, standing at the door. He walked in gently, supporting a hand hidden by a bloody and ragged towel with his other arm.

“What happened?” Karen asked.

She jumped back, disgusted, when she saw his mangled finger emerge from under the rag.

I took Abraham over to the apartment where all of the supplies are stored, followed by Jackson and Abraham’s wife and daughter, all in a parade. Jackson and I put on gloves and carefully assessed the situation.

I felt like I was back at summer camp doing wound care—explore extent of injury, make decisions, wash thoroughly, cover with appropriate ointment, bandage, plan further evaluation.

Abraham left the apartment 20 minutes later, seemingly pleased with his clean and carefully wrapped appendage.

The most frustrating portion of the procedure was our language barrier. I want to be able to smoothly and thoroughly explain what I’m doing and why. I want to provide verbal comfort because I know what I'm doing hurts, and I feel bad about it. Instead, my Spanish is choppy and blunt. I am able to communicate the necessary information but am ashamed of my verb conjugation and sentence structure.

Ansley the klutz

The jeep was packed and ready. I made a dash for the passenger door down the steps and through the pouring rain. My enthusiasm to stay dry got the best of me, and I had a terrific slip in a puddle created by a great deal of turkey droppings and the sudden rain.

When I managed to stand up my entire right side was covered in this crusty slop. Luckily I was not injured except for a few scrapes. John, Carlos, and Jackson had seen the catastrophe from the doorway and laughed, bent over, for a full ten minutes.

I hate those turkeys.