I miss oxygen

We're in the mountains. Our lips are chapped, our skin is dry, and there isn't mud to be found anywhere. In Arequipa our towels dried overnight, a task that would take at least two days back home in Pucallpa.

Instead of the typical selva dress of little more than bark skirts and necklaces, the ladies of the Andes are absolutely fat with clothing. The wear little felt bowler hats, huge tapestry-like skirts, thick petticoats, and layer after layer of wool sweater and shawl. Their cheeks are ruddy from sun and wind, and many of them carry chubby toddlers strapped to their backs as they sell soap or chickens or potatoes in the market.

The lack of oxygen is what we notice the most. We can't breathe! When I walk the four narrow flights of stairs to my room in the hostel, I gasp like a fish out of its bowl and collapse on my bed. We have to recuperate for at least five minutes before we can carry on a conversation. What happened to all those weeks we spent running through the jungle, trying to prepare for these mountains?

All of us, except for John, have been suffering the effects of altitude sickness: headches, lethargy, nausea. We're still functioning fine, but I have great respect for the school children I see here, pushing and shoving and screaming and running on their way to school.

In which we head south

Greetings from Puno, Perú, a chilly town on the banks of Lake Titicaca. (Quick refresher from seventh grade geography: Lake Titicaca is, at 12,700 feet, the highest navigable lake in the world. It's also home to hardy people who live in peculiar floating reed houses).

I'm on a trip to southern Perú and Bolivia to renew visas and soak up culture away from the jungle. On our way home we're planning to visit friends in Ecuador. Jackson, John, and Alex came along, too. Here's a brief log of our trip so far.

Sabbath, November 25
We leave Pucallpa by economy class bus (ie: filthy, no air conditioning, broken windows, and the price is right), and head to Lima at 8:00 pm. The night is long and windy. We first feel cold air on our faces at 2:00 am when we reach the foothills of the Andes mountains.

Sunday, November 26
Upon arrival to Lima around 6:00 pm, we head across town to buy bus tickets for the next leg of the trip. We land seats on a bus headed for Arequipa, way down the coast, leaving at 9:00 pm. While waiting for departure we explore a central plaza, witness a noisy protest in front of the Lima Sheraton Hotel, and eat tallerin saltado (pasta) at a menú. We also sit on the floor of the bus station and play cards while eating mangos.

Monday, November 27
For hour after hour on the 16 hour bus ride to Arequipa, we look out the windows at a barren, sandy desert, bordered on one side by the Pacific Ocean. I had no idea there was so much desert in Perú, and how odd to see it melt into the ocean. We find a very cheap and tranquil hostel in Arequipa and spend the evening exploring the gorgeous colonial town, marveling at cathedrals, ancient stonework, and cobbled streets worn smooth by foot travel. It's cold--we have to bundle up in layers, and burrow under thick covers.

Tuesday, November 28
Awake at 6:00 am, we hit the streets to embark on individual solitary wanderings across Arequipa. John and I both decide that we want to retire here-the city is amiable and clean yet focused and bustling. We leave for Puno at noon and endure another seven hours of busing over the dry Andes. I am nauseated and suffer headaches from the altitude for most of the trip.

We come down a mountain into the city of Puno at sunset. The green waters of Lake Titicaca, said to be the birthplace of the original Inca indian, sparkle with the city lights. We are excited to do some hiking and boating here, and hopefully also pick up some Quechua phrases.

(To be continued).

Pie crust

Today I made a squash pie for Thanksgiving, because they don't have pumpkin in Pucallpa.

I made the crust like my mother taught me, just like her mother taught her, and just like her grandmother taught her mother.

I remember watching my mother make pie crust, her careful flour-covered hands making perfect ridges around the edge. She would poke precise patterns with a fork across the bottom and all along the sides so the pastry would not puff up. I would hope for scraps of dough, so we could make cinnamon sugar pin wheels together.

In my family, food equals love. There were so many days in my childhood when I felt the love of my parents as I ate the pie they would make; the tart apple or berry filling that my dad would whip together, the flaky crust that was an act of genius on my mother's part.

Sometimes you have to be away from something to realize how special it is. I miss my parents, and I miss sitting at the kitchen table with them, soaking up their wisdom and kindness. I know that this missing will make my reunion with them all the more joyous.

The squash pie was delicious. The boys made quick work of the cinnamon sugar pin wheels, as well.

Smile

Feet

I'm walking back from my bath at the well and I'm irritated because my feet and flipflops are so muddy. Just five minutes ago I scrubbed and scrubbed them with a bristle brush, removing the grime and buildup from the day.

The dirtiness of my feet is especially effected by two factors: my headlamp is dim from old batteries, and also there is very little ground that isn't thick mud or slushy puddle from the down pour earlier this afternoon. It's pretty much a worthless cause to try to keep my feet clean, but I really don't want to drag all this mud into my sheets.

Actually, when I think about it, my feet are in pretty bad shape to begin with. One of my toenails is black from where I dropped a hammer on it. My heels are dry, cracked, and sore from three months of wearing sandals. I have blisters from running, and my ankles are covered with red raised bumps from my nocturnal scratching of bug bites.

I'm still having my feet pity party when that verse comes to mind, that one from Isaiah that Paul quotes in Romans 10:15, "How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings."

I smile to myself. I want to be a peace proclaimer.

It's not the muddiness or the bug bites that matter, after all.

Paradise

We were up at 5:00, and decided to run out of the town of Masisea a little ways and then head left away from the river bank. Soon we were jogging through dense forest, on small damp footpaths. We ran several miles down a tiny dirt trail, ducking to avoid the huge banana leaves that hung down in our path, and leaping over the patches of thick sticky mud.

We crossed four footbridges and wondered at the brilliant butterflies and birds diving around us. The jungle was dense with fog, it was like an enchanted forest. I felt so blessed to be there, filled with the joy of a new day, gasping in the deep selva air.

Finally, we came up to an opening in the forest surrounded by a fence. I was ready to turn around, but the boys were determined to keep exploring.

We were exhausted, and also afraid we'd possibly discover some cocaine fields and the neighbors would come after us with guns, so we dropped to a walk. We hacked through the bush for awhile, absolutely soaked our shoes, then squirmed under the fence and hiked across the inviting field.

In a few minutes we came upon a herd of unfriendly-looking cattle, all in a huddle. Afraid of a stampede and unsure of the outcome of 40 Peruvian horned cows vs. three eager Americans, we retreated.

We found the trail again and as Willa Cather put it, raced our shadows home.

In the classroom

On Monday Jenni asked me to organize a group of four SMs to prepare health talks for elementary school kids. On Tuesday, John, Karen, Jackson and I set off for the local elementary school to try and impart some knowledge to the kids.

We were a little nervous because none of us had previously tried pubic speaking in Spanish, but we jotted down the appropriate verbs we'd need to use and tried to be creative yet simple with our presentations.

Karen talked about nutrition and the importance of drinking water, I talked about parasites, John talked about hygiene, and Jackson talked about mouth care. We started in a class with very small children, and each of us used little skits to illustrate our points. In John's talk, for example, Jackson was the sink and I was the soap, and John used us as he demonstrated how to wash your hands.

(Later in the week, we treated a kid from that school in clinic. He pointed to me and told his mom, "Mira, mamita, la chica de jabon!" I think that's the first time I've been called soap girl).

The kids were precious. Each classroom was amazingly attentive and good natured. They answered questions well and laughed when John had to act out the symptoms of parasites, or when Jackson drew rotting teeth on the rather dismal chalkboards.

To wrap up our classroom visits we asked questions and handed out toothburshes to the kids with the correct answers. The teachers often tried to answer as well; everyone loves a free toothbrush.

Masisea

For the past six days we've been living up river in a town called Masisea, involved in a campaign that included daily medical and dental clinics, evening meetings for both kids and adults, health prevention talks in local schools, and house visits throughout the neighborhoods. We were joined by two terrific Peruvian Bible Workers who will continue to live and work with Anthony in Masisea for the next four weeks, giving Bible studies and living with the people.

Our team was blessed by the presence of Corrie, a student missionary here for a few months from Venezuela, and Deanna and Melanie, two of Jenni's friends from the States who were visiting Peru for a few weeks. It was lovely to have some new people around.

Every evening Karen and I were responsible for the children's programs, held in the town plaza. Our theme was the story of creation. The program included coloring with coordinated sheets for each day of the week, singing many Bible songs (Cristo Ama Ninos Como Yo, Yo, Yo, and Los Arboles Se Mesen), playing games, and listening to stories. Each night we had between 40-60 children in attendance.

One night we finished early and decided to play "Duck, duck, goose," with the kids. They were thrilled when we had them sit down in a huge circle and started to explain the game, but neither of us could remember the Spanish word for "goose." So instead, we played "Pato, pato, pavo," which in English is "Duck, duck, turkey!" It was fun. And funny. The kids loved it.

Shipibos

I am honored to be working in northern Peru with the Shipibo indians. I love to hear their beautiful dialect, and it's nice to know that there are many Peruvians who know less Spanish than I.

The Shipibos live deep in the jungle, or sometimes in communities along the river. Most of the houses in the Shipibo villages are elevated up on stilts, and they don't have walls, only four big posts and a thatch roof. The inhabitants don't need walls because they don't have any possessions for their neighbors to steal. They own a few hammocks, one pair of clothes per person, and a few simple handmade pots and tools. Very few of them wear shoes.

The Shipibos who don't speak Spanish cannot read, either, and we have to make charts for their medications using pictures of the rising or setting sun or pictures of meals.

About 90% of the Shipibos we treat are women and children. The women proudly wear tradional clothing that they sew by hand. They spend 2-3 months embroidering each of their skirts with distinct geometric designs and their blouses have colorful ruffles on the back hem and collar. They smile with their mouths closed because most have them have lost all of their teeth.

Karen and I have been trying to learn some Shipibo, but it is a struggle, and they mostly just laugh when we try to talk to them. It seems they communicate more with phrases then actual specific words, but I still know so very little. Here are a few expressions we have learned.

Jawequescariaria is 'how are you?'
Jakonyamakiri is 'good morning.'
Jawebairimia is 'how old are you?'
Earaonpaxkenai means 'I want water.'
Earaoxakasai means 'I want to sleep.'
Bekanwe means 'welcome.'

Tuesday

We sleep in until six o'clock, then everyone is up in their beds, reading. This family loves to read. Our house is small, and we can talk from our beds and everyone else can hear from their respective rooms. We'll be having personal devotions and someone will say, "Hey, listen to this Bible verse," or "What do you think about this text?" and that will launch us into a good discussion, while none of us can see each other.

We've read through all the books we brought for ourselves, and now, to expand our learning, we're reading each other's titles. Alex is reading Jackson's "Walden," John is reading my "Just Here Trying to Save a Few Lives," and Jackson is reading John's "Sufferings in Africa." I am reading "Curious George," in Spanish, of course. I love the pictures.

The first thing I do in the morning is get up and open my window. My window is like a heavy wooden door on metal hinges, except that it doesn't reach all the way to the ground. When I open it I have a full view of the grassfields, the jungle beyind, and the sunrise, obscured only by a thin plastic screen. The screen does nothing to keep the bugs out.

When we went to check on the puppies this morning we found that their eyes had opened during the night and they looked at us, blinking sleepily. Oh my word. I love them.

Random pictures from the week

My hand was swollen up for days after a little tiny ant bit me.

This is a motocar, our most common form of transportation in Peru. We love riding in motos, it kind of feels like a chariot ride.

Jackson, John, and Karen eating at a menu, the cheapest dining in town. You get a huge bowl of soup, drink, and your second course-usually an entree of meat, chicken, or rice, beans and veggies-for about $1.

John and I trying out our matching rain jackets. It has been raining consistently about twice a day, sometimes more.

A baby at church on Sabbath.

Keeping house

This is the grubby but endearing town of Campo Verde, about a hour walk from our house in the jungle. This road was just paved in the past few months-the potholes used to be so big I could crawl in and hide. Several locals have told me that the current mayor paid for the road because elections are coming up next month, and he wants to be reelected.

This is my room out at the land, and the new bed John and I built last week. It doesn't look fancy, but after three months of sleeping on the cement, I'm glad to have gained some elevation.

I'm sweeping off our big table top in the main room of our house. That's my room behind me on the right, and the kitchen on the left.

The Medinas

(For the first eight weeks of life in Perú, we spent the weekends living in the apartment at the misión--all seven of us and animals and all of our stuff in two tiny rooms. When the conference president, Pastor Medina, recently realized the situation, he graciously invited Karen and I to move in with him and his wife. Karen lives there somewhat permanently, I sleep there about every other weekend.)

I wake up to the swishing of brushstrokes, and the creak of an old wooden bench. It must be 7:00. I look at my tiny alarm clock. Sure enough, it's two minutes past seven. Every single morning at 7:00, Pastor Medina shines his shoes outside of our door in the hallway.

I sit up on my mat on the floor, offer a huge lazy yawn to the morning, and kick open the door with my foot. Pastor is sitting there in his blue flannel pajamas, and says 'Good Morning!' to me in English. It is just about all the English he knows, which is good, because I'm thrilled to practice Spanish with the Medinas.

Pastor's wife is named Frede, and although she is only 60, she is one of the most grandmotherly creatures I know. She is the matriarch of the Adventist community, and she knows how to get what she wants. (We were at a baptism at a distant village when she said, 'What fantastic yucca you grow here!' We went home with a month's worth of yucca in the trunk).

Frede loves to feed people. She will do what it takes to get food down your throat. She will not take no for an answer. Her kitchen is always a mess--the table littered with thick piles of tropical fruits in all various states of ripe and rot. Frede loves it when Karen and I wash her dishes and clean her counters, but the cleanliness doesn't last long.

Pastor is a busy and important man in the offices at the misión, but he is always thoughtful and kind, and smiles with his eyes. I enjoy asking him about his adventures as a young missionary in the jungle.

Frede loves other people's business. She loves weddings, and celebrating the births of babies, and she is very invovled with the local Pathfinder group, the Conquistadores. We often see her trucking off on Sabbath afternoons in her pressed khaki and green, a big bag of flags under her arm.

Puppies

Last week, on the 26th of October, Doctor's rottweiler Cheva had 6 puppies. At the birth Cheva failed to eat off the amniotic sacs, resulting in the tragic suffocation and death of the first puppy. Luckily, John and Jackson were present for the rest of the deliveries and preformed the appropriate duties for the negligent mother. It was an exciting day.

The puppies are now a week old, and although their eyes aren't open yet, they are fat and roly poly and oh-so-precious. We love to hold them and rub ther fuzzy tummies and play with the rolls of velvet pudding on the backs of their necks. They make funny noises and we hear them at night, crawling over each other and sqeaking and squawking.

I was sick again and in bed all day on Sabbath and several times Jackson showed up at my door with an armful of squirmy puppies.

"It's time for pet therapy!" he'd announce, and my mat would be filled with their cuddly fatness.