New words

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

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

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

The best of the season

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moto pictures for Ted and Grandpa Odie

Recipes, please

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

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

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

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.

Anatomy lesson

WhenI walk into the Distributor store, young and eager employees rush up to help me with my purchases. They are probably children or nieces and nephews of the owner.

In this store you never take for yourself what you need from the shelves. Like most of the others in Peru, you ask for what you want and the people get it for you. I think I would find this a little annoying in the States, because I'm a pretty independent shopper, and don't like people staring at me while I'm trying to make decisions. But I'm learning to like it here. I enjoy the banter.

The Distributor is the largest store in Campo Verde, and it is about the size of a two car garage. As I wait for a young girl who is measuring up my two kilos of sugar from a brown paper sack, I am aware of some whacking sound in the back of the store.

I look, and see a man chopping up a cow carcass with an axe. He has to swing way back behind his head. There, hanging on metal hooks, I see nicely dissected specimens of the cow insides: the liver, the heart, the intestines, the tongue, the lungs.

I take a few steps closer. The heart is massive--I think could stick my whole hand in the aorta.

But they're still hacking with that axe, and I turn away.

I can't watch.

Family Conference

We've finished worship, and everyone is tired. The boys don't look too thrilled when I exclaim, "Oh! We have to figure out the food budget!"

They eye me.

It's Tuesday night. I've been buying the food for two days, but no one has put their money in the pot yet for this week. It's time to settle up.

The boys take their candles to their rooms so they can find their wallets, then they return to the table. I grab my little black notebook and our food budget wallet. It is 5 soles per person per day. Everyone owes 35 soles, about 10 dollars, for the week of food.

Alex doesn't have the right change, neither does John.

Ryan doesn't quite have enough to meet his dues, he needs to go into town and change money. I take note of this. I write "Ryan owes food budget 1.40 s/" in the black book and draw a star next to it.

Alex puts in two twenties, and takes five back from what Ryan put in. Jackson and John figure out a similar exchange. I cross out their names in the book.

I've spent more than I owe. I tally up the prices of groceries so far, subtract what I owe, and reimburse myself.

I'm relieved. There is money in the food budget. The family conference is over, and we can go to bed.

Hungry

Jenni and I walk for about 20 minutes down Pucallpa's answer to the Dual Highway to find something for supper.

We arrive at a roadside stand that sells chifa, the Peruvian version of Chinese food. It is hot out, even in the dark night, and I am happy to sit down. Our plates come quickly-saucy mountains of noodles and vegetables.

"I'm never going to be able to eat all this," I laugh.

"Yeah," says Jenni, "We could have easily shared one plate."

We're working on halfway when a small boy wanders through the tent, holding a plastic bag with a little rice on the bottem. A beggar.

"Are you hungry?" Jenni asks him.

He comes over and sits right down at our table, and I push my plate in his direction. He eats slowly. He tells us that his name is Santiago, and that he is 12 years old, even though I would have guessed 8 or 9.

A few minutes later a younger brother shows up, a tiny boy with big brown eyes whose name is Charlie. Jenni pulls up a chair for Charlie and we talk to them as they take turns with the fork. Santiago takes a bite, then gives the fork to Charlie while he chews. Charlie likes to slurp up the noodles, and he also likes to suck the brown gravy off the cabbage, then spit the cabbage in the dirt.

I guess he doesn't like cabbage. I laugh about this.

They finish, tell us thank you very politely, and wander off into the night.

Where are you going?

(This experience happened awhile ago-I think last November-but we still laugh about it now).

We left the house at 8:00 in the evening, all dressed up and ready to attend the wedding with Fredde. Anthony, Karen and I paraded behind her as we hiked out to the street. Fredde had told us earlier that the event was to be held at the Adventist high school in downtown Pucallpa, and Karen and I weren't listening to her as she gave our moto driver directions.

The two of us climbed into the moto and took off. "Wait for us!" Fredde yelled after us, but our driver paid no attention. He drove off into the dark and dusty night.

He didn't drive in the direction of town. In fact, he drove in the opposite direction. He took us down a dark road we weren't even familiar with. I looked at Karen--what was going on? I leaned forward and yelled at the driver over the roar of the motor, "¿Donde vas?" He kept going. I hollared again, "Where are you going?"

The moto slowed, then stopped. "I'm taking you to Yarina Cocha," he said, "Near the hospital."

We were totally creeped out. "No," Karen told him, "We're going to the Colegio Adventista, in Centro."

More confusing hollaring and arguing ensued as motos and motorcycles whizzed around us. Finally the driver peered about, scoped out the situation, and finally turned back around.

Several minutes later we found ourselves in the outskirts of Pucallpa, but it was part of town where we'd never been before. "Does he know where he's going?" Karen asked.

I grabbed her arm. "Let's pray!" I said.

We prayed for God's protection, then quietly made an escape plan, if the situation became too sketchy.

We drove around for ten minutes more, then we praised God when we finally arrived at the gate of the Adventist school. We paid our driver and hurried in, expecting to see Fredde and Anthony waiting for us.

A group of moms were playing volleyball in the courtyard. There weren't signs of a wedding anywhere.

"Well," I said to Karen, "No one at this wedding knows us, so it won't be a great loss if we don't show up at all."

I was trying to be funny, but Karen was not amused. Where on earth was this wedding? We asked around, and the volleyball moms gave us funny looks. We were still creeped out from that moto ride-who knows what that driver was up to.

We found a church member we knew, watching the games. "Can we use your cellphone?" Karen asked him.

"Where are you, little sisters?" Fredde yelled into the phone when we reached her.

"No, where are YOU?" Karen asked back.

"We're at the Adventist church in Yarina Cocha, near the hospital." said the annoyed Fredde.

We groaned. Our driver had been headed in the right direction, after all. Karen had misunderstood Fredde about the Colegio part. The couple had studied at the Colegio, but it wasn't the wedding location. Oh the frustrations of the language barrier!

We smoothed out our ruffled feathers, thanked the brother from church, and hailed another moto driver. We set off for Yarina Cocha, only a little more than fashionably late.