Patience

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

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

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

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

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

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

G. Elliott

Easter

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

A day out

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

I like bananas

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.