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.
