tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61534452165103626672023-06-20T21:35:45.845-07:00The Lindseys to PeruMarkos Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06960879970200772269noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6153445216510362667.post-71999817585543744122021-01-19T12:25:00.007-08:002021-01-19T18:18:29.432-08:00"Welcome to the Mission Field. – Where's your wallet?"<p><span> </span>Our family has been in Peru for over 15 years. The first time we came to this wonderful country was in the year 2000 as part of a Bible College program for aspiring missionaries. My wife, Stephanie, and I were married the year prior, and when we returned to the US in April of 2001, she was carrying our first child. We joked that she would be born with a stamp on her foot that read "Made in Peru". Anyway, a year later, our church commissioned us to return to Peru to plant churches. Now, that may sound strange to those who do not know what a Baptist Missionary is, but basically, we were to win others to our faith in Jesus Christ, train them in Biblical doctrine, and leave church leaders in place to continue the work. After three long years of travelling around the US, presenting our desire to serve the Lord, we had raised enough monthly support to leave for South America! We arrived in Peru in 2005 with three little girls (1-, 2-, and 4-years-old.)</p><p><span> That first year we spent in Lima, refining our language skills and serving in a church pastored by a Peruvian friend of ours. However, by the Fall of 2006, we were eager to move to the Sierra (Andes Mountains). That had been our goal all along, and we felt that we were ready. There were very few churches in the mountains, and we had a couple places in mind. We attempted to visit one town in September. I had just returned from a trip to northern Peru with what I thought was a stomach bug. I took some Imodium, and we took off in our double-cab pickup. Early that evening, and at about 15,000ft above sea level, the minor discomfort that I had felt before we left Lima revealed itself as full-blown food poisoning. I was doubled over in pain as we drove into a small town, so we found a lady that rented out rooms of her house like a hostal (informal, cheap "hotel"). The kids were throwing up from the altitude; I, however, had nothing left to throw up; we piled a bunch of heavy blankets over us and tried to sleep. I'm pretty sure I was the first one out, but I wouldn't wake up again until about 20 hours later in an ambulance back on the Pacific Coast. My system had gone septic. My wife had somehow loaded me back into the truck with our three kids and all the luggage and drove back down the mountain. There is a lot more to that story, but it happened while I was unconscious. So, maybe I'll tell it more fully some other time. Anyway, we never made it to our destination, and we took that as motivation to pursue another town.</span><br /></p><p><span> We visited several towns in the <i>Sierra Andina</i>, and by early 2006, we settled on Huancayo. In March, my wife and I left our three girls with a friends of ours from another church in Lima and headed to Huancayo to find a house to rent. Interestingly enough, people in Lima talk of how dangerous the people in Huancayo are, and the people in Huancayo talk of how dangerous the people in Lima are. Whatever the case, our problem was that we did not know how to take proper precautions. Like not wearing a camera around your neck, not carrying cash in your pocket,... You know, common sense things. Anyway, I was smart enough to not take a lot of cash with me as there are ATM machines available in town. I was leary enough of taxis, so I found a young man that drove a nice car and was well-dressed, and I asked him, "How much for the day?" He took us all around Huancayo as we visited different houses. In a relatively short time, we found the perfect house. We agreed on a price and headed for the ATM to withdraw the cash. Later, we found out that the owner was out of town and that her sister was to collect the cash. Um. I've been in Lima for a while now - that sounds like a setup. She agreed for us to pay her when we moved up later that month. So, now I have a little over $1,200 in cash in my pocket. Our driver delivered us safely to a nice restaurant just off the town square and said "Good night." <br /></span></p><p><span><span> After a wonderful meal, we walked out onto the curb to hail a taxi. Three in a row came by. I began to use my great judgment of character on the drivers based on the look of the passing cars, and I hailed the third one. "How much to take us to the Bus Terminal for Lima." "S/.4.00." (Four soles - about $1.25) "OK." He sent a quick text [Hint: foreshadow], and we were off. </span></span>He headed north, so I knew that we were going in the right direction. But before long, he would turn right or left as if to avoid traffic on the main road, then return. Eventually, his turns became more forceful and more frequent. As I looked around, I began to wonder where we were... and if something nefarious was occurring. No sooner had I considered the possibility that we were NOT going to the bus station, the driver of the car behind us flashed his high beams, and our driver slammed on the breaks. ...</p><p><span><span><span> I cannot adequately describe the chills that ran down my spine, the racing thoughts, and the feeling of regret - and, even more so, stupidity - for not realizing sooner what was happening. As the driver pushed the automatic unlock button, the back door of our taxi flew open and a man jumped in beside my wife behind the driver. I grabbed him by the hair and yelled at him to promptly find another ride. When I felt another two men grab me from my side of the vehicle, I let go and resigned to sitting peacefully in a slightly fuller - and slightly less peaceful - taxi cab. As one of the men sat next to me, the other sat in the copilot's seat. The one by Stephanie was particularly calm, even after I had pulled out a few strands of hair. The one next to the driver was by far the most foul-mouthed and rude. I don't remember a thing about the one next to me, except that he had his arm around me the whole time like we were friends. </span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span>Soon after we were headed down the road, they placed stocking caps over our heads and pulled them down to cover our eyes. They quickly told us "We are not rapists; we just want your money." They began to search our pockets and backpacks for cellphones, cash, jewels, etc.... They found $700 in my pockets, another $500 in Stephanie's; they took our phone, and my wedding ring. They asked if we were married, and Stephanie quickly said "Yes!" and raised her right hand (where Peruvians wear their wedding rings.) I had bought her an anniversary ring a couple years earlier, and the thieves assumed that THAT was her wedding ring. Her real wedding ring (the one that </span></span></span>cost the college kid a small fortune) was still on her left ring finger. </p><p><span> They took us back toward town, and after finding my debit card in my wallet, they demanded the PIN. It was a new card, and I couldn't remember the PIN. Now, I knew the numbers, but I wasn't sure of the order. I gave them two variations, knowing that one of them had to be right. (I am blindfolded, surrounded by four men in a locked car. "Yeah, you can have my PIN.") They stopped at several ATMs in the area, but since I had already withdrawn $1,000, most said that I had already reached my limit for daily withdrawals. They were able to find three machines that hadn't received the memo, and they were able to withdraw another $900 from our savings account</span>. After about an hour and a half, as they were driving in a secluded area near a river, they told us to get out of the car. They stuffed about $50 in my shirt pocket and said "Don't go to the police. Go right to the bus station, and get to Lima. Don't turn around, or we'll drop you where you stand. Oh, and you can keep the hats." Nice guys!</p><p><span> Now, people ask us how an illness on the way to one town told us that we should NOT go there, but that a robbery on our first day in Huancayo told us that we SHOULD go there. Well, the sickness physically removed me from a place without my knowledge or consent. The robbery proved that people in Huancayo need the Lord. Besides, even though we escaped the whole ordeal shaken to the point of dizziness, I only had a little blood on my lip - I assume from the initial scuffle when our carpool abruptly doubled in size, and Stephanie walked away without a scratch. As we calmly retreated from our captors, relieved beyond words that nothing worse had happened to us, I grabbed her hand and began to swing it up as if we were out for a stroll. She quickly pulled her arm back down so that the men behind us would not see any glimmer from her wedding ring. "How did you manage to keep THAT?" I asked. She explained that she had turned the ring so that the diamond lay between her fingers. That way, even when the guy next to her opened her hand for a blind finger sweep to feel for any jewelry, he never felt the ring. In fact, Stephanie wonders if there was an angel working through that man to keep us from harm. He kept his left arm on the back of the driver's seat in a defensive stance around her and was never violent. And e</span>very time our foul-mouthed copilot would try to threaten us, he would calm him down. </p><p><span> This whole time, </span>Stephanie was feeling sick to her stomach because of all the stress and fear from the harrowing experience. Whenever she felt nauseated, she would lean over her kind kidnapper's lap and begin to retch. Later, she would tell me, "At least I gave him a good scare a few times." While they were driving us around on our Express Kidnapping Tour, I forced myself to sound less frightened than I was and began to "chat them up". I said things like: "Hey, can we hurry this up, Fellas? We have to get back to our little girls in Lima." I made a pun, telling them that I was a "<i>Micio- pero Micionero</i>." That sounds like the Spanish word for Missionary, <i>Misionero</i>, but <i>Micio</i> means "utterly poor and needy." At one point, I told them, "You didn't do your homework: you've just robbed a preacher. Do you now Who my Boss is?" They laughed. Two weeks later, they were all caught and thrown in jail, and the police pocketed our stuff.</p>Markos Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06960879970200772269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6153445216510362667.post-43989505224644635562016-09-19T22:22:00.000-07:002016-09-19T22:56:42.440-07:00No Crib for a Bed I love Christmas time! I love the story of my Saviour's birth. I love the songs, I love the family gatherings. Now, to tell you the truth (and at the risk of sounding kinda like Scrooge), I couldn't care less about the tree, the decorations, and the gifts. I mean it. I'd rather my girls kissed me Christmas morning, and sang carols with me all day long without handing me one gift. It's not that I'm stingy and don't want to get THEM one... or ten. I'd just rather it not be a part of Christmas. I don't believe it to be super spirituality or anything, but I just feel like it cheapens Christmas. SO much money spent on things nobody really wants, much less needs. SO much worry about whether one of my girls will feel shorted this year. And that dumb tree makes such a mess and takes so long to put up and even longer to take down. Yes, I'm exaggerating, but I really could do without the commercialization of Christmas. <br />
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This bantering of mine is somewhat new. I think I've grown into this attitude. The more I preach about Christ and His birth, the more I see the Christmas story pushed into a corner to bring in the bigger, the heavier, and the more expensive gifts. Now, I don't believe that Jesus was born in December, but I don't mind joining many other Christians in celebrating His birth on the 25th. I don't like the tree, but I'm not against it. One day, when we first moved up to the mountains of Peru, I told my family that we could have a tree but that I didn't want it the main attraction in our house. Some of the Peruvian Christians had questioned the use of the tree by believers. To avoid offending them, I was glad to have an excuse to not make my living room a winter wonderland. I decided to put the tree in the corner of a room on the second floor of our house. A room that was usually a storage room, but was a nice little room that could be used as a TV room or a reading room, right on the front of the house. We set up the tree, and lit it up. It was neat to see the girls, who were much smaller then, smile broadly at our accomplishment. And I must admit, our fake tree still looks good after 11 years of use. Well, one night, not long after, I was driving home when I realized my mistake. Now, instead of having to walk into our house and see the shrine to Christmas, it lit up the whole front of our house from inside the window on the second floor. Now, EVERYONE could see it. Oh, well. My intentions were good.<br />
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I am not writing this to discuss Christmas per say, but one particular part of Christmas. You see, my family and I have just moved back down to Peru after about six months in the US for what everyone else calls "furlough" (or rest.) Really, it is a lot more work to be on "rest" in America than at "work" in Peru. Anyway, since we gave up our rental home that we had lived in for the past six years, we need to find a new house. We also were blessed with a little baby girl back in March. The Lord worked it out so that my wife could be in the US for the delivery. That turned out to be a very good thing considering some of the complications she had. All is well, and we named our little one Sienna Grace. I thought about putting a stamp on her foot when she was born that said "Made in Peru", but my wife turned down the idea.<br />
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The complications I mention were preeclampsia and placenta previa, neither of which we had ever had to deal with. Stephanie got so bad at four-months pregnant, she was ordered on bedrest by her doctor. The girls and I took over the cooking and cleaning, and we tried to get Stephanie to the US as soon as possible. Once, while she was still walking around, she began to fret over the birth, assuming the worst from all she had been reading about her particular problems. I decided one day to ease her conscience and distract her from her needless worry. I bought her a crib. Five months from her due date, we walked into a little store that I had never seen before and saw the perfect crib. I bought it, took it home, and put it together. Stephanie cried when she saw it, but it gave her hope and revived her spirit. The crib went into storage, and we headed for the US.<br />
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After a month or so treating her preeclampsia, and discarding any danger of placenta previa, and only two weeks after I made it to the States, Sienna arrived. She weighed only 4lbs, and half an ounce, but she was beautiful, and mostly healthy. Five weeks later, we took her home, and began the wonderful task of travelling around the country with a newborn. Yes, she had three big sisters to help, but it was no "furlough". Sienna's schedule was all out of whack. We'd get her sleeping through the night, then we'd travel all day for a meeting a couple states away. Of course, she would sleep all day in the van, and promptly forget that she needed to sleep when the rest of us did. When she was not sleeping in her car seat, it was a pack-n-play. Oh, that we were in Peru, where she could sleep in a real crib with a soft mattress! ...and with a schedule!<br />
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Soon enough, with 5-month-old Sienna in our arms, we headed back to Peru. Since we left our truck with a friend of ours in Huancayo, we still have a vehicle to get around in; but it only seats five. We are now six. So, now, we must sell the truck. And with no home to go to, the church has allowed us to set up house in the parsonage. (Makes sense since I am the pastor.) The problem is that the parsonage is not habitable yet. The floors are unfinished, the walls unpainted, the kitchen and bathrooms uninstalled. So basically, we are living in a few Sunday School rooms. On purpose, we left the school books, the dishes, and the beds as the last things packed into storage. When we arrived, they were the easiest things to get out. I am writing this blog on our old mattress that is laid out on the floor. From here, I can see about ten suitcases overflowing, a small space heater, and a huge window with cardboard and paper taped up to keep out the sun and to give me some privacy. What? You expected curtains before the floor was put in? My poor wife has to cook on a small two-burner stove that we borrowed from a church member. My three older girls are doing school work in the front room/dining room/kitchen/storage room.... <br />
<br />
I set up Kaitlynn's, Alyssa's, and Savanna's beds in one of the Sunday School rooms, and Stephanie and I were to share a room with Sienna. Well, I got a bad cold, partly from the change in climate, mostly from my lack of sleep. Stephanie is doing a great job getting Sienna BACK on schedule. She does have a new crib to make things more comfortable. But my body could not wait. At night, I was restless and would keep Stephanie up. Sienna would cry and keep me up. We decided that for the sake of health and sanity, I should take the big cold room with all the suitcases, and Stephanie should take the smaller room with Sienna. I love my wife, and I love Sienna; but I'm really enjoying my sleep right now! My girls have their own set of problems. The bed frames are old and the wood slats that hold the mattresses up are just short enough to slip out of place when one of the girls is sitting or sleeping on the bed. Since Savanna was on the bottom level of the bunk-bed she shared with Alyssa, she decided to sleep on the floor to avoid being smacked in the face at night by a falling bed board. And although we have restrooms just outside our rooms, the shower is downstairs next to the auditorium. Once again, there is no flooring put in yet, and the shower head is what we call a "widow-maker". It has a small electric head that heats the water up just as it comes out of the pipes. It does a good job heating the water, but if you try to adjust the pressure by grabbing the metal faucet handle, you are reminded that you live in a country with 220v electricity. Standing naked under a shower, being zapped by a faucet is not a very pleasant way to get clean. I've just decided to boycott showers altogether. I mean, if that's the price to pay, then cleanliness is overrated.<br />
<br />
Anyway, as I began to count all the problems I was having, I thought about our upcoming Christmas pageant. We haven't even decided on the drama yet, but I am beginning to gather some songs and ideas. I came across a very interesting truth in one of the carols we sing every Christmas. "Away in a manger, no crib for a bed." I thought, "How fitting. We should make this year's focus on the humble beginnings of Christ as the incarnate Word of God." I think we can empathize, however so slightly, with Jesus' being put to rest in such an uncomfortable environment. Even when I was a child, when my mother would correct me for leaving the door open by saying "We're you born in a barn?," I always wanted to respond, "Yep. Me and Jesus both." <br />
<br />
Now, I am sure that Mary did everything she could to make that feeding trough comfortable for her little One, but it was not the ideal place for the birth of the King, the Messiah. Well, ...at least, not as we may imagine. For we know that God picked out the PERFECT place for his Word to be born. Although we may certainly prefer a more comfortable, respectable place, interestingly, God preferred the stable, the smells, and the company JUST as it was. Jesus left his throne for a manger and His glory for the cross, What a wonderful Saviour! <br />
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As for us here in Peru, we found a fairly big house about a half an hour away from our church. Now, that is a long way when everyone else could practically walk to church, but the house is almost ideal. The kitchen is a little small, and the house is colder than we would like, but the YARD!! Having an 8,500 ft2 yard in Huancayo is almost unheard of. We could host many church fellowships out on the patio. We could raise rabbits and guinea pigs. You know,... for lunch. Many things about the house is just what we wanted. But, alas, the owner does not want to give us the whole house, just the first and second floor. She and her husband come to Huancayo once in a while from Lima and need a place to stay. Well, we like our privacy. We are not likely to stay where we have to share the house with the owner; so as for now, we are staying in the church. <br />
<br />
Just this morning, my wife said, "If that house is not what the Lord wants us to have, He must have a bigger, better one out there somewhere." Oh, me of little faith! But when I consider the Lord of Glory coming to earth and celebrating His birth with Mom, Mom's husband, and a few shepherds in that unwelcoming stable, I am thankful for the accommodations that we DO have. After all, at least we have a crib!Markos Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06960879970200772269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6153445216510362667.post-55300916896435658742015-07-10T22:27:00.001-07:002016-09-19T22:23:35.449-07:00"Onward, Christian Soldiers!"Well, Life has been exciting this past year. One interesting thing that has happened is that I forgot all about this blogspot! I went to the jungle again and remembered the story I shared last year. This time, I'll try to keep it short; I promise.<br />
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These past few weeks have been full of travel. A few weeks ago, I went to Lima to get some preaching. I am constantly in the pulpit and, for once, figured I would enjoy sitting and being fed, as opposed to bringing the food myself. So I packed an overnight bag, kissed the wife and kids, and left at midnight on a bus to Lima. I arrived about three hours later than normal; but otherwise, the trip was a pleasant, the preaching was refreshing, and that night, I left to return to Huancayo (our home in the Andes Mountains about 200 miles or 6-8 hours east of Lima.) When I arrived in Huancayo, I left my
wallet on the bus (with about $30, two credit cards, and my carnet - my resident card). That meant another day's trip to Lima. Once again, I packed an overnight bag, kissed my wife and kids, and left at midnight on a bus to Lima. The trip was uneventful, and I made it to the Immigrations office first thing in the morning.<br />
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Now, the Peruvian Immigration's Office is one of those things that can really bring out the flesh in this preacher. Each year, they ask for new things - new documents - that weren't required the year before. Their latest kick is Birth Certificates. "We need an original birth certificate for each child, apostilled by the Secretary of State, notarized in Peru, and translated by an official translator in Lima." Well, OK. If that's what it takes. The following year: "We need an original birth certificate for each child, apostilled by the Secretary of State, notarized in Peru, and translated by an official translator in Lima." "Wait,... You know I gave you the <i>original </i>last year, right?" "Yes, but that one is no longer valid. It expired." "Um, birth certificates do NOT expire! And do you know what <i>original </i>means?" "We need an original birth certificate for each child..." "Yeah, I know! ... Give me a month."<br />
<br />
Last year, I again ordered birth certificates for the yearly process. They were purchased then mailed to the Secretary of State, who had them in the mail to Peru the next day with all the necessary seals and stamps. A postal service strike in Peru sent them to the black hole - you know, the one where that other sock went. So then, we were late with my girls' visa renewals, and it cost me more money and time getting new birth certificates... again. I ordered them, and just before my second trip to Lima, they arrived at my house. So while I was in Lima getting my new carnet, I met up with my lawyer to hand everything over to him.<br />
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Anyway, because of the "ok,-now,-come-back-tomorrow-to-pick-it-up" process in immigrations, my one-day trip turned into a four-day trip. I'll spare you the details. With my new carnet in hand, I headed back to Huancayo, looking forward to NOT travelling for a while. The next day, I received a call from my lawyer -- my girls' passports had expired, and we cannot proceed with the visa process. Back to Lima. This time with the whole family. We were able to get the passports
processed in an hour at the embassy. America's got that system down: Birth certificates from 2010 (still valid), a picture ID from Mom and Dad., and an "Ok, come back in three weeks to pick up your new passports." ...and we walked out the door. Peruvian Immigrations would have taken three days to do that. Since we spent so much in gas just to get to Lima, we decided to take a couple extra days to
relax in the capital with some missionary friends of ours. <br />
<br />
Soon, we packed up the truck and braced ourselves for another 6-hour trip. But this time, we were going home! On our way back to
Huancayo, about a half-hour into the trip (i.e. 5:30am), our radiator hose came
loose. I noticed that the truck was overheating and decided to pull into a gas
station on the opposite side of the road. I turned into a u-turn
for oncoming traffic, and the truck stalled. It was still dark, but
traffic was picking up that morning, and truck drivers were trying to turn
...legally. After many insults, one person was kind enough to help me push the vehicle across the road to the gas station. When I
inspected the truck, the only thing wrong was a hose that was no
longer attached to the radiator. I let everything cool down, plugged the hose back in, filled up
with water (that my wife always insists that we carry), and the truck started right up. The mountain
air cooled the truck enough to make it to a store about two hours
from Lima where I bought a new clamp and secured the hose a little
better. We made it to Huancayo that afternoon and began to count our blessings.
We broke down a half an hour from Lima, not halfway to Huancayo. We
broke down at a gas station, not somewhere between San Mateo and La
Oroya (4 hours of beautiful scenery but not one repair shop). And we
broke down with what turned out to be the easiest thing to fix I've
come across yet. I've learned that God is good, even if He hadn't been so
generous with the timing, location, or gravity of our problem. But I sure appreciated His extra care that morning.<br />
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As I write this blog, we are waiting for some fuel filters from the US. Yes, that's <i>filters - </i>plural. The truck broke down last week because of a dirty filter. The gas here contains lead and is very contaminated here in the mountains; and every six months or so, my truck begins to get choked up. Now, I'm going to stock up on fuel filters! Otherwise, we are well; and we're thrilled to be able to do what we do -- drive to Lima a few times a month with a sick vehicle to jump through hoops in Immigrations to be able to stay in the country. <br />
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"Onward, Christian Soldiers." right?Markos Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06960879970200772269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6153445216510362667.post-11143030783594104422014-06-24T20:31:00.008-07:002021-01-19T20:09:45.106-08:00Jungle Trip, etc.OK. I'm not sure how much time you have, but here is my Jungle Trip blog. Enjoy.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> There are many things in life that can take one
out of his “comfort zone”, challenge him, or simply make him rather uncomfortable ―
things like jumping off a bridge or eating worms or even traveling to new
and exotic places. Recently, I took a
trip to the Jungle of Peru, along the Amazon River ― a trip that would prove to
be one of the most enjoyable trips of my life.
It was truly a unique experience for me.
I had been to that part of Peru before.
This would be my second such trip.
Last year, I went to many of the same towns and saw many of the same
faces; but this year was more of an adventure, somehow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The <i>Amazonía</i>, or Amazon River Basin,
is a stunningly beautiful place. Whether
you travel by airplane or by boat (since you cannot travel by land ― there are no
roads in or out), you will not leave unimpressed. The dense wooded areas, the winding rivers
that are miles-wide, the floating houses, gas stations and stores, the elevated
homes along the river, the beautiful people… something is bound to leave you in
awe of this part of the world. Now, I am
at a disadvantage because I am red/green colorblind. I used to laugh at the doctor when he would ask me to tell him what number I saw in the little circles. “Come on, Doc! There’s no number in there!” I can discern between colors, but sometimes
the vividness gets lost. Still, it was a
beautiful place, and I forgot that I was colorblind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The people are mostly warm and friendly,
although a little awestruck by the whiteness of my skin. Maybe they are just afraid of me; or perhaps, they regard me
as a higher being. I have noticed that
even in the most populous cities of Peru, the Peruvians are almost always
interested to see Gringos. Few see many
white people on a daily basis, and most treat the encounter similar to seeing a
movie star on the streets. Others think
that - since the white man has so much more money than they - it is only right
that he share a little of his unbalanced wealth, whether through high-priced
services or through purchases made in the market.
They may just pick your pocket and be done with it. No haggling necessary. Or, as once happened to my wife and me, they
could kidnap you and turn your own taxi into the getaway vehicle. That way seems to be the most efficient. They have all the time they need to squeeze
every penny out of you, while you’re cowering in the back seat, wondering if
you’ll make it back home alive. I had no
qualms whatsoever about telling them my PIN for my debit card through the black
stocking cap they had placed over my head.
As I have stated, regardless of their motive, whether for good or for ill, they are always interested
to see Gringos.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The trip to the Amazon began for me in
Huancayo, a city of nearly 500,000 people, situated about 10,500 feet above sea
level in the Andes Mountains. I have
lived in Huancayo for the past seven years.
My wife and three daughters have willingly joined me as I work to
establish local Baptist churches in the area.
Well, my wife has willingly joined me; I am not sure that my girls had a
choice. They are happy, anyway. Currently, I am pastoring the Independent
Baptist Church of El Tambo, Huancayo. (I
think that all Baptist churches here are independent; mine just happens to
carry the name.) My desire is to preach
wherever the Lord gives me an opportunity.
I would like to see churches in every one of the nine provinces of our
department. [The Peruvian <i>Department</i> is like a <i>State</i> in the US; so a <i>province</i> is sort of like a US <i>county</i>.]
Wherever the Lord may lead me to preach, I pray He never removes me from
Huancayo, in the Mantaro Valley. I live
in a place with neither extreme heat nor extreme cold; the air is pure, and the
scenery is second to none. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> In fact, the only thing we struggle with
in the mountains, besides the erratic driving habits of the locals, is the
spiders. Our house is infested with
spiders of all shapes, colors and sizes.
I do not like spiders, but I think I have overcome my fear of them. While most would use a flyswatter in the
States, I just smack them with the palm of my hand (until they get as big as my
hand ― then I go for a shoe.) My wife has
a unique way to deal with spiders, or any pests for that matter. If it is on the floor, she will step on it,
and then grind it into the ground, leaving nothing but a streak. If she finds a mosquito on my arm, she will
smack it and proceed to smear it all over my sleeve. This has been a point of contention
between us. When I suggest that she
smack it quickly and then brush it to the ground, she replies that she wants some
assurance that the bug is truly dead.
While I can appreciate her concern for me, I sometimes wish that she
would just point out the threat, and let me handle it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Leaving spiders, let us return to our
story. The purpose of my trip was to
join a group of pastors from Lima, carrying training materials to the local
pastors of the Amazon region. There are
dozens of towns along the Amazon River between Iquitos - a major city in Peru, and Santa Rosa - the town that lies on the border with Columbia and Brazil. One of those towns is Caballo Cocha. Caballo is <i>horse</i> in Spanish, and Cocha is<i>
lagoon</i> in Quechua. There are two
churches in Caballo Cocha, and some Baptist missionaries from decades past have
donated a nice little property right on the edge of the lagoon for the area
churches for use as a camp. It was to
this camp that we invited all the pastors from the area that wanted to attend along
with other servants from their churches.
There were sixteen pastors in all, ten from the Amazon region, one from
Columbia, and our team of speakers ― two preachers from Lima, an American
missionary who once worked along that same section of river, another missionary </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The entire week was filled with classes
for the brethren. Bibliology, Church Organization
and Administration were brought by the pastors from Lima, I taught on Pastoral
Etiquette and music; and the other American missionary, Andrew Large, taught on
the Christian Life. Brother Andy (as
Andrew is called) was able to bring his wife this year, and she taught the women
that were present on The Role of Women in the Ministry. It was a special blessing for Andy to be able to visit the ministries that he had seen begun so many years ago. We were well-received, and I hope that we
were a blessing to the churches. This
trip was organized by Fidel Gómez, one of the preachers from Lima, who has a
desire to help other churches along the Amazon.
He heads up a group each year to visit these churches and offer some
fellowship, some counsel to the pastors, and some training for the men. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> For this particular trip, I had
purchased a one-hundred-pound sack of potatoes.
Last year, the food at camp was wonderful. Fish, rice, and bananas for breakfast; fish,
rice, and bananas for lunch; fish, rice and bananas for supper. It really was delicious, but we begged them
to vary the menu for this year; and I was fulfilling a promise to bring freshly
harvested potatoes from Huancayo. These
were so fresh that I had to spend an hour or so washing off the mud and looking
for worms. I would have to take a different
and longer route this time because of the potatoes. The last time, I took a bus to Lima and then
flew to Iquitos. However, the potatoes
would not be able to go on an airplane with me.
So I was grounded until I had delivered my package.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The missionary friend that accompanied
me was Jon Harris. He has lived in
Andahuaylas for the last three years with his family. He also is striving to establish churches in
Peru. I have never been to Andahuaylas,
but I understand that it is at the same altitude as Huancayo and similar in
many respects, just much smaller. I
invited Jon to join me, knowing that he was interested in visiting different
parts of Peru. His presence alone was a
factor in many of my sideline adventures on this trip. For example, I wonder if I would have jumped
twenty feet from a bridge into the river below had it not been for his
encouragement. As a child, and even as a
young man, whenever I would blame my friends for something that I had done ― something
dangerous or imprudent or just plain wrong ― my mother would say, “…and if your
friends jumped off a bridge, would you jump, too?” Well… yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> On Monday, I was to meet up with Jon in
the city of Pucallpa, where a Peruvian friend of ours is pastoring a
deaf work. From there, we planned to
take a boat four days up the Ucayali River to Iquitos. (The Ucayali and the Marañón Rivers join along
the route between Pucallpa and Iquitos to create the massive Amazon River.) We chose the fastest boat possible as I could
not imagine an airplane between these two remote cites. Once I got to Pucallpa after a fifteen-hour
bus ride from Huancayo, we went down to the pier to get a spot on the
boat. Over half the boat was already
filled. The lower deck was for cargo,
the second and third were for passengers.
We had our minds set on the third deck because there were little cabins
for two with a window and a private bathroom; but by the time we arrived, those
were all occupied. The second deck was
already lined with hammocks that passengers had purchased for their journey. Now, that sounds nice; but these hammocks
were packed so tightly that it was like the prisoner deck you might see on a boat in some
old movie. There were two bathrooms for
the seventy or so people to share and absolutely <i>no</i> privacy. We had just
boarded to look over the boat when we were approached by some of the travelers’
children: “Please, Sir, could you spare some change?” Yep, the Gringos had arrived. Jon looked at me with one eyebrow raised and
said, “Are you sure about this?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;">
After we had looked over another boat, we
were told that it might be just slightly more expensive to go in an
airplane. An airplane!? Are you kidding me!? It takes only an hour to fly, while the boat
ride takes four days ― and that’s because the river is up. It <i>could
</i>take five or six. The only problem
now is the potatoes. I could take
whatever luggage on the boat with me, no matter the weight; but if we chose to
fly, neither of the two boats we had investigated would accept the potatoes as
freight. Dozens of companies sent their
goods on the first deck, but if I was not going to be on the boat, my potatoes
weren’t either. After asking several
boating companies, I finally found one that reluctantly received my
potatoes on the condition that I would pick them up personally in Iquitos. Done!
We left the potatoes and booked a flight for Thursday morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Henry Vasquez, our Peruvian friend in
Pucallpa, has a church of about eighty deaf people. A couple of hearing families come as
well. Jon stayed at his house until I
arrived. Henry and his wife, Mirian,
have two children ― Dolly, their eighteen-year-old daughter, and a sixteen-year-old
son, Isaí (Jesse). Jesse had graciously given
up his room for a couple nights for Jon to be more comfortable. Well, now that we did not have to leave the
same day on the boat, we had a few extra days to spend with our preacher
friend. That was a blessing because Jon
and I both wanted to spend more time with Henry and see the ministry. At the same time, we hoped to be a blessing
to him. The first thing that Henry
suggested after we bought our plane tickets was that we return with him and
stay at his house. Jesse was gracious
enough to move back out of his room for us, and we set up camp.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Those next few days were spent
installing a cistern for the church, travelling around Pucallpa, counselling
brethren from the church, and preaching in the services. Henry owns a <i>mototaxi</i> [a Rickshaw or "Tuk-tuk" ― a
three-wheeled motorcycle with a bench in the back.] He was our chauffeur during our time there. We were quite comfortable in Jesse’s room and
on the air mattress laid out in the front room, but it was <i>hot</i>. At first, I didn’t mind
so much; but after a while, the stench from our sweaty clothes began to remind
us of the cabins at youth camp. Mirian
was kind enough to wash our clothes for us; and, since it was raining outside,
we hung them inside the church on one long line stretching from one side of the
auditorium to the other. I was just
imagining the embarrassment if someone came to service and saw my underwear and
Jon’s hanging from the rafters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> While we were cleaning out the tank that
was to become our cistern, I found a beautiful spider that resembled our Grand
Daddy Longlegs. I picked him up by his
leg and showed him to Jesse. Jesse
looked at me with an odd look of curiosity mixed with horror, and explained
that the spider I was holding was poisonous.
I immediately began to sweat, but my face did not flinch. As I held the spider, I mentioned his
translucent legs. Then I told Jesse that
our spiders are poisonous as well, but their mouths are so small, they cannot
hurt you. “Oh, that one can!” he
retorted. As I tried not to appear
shaken by his words, I nodded my head and said, “Interesting.” Then, without hurrying, I casually threw it
from me and went back to work like nothing had happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> That next morning, we retrieved our
mostly dry clothes, ate breakfast with our host family, and headed to the
airport. I do not exactly know what
happened or how we miscalculated, but for the first time in my life, I arrived
too late to the airport; and we missed our flight. I think I may have seen Henry sigh as he
called his wife. I could not hear him
very well, but I think he said, “Don’t put the air mattress up yet, and get
Jesse back to our bedroom floor. The
Gringos are coming back.” We spent that
next day enjoying the fellowship with Henry and his family. We left them a small gift, and the next
morning, we were at the airport about two hours early. Henry dropped us off at the door, and this
time, he didn’t even come inside. As
soon as our luggage was out of his <i>mototaxi</i>,
he said, “God bless you two. See you
later.” And then he sped out of the
parking lot. Jon and I looked at each
other, standing there on the curb, both knowing that Henry was calling Mirian,
“If Markos or Jon calls,<i> don’t answer the
phone!” </i> Of course, <i>this</i> time our flight was delayed about
five hours which would have suited us just perfectly the day prior; but we did
make it out of Pucallpa.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;">
When we arrived in Iquitos, we found a
hotel just off the main square and headed to the port where my potatoes were to be waiting for me. Worried that I had upset
the <i>Mestre</i>, the administrator of the
boat, by my tardiness, I rushed down to the boats asking where the <i>Henry V</i> was docked. I was told that it was not expected until
tomorrow. Ok, the boat was already late,
and they expected it <i>tomorrow</i>? I was nervous. I have learned that when someone says <i>mañana</i> in Peru, it does not mean <i>tomorrow</i> as my Spanish teacher, Mr.
Smith, had told me in highschool. It
means <i>not today</i>. <i>Tomorrow </i>was Saturday, and I had to have them
by then, <i>and</i> get them on a boat. The
fast boat that Jon and I were taking from Iquitos to Caballo Cocha on Sunday
morning did not allow more than twenty kilos of luggage per person. So I was going to have to implore the boat
companies to help me out the same way I had done in Pucallpa. Well, after arguing with the company’s
receptionist as if it would make a difference in the boat’s arrival time, I was
told that the <i>Henry V</i> was pulling into
the dock at that very moment. After
thanking the receptionist for the prompt service, I returned to the pier; and,
sure enough, there was my delivery boat. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> As I waited on land for them to set a
huge stake and anchor the boat to it, I took pictures with my digital
camera. It was a small, inexpensive
camera; but one young man took the time to warn me that thieves were plentiful
and that I should put my camera away soon.
I thanked him and followed his advice.
No sooner had he left my side than another young man appeared, tapped me
on the shoulder, and said, “Excuse me.
Are you that pastor?” I do not know
what “<i>that</i> pastor” meant, but I
recognized him from last year’s camp and said, “Yes. Good to see you again.” He told me that his name was Gian Pier and
that he was going to camp again this year, only not on the fast boat with
me. His boat would take three days, and he was to leave on Saturday. “Wait!
You’re leaving on the slow boat for camp on Saturday?” “Yes.” “…and you can take whatever you want
on the boat without paying extra for it?”
“Yes.” “Great! I have some potatoes for you.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> With the potatoes on their way, and our spirits
encouraged to see the Lord working things out in His timing, we went back to
town and relaxed for the evening.
Saturday turned into our day of tourism.
We tried to visit the Bible Baptist Institute of Iquitos (IBBI in
Spanish), but we were turned away at the door.
A brother met us at the entrance, but he had just arrived at the ministry and
did not have much information; and no one else was at the compound. We left in a taxi and later found ourselves
in a place called Nanay. From Nanay, we
took a small boat called a <i>peke-peke </i>―
because of the sound the motor makes ― to the native community of the Boras. The indigenous Boras enjoy a primitive and
mostly nude life in the jungle. Of
course, the place we visited was so “touristy” that Jon, who had spent some
time in the jungles of Venezuela, joked that they were probably going to take
off their clothes and put on their feathers for us; and as soon as we left,
they would be playing soccer in their blue jeans. As it turns out, it was much more a reality
than a joke; but we didn’t mind. It was
still an interesting experience. One of
the elders, named Rafael, told us that he, too, was a Christian; and we had a
wonderful time listening to the stories he told us about his ancestors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> After our visit with the Boras, we
visited a nature reserve, where many exotic animals are kept in cages on
stilts. We had to walk along wooden
catwalks to get to them. The elevated
zoo is to protect the animals from the rising Amazon River during the months of
May and June. We saw a large anaconda,
but we could not pick it up because it had just eaten a whole chicken. We saw a sloth that kind of resembled Jon (in
fact, his name was Juan), parrots, monkeys, rodents, and even an
alligator. I tried to pick the alligator
up, but it bit me. Don’t worry; it was
only about eight inches long. Besides,
it was more a stunt for my girls than anything, but it really <i>did </i>hurt. His name was Jorge. Jorge in Peru is called Coco (like a
coconut). I thought it was very fitting
since Coco is also the beginning of the word <i>cocodrilo</i>, or crocodile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> When we returned to Nanay, we saw these
fat worms wiggling around in a small tub.
We asked what they were called, and we were presented with four of them
on a stick ― grilled. As I grabbed one
of them by the head and popped the body in my mouth, I cringed at the thought
of being squirted by bug juice. As it
turned out, they were not that bad. They
reminded me of burnt cheese. (No, they
were <i>nothing</i> like chicken.) After a good meal at a local restaurant, we went
back to town. That night, the two
preachers from Lima, Fidel Gómez and Américo Días, were coming in; and in the
morning, we all were to be at the loading dock by 5am for our fast boat to
Caballo Cocha.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Before retiring to our hotel, we found a
nice restaurant called The Yellow Rose of Texas. The owner, Gerald Mayeaux, was a nice man
from Texas; and, having played baseball for the University of Texas, he was a
sports fanatic. His restaurant was
decked out with sports memorabilia from all over the US. Many other countries were represented in one
way or another as well, but the theme was definitely American. It was good to speak English for a time as
Gerald pointed out his most prized possessions: autographed footballs,
baseballs, jerseys, etc…. Jon and I
quickly picked up that Gerald was very opinionated. My father would say, “He might not always be
right, but he’s never in doubt.” He
seemed to slip in a curse word once in a while, and then would say “pardon my
French.” I never knew all those words
were French, too. When he would use a
particularly colorful term, I would say, “As Baptist preachers, <i>we</i> would probably say…” and proceed to
remind him the proper English phrasing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The alarm clock went off way too soon on
Sunday, and we dragged ourselves and our luggage down to the dock. We boarded without incident and by 6am, we
were underway. Our fast boat was much
like a bus on the water. It had ten or
eleven rows of seats, two seats on either side of an aisle, each with a life
jacket draped over the back of it, a restroom in the back (that flushed
directly into the river) and an engine room that stored the large jet engine
that pushed us down river. The first
several hours passed while I tried to sleep.
It was kind of like sleeping in a floating oven. The small window that I was sitting next to
let very little air in, but the sounds and the scenery made up for the
discomfort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The jet engines are preferred over the
outboard motors like those on boats of other companies because they do not get
knocked around and broken by the logs floating down the river. However, once every half hour or so, the captain
would stop the boat, reverse the engine, and blow out all the debris that may
have found its way into the propulsion system.
The whole cycle took only about thirty seconds to complete, but it broke
up the monotony of the trip. About
half-way through our journey, the engine suddenly sounded like it was pulling
too hard. A man whistled from the open
door of the engine room, and the boat was quickly shut off. By that time, smoke was visible in the back
of the boat, and a lady sitting near Jon already had her life jacket on, and
most were standing in the aisle. A
radiator had blown a hole in it, and we had to float down the Amazon for the
next hour until they had it fixed. We
were spinning slowly and getting closer and closer to the shore. By the time we reached the shore, the rear
was leading us down the river, and we climbed on top of the boat to push
against the passing trees to move us away from the shore. We were successful, and after a little longer
delay with the radiator, the engine was fired up again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> It took us about ten hours to get to
Caballo Cocha, and we were glad to get onto dry land again. We stopped and praised the Lord that we had
not taken that four-day boat ride earlier in the week. When Jesse had heard that we were considering
the scenic route to Iquitos, he told Jon, “I could be your tour guide. ‘On the left you’ll see some trees. Over on your right, you’ll see more trees….’” I wonder how long we would have been excited
about our adventure before we said, “Ok, that was neat. Can we get off now?” My guess is that it would have been less than
twenty-four hours. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> In Caballo Cocha, we were taken to a
hotel (I use that word very loosely), where we each had our own room with a
private bathroom. That came as a
welcomed surprise. We had only cold
water, but considering the heat, it was not a concern. The only problem I had was a simple one that
lasted the entire trip ― my cell phone would not work. Since arriving in Iquitos, I could not get a
signal. My poor wife was already worried
about me on this trip, and now I could not even call to say that everything was
all right. Jon had a phone with room
enough for my cell phone chip, so I was able to make and receive calls through
his phone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> That evening, being Sunday, we went to Rock
of Power Baptist Church (that sounds less contemporary in Spanish). I was invited to preach, and that evening, I
brought a message from the book of Jeremiah.
It was a refreshing evening seeing friends from last year’s trip, and
enjoying the fellowship with other brothers in Christ. I have learned that people are people, no
matter where they are found. In the US,
in Huancayo, in the jungle, people are the same: sinners in need of a
Saviour. The majority of the people of
Caballo Cocha were surprisingly young ― many young families and many, many
children. Usually, a population with an
abundance of youths is associated with violence or, at least, petty
crimes. Caballo Cocha was pleasantly
quiet, and even the young people said that there was very little crime
there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Back in our hotel that evening, I
showered and headed right for bed. The
weariness that accompanies travel is hard to get rid of. I tossed and turned, dosing off and on for a
bit before finally getting to sleep. At
about 2am, I woke up and made my way to the bathroom. Without turning any lights on, I noticed a
big black spot on the white wall not far from me. As I returned to the bed, my fear was
confirmed: it was a huge spider. I did
not notice its color because of the darkness, but it was every bit of three
inches in diameter with its legs pulled into a resting position. I grabbed the nearest shoe, and began
smacking it. I probably hit the thing
four times on the wall (which I am sure pleased Pastor Gomez in the adjacent
room), and I hit it another two times on the floor. With my enemy lying on his back with his legs
curled up, looking kind of shriveled, I was satisfied. In the morning, as I went to prepare myself
for the day, I noticed that the spider was gone. Immediately, I concluded that my wife was not
so excessive after all. From that night
on, I would sleep with one eye open and constantly darting around the room in
search of a vengeful spider. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Like last year, I went to the jungle
prepared against mosquito bites. I am
not too fond of the idea of malaria or dengue or yellow fever. So I took some malaria-prevention pills, a
lot of insect repellent, and I even tried out some new mosquito patches. I am not too sure of their effectiveness, but
I received fewer bites than last year, so I am not going to knock them. Anyway, I believe that the
medicine made me ill that first day of camp, and I left early to rest in my
room for a couple of hours. On my way back
to the hotel, I had to go over a long bridge.
Toward the end of the bridge, the brush and marsh-like bed under the bridge turned
into a tributary of a river. Several
children about ten to twelve years of age were jumping off the bridge into the
river about twenty feet below. I asked
the oldest of them how deep the river was at that point. He replied that he had never touched the
bottom. I smiled and walked on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> When Jon returned to the hotel, the
first thing he said was, “Hey, did you see those kids jumping off the
bridge? Tomorrow, I’m going.” Admittedly, I was thrilled at the prospect,
but the next day, when I stepped over the railing of the bridge; I began to
count ― bad idea. “1, 2, 3,… 4,
5...” I could <i>not</i> let go. I really wanted
to; I just could not do it. It was as if
my hands would not obey my brain. Jon
got on the bridge next to me and said, “Here I go!” So I jumped.
Sorry, Mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> While we jumped repeatedly off the
bridge, I began to ask the children questions about the wild life in the area. I asked them if they were afraid of the
piranha. They said no. They were more leery of the anaconda. However, most frightening of all, they said,
was the <i>canero</i>, a parasitic fish that
seemed to be more legend than fact. It <i>does</i> exist and it has been found inside
a human <i>once</i>; but, personally, I
believe the fear is an exaggerated one.
The canero is said to be attracted to the scent of urine and will follow
the scent of human urine and will introduce itself into the urethra. Others claim they will enter the mouth or the
nose or the ear and that they can be deadly.
Whether it is true or not, it would be a good story to tell the children
to keep them from urinating in the pool.
When I heard about it, I suddenly had second thoughts about jumping off
the bridge. But the next day, I was back, diving off headfirst. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Fellowship among brothers in Christ from
different cultures can be interesting and quite educational. I learned not to eat with my left hand from a
Middle Eastern brother. I learned not to
toss things to people from a Peruvian. I
learned to hand things off using both hands from an Indian. I learned not to smile at everybody you meet
from an Asian brother. What I have
learned most is to observe others and not to criticize what is not understood. A brother went to Mexico to “help” in a
building project. He was a mason by
trade, so he sincerely wanted to teach the Mexicans a few things to help
perfect their techniques. It was pure
selflessness. However, when he showed
them how to use the plum line to get the bricks just right, the nationals
shrugged, threw his plum line down a hole and kept building. In the end, they put stucco over the whole
wall, and no one ever saw the crooked bricks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Though we are all of different cultural
backgrounds, Christ’s love and forgiveness transcends all cultures. However, the <i>sharing</i> of that message <i>is</i>
cultural. While living in a Catholic
culture for the past eight years, I have noticed that many Peruvians are
willing to “embrace Christ” and continue in Catholicism. The main reason is that they see what we know
as true salvation as simply one more step toward heaven. The temptation is for preachers to turn to
Calvinism to counteract. That is one
issue that we faced this year during our conversations with the pastors. We just went back to the basics of grace
and faith. If salvation is presented
correctly in any culture, it will be understood correctly: for God’s Word will
not return unto Him void.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> These cultural differences are found in
nearly every aspect of life. As you may
have noticed in my writing style, I love humor; and I think we have some great
jokes in English. When I tell a joke in
Peru, I have to be ready to explain it; or they might not understand it. I think Jon and I laughed more at the fact
that no one got our jokes than at the jokes themselves. When we tell jokes in English, the funniest
ones are the ones that you deduce by logic and reasoning. Peruvians are not ignorant people, but
deductive reasoning does not come into play when listening to a story that
someone else is telling you. I still do
not get how they don’t understand; they just don’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> A
blind man went to Texas for the first time.
When he reached his room at the hotel, he said, “Wow, this is a BIG bed!” The reply was, “Sir, <i>everything’s</i> big in Texas.”
The man, still wondering at the size of his plush accommodations, went
downstairs to the dining room. When he
was handed a cup of coffee, he exclaimed, “Wow, this is a BIG coffee cup!” The reply was, “Sir, <i>everything’s</i> big in Texas.”
Sitting there marveling at this new experience, he asked where he might
find the restroom. The waitress told him
that he needed to go down the hall and that the restroom was the second door on
the right. He went down the hall but
accidentally went to the third door on the right and fell into the swimming
pool. He frantically began to cry out,
“Don’t flush! Don’t flush!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;">
Now, at this point, an American would likely be
laughing. My dear Peruvian brothers were
still looking at me with anticipation, waiting for the funny part. Then I said “…because he thought he had
fallen into a really bit toilet.” <i>Now</i>, everyone is laughing! You might have to find new ways to illustrate
things in a new culture, but truth is truth, sin is sin, God is love, and humor
is still humor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Back to Caballo Cocha…. The town of Caballo Cocha is named for the
small lagoon near which it is located, and it is known for its pink
dolphins. No joke ― pink dolphins. Now, when I got home and told my girls, they
asked, “Um, Daddy. Did someone besides
you call them pink? You know you’re
colorblind, right?” But they really are
pink; I saw them. Of course, I thought
they were grey. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> I was impressed with the dolphins, the
hard-working people, the little children who could guide a canoe a lot better
than I could, the humility of the most educated among them, and the mutual
respect that everyone seemed to enjoy. I
went to the bank one afternoon to pick up a deposit. I waited in line for nearly a half an hour
before I realized that I had left the account number in a text message in Jon’s
phone. I left my spot in line, went back
to camp, retrieved the message, and returned to the bank. Since I had left nearly thirty minutes
earlier, the line had grown considerably, and I was not looking forward to
waiting another half an hour or more to get the money. But there was only one bank in the whole
town, and I needed to get the deposit, so I went to the back of the line. A lady walked out of the bank, and when she
saw me, she came over to say, “Your line is already inside. Come with me.” I followed her, feeling like everyone was
looking at me, screaming under their breath, “<i>Cola! Cola!</i>” which means
“Get to the back of the line!” However,
when I sheepishly raised my eyes to look at the others, now behind me, everyone
was motioning for me to go into the bank and resume my place in the line! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The camp site sits right on the lagoon;
and to get to the hotel a little more than a mile away, a passing mototaxi would take us for
about eighty cents. The problem was
finding a passing mototaxi. When there
was none, we had to walk that mile. The route
took us along a wide sidewalk beside some elevated houses, right along the
water’s edge, then through town to the square.
It was a delightful walk, but a long one. On one occasion, a young man driving his
mototaxi stopped and asked where I was going.
I replied that I was heading to the Pheonix hotel, and he told me to
climb in. I had never met the man, but
he knew that I was a preacher because I was a white man and because I was
walking from the campground that is known around town as Monte Carmelo (Mount
Carmel), the Baptist Camp. He dropped me
off and said, “No charge.” Later in the
week, a couple of men were taking their motorized cart into town. Jon and I were soaking wet from our diving
practice, and they gave us a ride to the hotel as well. There seemed to be a respect for preachers in
Caballo Cocha. I was pleased ― not for
the benefits we received, but for those men’s sake that God had placed there to
minister. How encouraging it can be to
feel honored and welcome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> On one of the days at camp, while I was
teaching about God’s call on a preacher, I mentioned a meal that I had shared
with another missionary in Lima. The
church that had invited us sat all the pastors at a separate table. As everyone was being fed a delicious meal of
chicken and rice and other vegetables, everyone at our table was given a big
fried trout. Then, we heard someone say,
“Man, I want to be a pastor, too!” The
point I was making in my lesson was that God’s calling was “not of him that
willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that sheweth mercy.” Now, I know that Romans 9:16 is in reference
to salvation, but wanting trout instead of chicken is <i>not</i> an evidence of God’s call.
And yes, there are some places in the world where people still remove
their hats for the preacher, or give him the bigger portion or the nicest room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> A brother that lives and works in the
border towns near Santa Rosa had come to camp with his pastor. His pastor is a dear friend of mine and
happens to share my name, but he spells it wrong: <i>Marcos</i>. Anyway, this brother
was sitting at the table with us one day, and I asked him about camp, about the
teaching, about the town, etc. Somehow,
we got onto the subject of the river and all the exotic animals there. I wanted to know which creature he feared the
most, so I asked him about the piranha, the anaconda, the canero, and which was
the one that gave him the most pause when he wanted to jump into the
lagoon. He replied, “The dolphins!” … I bit my cheek as hard as I could and asked as
innocently as possible, “The pink ones?”
“Yes!” He was serious. The dolphins were what scared him the
most. I tried to explain that dolphins
were known to be one of the most intelligent ― not to mention one of the most
playful ― animals in the world. With all
the life-threatening creatures in that area of the world, he was afraid the
pink dolphins?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;">
I had arrived at camp with a cold. Now, I enjoy preaching, and I enjoy singing;
but I could not do either one very well when we began our lessons. I kept the first lesson short but soon
realized that the more I preached, the better I could speak. When I stood up to speak, I could be understood,
probably because of the way one projects his voice in public speaking. Anyway, when I would talk normally to someone
in a private conversation, I could not make the sounds come out of my mouth,
just air and squeaks. So, the next day,
I taught for an hour and fifteen minutes.
Many people asked me to sing a special or to lead the music, but as much
as I wanted to, I could not. Now, I know
too many musicians to ever think myself a good singer; but in the jungles of
Peru, I could be a professional for all the townspeople know. On the last day of camp, in the evening
service, I was finally able to sin, so I sang “No One Ever Cared For Me Like
Jesus.” My voice had returned, though
not in full strength. The Lord allowed
me to forget the words to the first verse to keep me humble. I had to start over again; but in the end, I
believe the song was a blessing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> After our week in Caballo Cocha, we took
a fast boat to the border town of Santa Rosa.
Santa Rosa is on the southwest side of the Amazon River in Peru. Across the river is Leticia, Columbia, and
just to the south and east on the same shore as Columbia is Tabatinga,
Brazil. My friend, Marcos Vela, works in this
tri-border area, planting churches and training men for the ministry of the
Gospel. Last year, God showed me a true
servant in Marcos. This year, our
friendship grew even more. We stayed at
a hotel not far from his house in Tabatinga.
While we were there, Marcos told us about the difficulties of preaching
in the area, specifically because of the many ethnic groups. There are three countries, three different
currencies, several different languages, and several different cultures. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> On one occasion, he had seen a
motorcycle shop setting up a display to promote the motorcycles that were on
sale. The owner had rented one of those
air blowers and a balloon clown or tube man that you see in the US at many outdoor events
or advertisement. You know, those
inflatable tube men that seem to bow and dance because of the air forced
through them? Well, the clown was still
lying on the ground waiting to be given life by the air machine when an Indian
came walking by carrying tapioca to sell in the market. His curiosity got the best of him, and he
watched intently as the workers began setting up their props. When they turned the air on, that balloon
clown rose to the sky and began to wave his arms like some angry spirit. That Indian dropped his tapioca and took off
running in the first direction his feet would take him. Marcos almost crashed the motorcycle he was
riding because he was laughing so hard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> On Saturday night, we went to church in Santa
Rosa, Peru, where I had visited last year.
I was so impressed with the ministry there that I encouraged my church
in Huancayo to buy two oscillating fans for the auditorium. Sometimes, our people complain about the
cold, the rain, the heat, the distance… whatever excuse they can find for not
coming to church. Those in Santa Rosa,
walk through mud to get to church every week.
And in the rainy months, the church members have to take canoes to
church because the island is mostly covered by water. They sit through smoldering heat, and not one
of them looks unhappy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> On Sunday morning, after a hearty
breakfast at Marcos’ house, we visited a mission work in an island town called Fujimori. The island is fairly new, created by the land
erosion and movements of the Amazon River.
The rainy months have the same effects as in Santa Rosa. Before Pastor Días and I preached that
morning, we were all invited to our second breakfast of fish, rice and
bananas. All five of the pastors that
had eaten an hour ago looked at each other, wondering how he was going to force
down <i>another</i> meal. However, this time, we were eating palometa, a
close relative of the piranha. So it was
sort of like turning the tables somewhat and taking vengeance on nature. Whatever the menu, and no matter how
delicious, we were more than satisfied with food for a while.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> That afternoon, we visited a church in
Leticia, Columbia where Pastor Américo Días preached again. He brought a very good message, and there was
a sweet spirit among the brethren. I had
many good memories of the members of that church from my previous visit, and it
was good to see the them all still being faithful. Traveling around Leticia was interesting. The fact that it lies on the Amazon River and there are no roads in or out means that there are very few cars. One would have to bring one in on a boat, and then the roads are full of motorcycles - not rickshaws, motorcycles. When you flag down a taxi, the motorcycle driver hands you a helmet (it's the law), and you hop on the back. Now, <i>that</i> was interesting. The back tire of the motorcycle I was riding blew out as we were pulling up to church. The brother that had taken me made it clear that my weight probably had something to do with it. But, in South America, that's not offensive. He is just stating the facts. I try to explain to them why strange Americans get so upset when someone tells them, "You're a little chubby, aren't you?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Later that evening, we took a boat back
over to Tabatinga, Brazil, then walked about forty minutes to Igleja Batista
Emanuel (Emmanuel Baptist Church). The
pastor asked me to introduce our group and explain the purpose of our visit to
that area of the Amazon; but since I do not speak much Portuguese, it was very
brief. The service was well-attended and
the pastor did not preach long (maybe those go hand in hand.) I interpreted what I could for Jon. I am not sure if he was impressed or if he
was wondering if I was just making up my own message; but he asked, “You speak
Portuguese?” Well, no; but it kind of
sounds like Spanish with a bad accent, so I got the main ideas of the
message. Thankfully, it was a simple
salvation message emphasizing the importance of the cross of Christ.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> That same day we walked all the way from
Columbia to Brazil and back. Of course,
it was only about fifteen blocks, but it sounds more impressive if you leave
that part out. So, in one day, we were
able to visit churches in Peru, Columbia and Brazil. That was a first for me. That afternoon, Américo and I were taking a
picture on the Columbian/Brazilian border.
Américo said, “Isn’t <i>that</i>
interesting? An American and a Peruvian
at the Columbian/Brazilian border.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> While Américo and Fidel went up river a
couple hours to a Columbian town called Puerto Nariño to visit a pastor, Jon
and I spent the next day in Tabatinga and in Leticia. I bought my girls and my wife each a
skirt. I kept the receipt because it
cost me 28,000 pesos! (That was only
like $14USD, but was still an impressive receipt.) We settled in early that evening because our
twelve-hour boat ride back to Iquitos began at 3:30am in Peru. We had to be at the dock at 2am to catch a
boat in Brazil that would take across the river. So, we were up at 1:15am.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> I was not looking forward to the
trip. In all sincerity, I was ready to
be home with my wife and kids. The food
on the fast boats was not bad, it was just kind of bland and predictable: a
small piece of meat, a lot of rice and a baked banana. The open windows did not seem to attract much
wind, and the seats are like coach seats on a cheap airline with hardly any
cushion or recline. Besides, by the time
we got to the boat, Jon and I were both still tired after our three-hour nap
that night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> The same crew that brought us from
Iquitos was the one taking us back. In a
way, that brought me some peace of mind.
I figured that they had learned their lesson from our previous trip and
would be more cautious to avoid overheating.
Well, they were certainly more cautious, stopping every twenty minutes,
and even resting with the motors shut down for a half an hour or so to cool the
engine off. Our boat ride would stretch
to fourteen hours; and this time, since there were no ruptured radiators to
give us an excuse to climb on top of the boat, we didn’t stand up <i>once</i>.
It took me a minute or two to find my legs when we docked in
Iquitos. We grabbed our luggage and
headed up the steps to the street where dozens of mototaxis were waiting to
charge me my left leg to get to the town square. I was tempted to give it to them because it
wasn’t doing me any good at the moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Our flight to Lima, where Jon would get
a flight to Andahuaylas and where I would catch a bus to Huancayo, was to leave at
10:30pm, so Jon and I found our way back to The Yellow Rose of Texas to eat
some excellent barbecue ribs and, of course, to see our buddy, Gerald. He kindly obliged us to an earful of
French-riddled English before we went to the airport.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> When we picked up our boarding passes at
the airline’s counter, we were given a seat assignment in row 23 ― no seat
letter, just “Row 23”. When we boarded
the plane, we understood. They do not
care where you sit, as long as you sit in that row. We sat down, and in a little while longer, we
were in the air.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> Upon arriving in Lima, I called my wife
to let her know that I would catch a bus at noon and be home by supper. She reminded me that I had told her that I
would be home that morning and asked that if it were at all possible to leave
right away. I told her that I wanted to
rest; she replied that I could rest when I got home. I said I wanted to take a shower; she told me
that we had a shower at the house.
Honestly, she made too much sense; so I found a car at midnight leaving
for Huancayo and jumped in the front seat.
The driver was nice, but he did not know how to cut curves on the
mountain road. He took each curve as
fast as he could while staying in the lines.
With my head bouncing off the window and then off his shoulder every few
seconds, I got very little sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-align: justify;"> When the car finally stopped in
Huancayo, and my head stopped spinning, I found a taxi to take me to my
house. On my trip to the jungle, I rode
in many vehicles: buses, motorcycles, boats, cars, and airplanes. The entire day after I arrived, I felt like I
was still moving, even when I was lying in bed.
When I walked into my house, I found a big welcome banner hanging from
the ceiling just inside the door. There
was also a table filled with cinnamon rolls, peanut butter cookies, and a sweet
potato pie. There was also a happy woman
and three smaller versions of her smiling very broadly. In Caballo Cocha. and in my house, people sure
know how to make a preacher feel welcome!</div>
Markos Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06960879970200772269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6153445216510362667.post-41664405804130134212014-04-26T15:51:00.003-07:002014-04-26T15:51:34.902-07:008 years passed - a lifetime to go...Well,<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My Family and I have been in Peru for eight years now, seven of which we have spent in the beautiful Andes Mountains. We are Independent Baptist Missionaries sent out of Lighthouse Baptist Church of Indianapolis, Indiana. Our goal is to evangelize the lost, make disciples out of new converts, and teach them to grow in the Lord as we plant churches in the Mantaro Valley, all the while trying to fight off the devil and make a Christian home for our three little girls. We are healthy and happy, and I hope we are making a difference where we live. The name of our city is Huancayo (pronounced Wan KAY yo). </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This blog started with the simple idea that we have a lot of things to share, but not everyone wants to sit and listen to our stories for hours on end. So for those of you who have an interest in our life and ministry - Thank you. Things are happening everyday, and the Lord has blessed us with a wonderful ministry. Whenever we are asked, "How long do you plan to stay in Peru?" our answer is "For life!" If the Lord were to send me elsewhere, I will pack up my family and move; but not until then. I came to stay. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Stay tuned for more. I have an 11-page blog that I have yet to post about my most recent trip to the Peruvian jungle. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In Christ,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Markos for the Lindseys</div>
Markos Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06960879970200772269noreply@blogger.com0