OK. I'm not sure how much time you have, but here is my Jungle Trip blog. Enjoy.
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.
The Amazonía, 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.
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.
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 Department is like a State in the US; so a province is sort of like a US county.]
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.
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.
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 horse in Spanish, and Cocha is
lagoon 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
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.
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.
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.
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 no 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?”
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 could
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.
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.
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 mototaxi [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 hot. 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.
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.
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 mototaxi,
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, don’t answer the
phone!” Of course, this 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.
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 Mestre, the administrator of the
boat, by my tardiness, I rushed down to the boats asking where the Henry V was docked. I was told that it was not expected until
tomorrow. Ok, the boat was already late,
and they expected it tomorrow? I was nervous. I have learned that when someone says mañana in Peru, it does not mean tomorrow as my Spanish teacher, Mr.
Smith, had told me in highschool. It
means not today. Tomorrow was Saturday, and I had to have them
by then, and 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 Henry V 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.
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 “that 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.”
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 peke-peke ―
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.
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 did 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 cocodrilo, or crocodile.
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 nothing 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.
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, we would probably say…” and proceed to
remind him the proper English phrasing.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 not 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.
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 canero, a parasitic fish that
seemed to be more legend than fact. It does exist and it has been found inside
a human once; 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.
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.
Though we are all of different cultural
backgrounds, Christ’s love and forgiveness transcends all cultures. However, the sharing of that message is
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.
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.
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, everything’s 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, everything’s 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!”
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.” Now, 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.
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.
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, “Cola! Cola!” 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!
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.
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 not 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.
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: Marcos. 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 another 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.
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, that 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?"
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.
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 that
interesting? An American and a Peruvian
at the Columbian/Brazilian border.”
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.
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.
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 once.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
