Here is Peru

The End

2007-05-18T09:06:00.000-07:00

My arrival in the U.S. has precipitated a slow and surprising descent into modern affluence. Running water (hot or cold?), Light at the flip of a switch, the amazing roadway system, no cracked windshields; my surprise on arrival may only be understood with a perspective of where I came from.

This blog's primary function has been to chronicle in some way the events of the past 9 months. The snapshots of my life which it contains are often blurred, and never sufficient. Peru has many internet cafe's, but the minimal price hardly makes up for the sluggish connection which plauged us the majority of the time. I have spent many hours throughout Peru trying to communicate with the "Outside" world, trying to understand what was happening in a far-off home, trying to recount what was happening in my own world. I will never regret the effort.

This is an ending. My year, to my own surprise, has come to an end. Experiences precipitate changes; as long as I can remember the experiences, I know the changes will remain with me.

And so, without further ado.....

the end.

Lessons from Peru

2007-05-06T16:57:00.000-07:00

This year's passage has come suddenly, I have been here an eternity, I have been here but a moment. Lessons learned usually come hard, and never without a repetition or struggle. When I return to the United States, the passage of time might all too easily erase that struggle and it's accompanying lessons. I will enumerate a few lessons, and then try to explain why I find them so important, and so difficult.

1. Live Simply. I realize Prioritization is easier here. Nevertheless, I idealize, maintaining the superior lifestyle of good sleep, food, companionship, and daily cold showers.

2. Communicate Directly. Vague communication precipitates vague conclusions, leaving both parties feeling vaguely resentful, forever to roil in endless vaguery. Unfortunatly, hinting and speaking indirectly are often mistaken for courtesy, resulting in nothing but prolonged misunderstanding.

3. Embrace your own Weakness. God has an impeccable track record when his power united to people who realized they were absolute wimps.

Why is this so difficult?

1. Life, especially in the U.S., is busy. In fact, you probably think everything you do that makes you so busy is quite important. In many cases, I just like being busy. But, "business" can be like static on the radio. If you are too busy, you might not get a clear reception from God.

2. I don't like to hurt people. I want to please everyone. In fact, laying your thoughts out on the table can be painful. However, I beleive that ultimately, clear communication is absolutely necessary to maintain healthy relationships.

3. Weakness and insufficiency are never espoused as being ideal character traits. It stings to be told you are a wimp, but why? Pride? Absolutely. Like Gideon, we have to own up to being "the least". Until we let go of our own self-sufficiency, we can't excell for God.

What do you think? Why?

2007-04-29T12:34:00.000-07:00

Feeling Heraclitian? If so, you may enjoy a few of his cryptic sayings.

"Death is all things we see awake; all we see asleep is sleep."

"Lifetime is a child at play, moving pieces in a game. Kingship belongs to the child".

"The way up and down are one and the same."

I don't like this one--

"The same... living and dead, and the waking and sleeping, and young and old."

I really like this one for it's masterful brevity--

"It is disease that makes health sweet and good, hunger satiety, weariness rest."

What do you think? Why?

What about Parmenides. Anthony Gottlieb says "He (Parmenides) held that one cannot meaningfully think or say anything about 'what is not'. In his view, this would amount ot speaking of nothing, and a man who speaks or thinks of nothing does not succeed in speaking or thinking at all." (The Dream of Reason, p. 26).

Ok, that is his hypothesis, ready yourself for some wild (but very logical) conclusions.

1. Everything is Eternal.

2. Nothing can Change.

3. Nothing Moves.

Now before you dismiss this as nonsense (as it evidently is to our common sense), address his hypothesis. What do you think? Why?

For dessert, some Zenian paradox.

In loyal defense of his teacher Parmenides, Zeno came up with some ingenious paradoxes which seem to deny the reality of motion. The passage of the ages, and the development of the Calculus have brought a few issues to light, but the paradoxes continue to be what they originally were, "paradoxical".

1. Zeno approached the famous runner Achilles at a national greek tournament before the start of a foot-race. Beginning to reason with him, Zeno seems to pursue the following line of reasoning. Before Achilles can run the full distance, he must run half, and before he can run half, he must run 1/4, and before he can run that distance, he must run 1/8 the distance ad infinitum. Achilles is in trouble. He evidently must cross an infinite number of distances before he may reach the finish. How is motion even possible?

2. The second paradox imagines an arrow in flight. For the sake of theory, imagine the arrow frozen in a particular moment, and in a particular section of space exactly the length of the arrow. As you analyze each instant in the flight of the arrow, you realize that in each moment, the arrow occupies a different space. When does the arrow have time to move?

What do you think? Why?

Philosophy

2007-04-29T11:49:00.000-07:00

Note: Peru has proven to be an excellent forum for philosophy. Well balanced by a rigorous work-load, daily devotionals, and good sleep, I can participate in philosophical gymnastics, but manage to land on my feet every day on the mat of life.

"Philosopher" is a word often saddled by an unusally heavy load of connotations. Embittered crictics who decry the entire undertaking as "the endless spinning of dusty cobwebs" would be far from the mark except for a few of history's more ambitiously vague and archane so-called "philosophers". Today, philosophy is distrusted by some, and with cause, because of the hazy blanket of Rationalization, in which many of it's modern-day proponents are firmly ensconsced.

I wish to take a fresh look at the issue, stripping away layers of preconceived connotation which the word has accrued on it's long and wending path through the milenia.

William James, a psychologist by profesion, described philosophy as "a peculiarly stubborn effort to think clearly". I like that. Thinking clearly is the most important life skill. In this sense, philosophy is an attitude that demands questions, chews them for a while, and then forms an answer that is based on good reasoning, formed from a plausible hypothesis. In this light, philosophy may be seen as the minds filter, straining through muddy issues in an effort to separate the drinkable and the pathogenic.

Philosophy may not be seen as it's own field, unless the term is used loosely, as to accomadate numerous other fields of inquiry. Anthony Gottlieb puts it well in his history of philosophy "The Dream of Reason".

"The traditional image of it (philosphy) as a sort of meditative science of pure thought, strangely cut off from other subjects, is largely a trick of the historical light. The illusion is created by the way we look at the past, and in particular by the way in which knowledge tends to be labelled, chopped-up, and re-labbeled. ... Yesterday's moral philosophy becomes tomorrow's Jurisprudence or welfare economics. Yesterday's philosophy of mind becomes tomorrow's cognitive science. And the road runs in both directions: new inquiries in other disciplines prompt new questions for the philosophically curious." (Gottlieb, ix).

Whether or not philosophers have traditionally followed these terms in unimportant. I choose to make philosophy the tool by which I clarify my opinions, not muddy them. I also choose to apply the same rules for clearheaded thinking to a broader range of life than the field to which philosophy is traditionally limited.

Most importantly, I choose to base my thinking in "the Fear of God". The great philosopher Solomon, said "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge: but fools despise wisdom and instruction". (Prov. 1:7). God is the ultimate reality, and many is the great philosopher who ultimately fell into distraction by failing to realize it. I acknowledge him as the beginning, the end, the ultimate dimension, the creator, and ultimately the redeemer.

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths". (Prov 3:5-6 emphasis added).

Alexander von Humboldt

2007-04-10T18:33:00.000-07:00

In his book Brave Companions, David Mccullough dedicates one of his biographical shorts to the extraordinary life of Alexander von Humboldt.
Through Mccullough, I knew I had gained a great friend and aquaintance, indeed, one of histories' greatest.
In his twenties, Humboldt set off with a companion named Aimè Bonpland, for South America; backed by his newly-inherited fortune, and his inquisitive mind.
Over the next five years, Humboldt explored the Amazon, hiked through the Central Andes of Peru, attempted to climb Mt Chimborazo (nearly succeding), and simultaneously collected countless specimens and observations. After a succesful, but dangerous trip throughout the Amazon (they had, among other things, experimented with electric eels, receiving massive electric shocks for their pains), Humboldt and Bonpland sent their wealth of aquired specimens back, along with a letter explaining they didn't expect to survive further exploration; and then, continued on.

Later in life, Humboldt wrote the 5-volume encyclopedia called "Kosmos", bringing together the various branches of learning in the world, into one vast compendium. He died, at age 89, still working on volume 5.

I admire Humboldt for his obvious passion for learning. His prolific life was filled with the pursuit of knowledge and understanding. He was a giant of his day, but seems forgotten, relegated to that class which lived in the quaintly dim light of this painting, long, long ago.

Specialization has created some problems. I cannot know everything. However, I hope that I can somehow adopt the attitude of Humboldt, the attitude that motivated him to push through mosquito infested jungles, and over frozen tundra above 19,000 feet. May learning, and pushing the boundaries of my field (whether academic or physical) become my life's vocation.

Love, John

2007-04-08T21:02:00.000-07:00

Hey Mom and Dad, Paul, and Barry.
I write from an internet Cafè in Iquitos, the world's largest city whose only access to the "outside" is the river and air. It is incredible to consider that everything came by boat or plane.

The trip was truly incredible. Let me try to outline it for you, although I think it may be difficult to delineate the days because of the lazy and obtuse nature of the journey.

Day 1-2. Monday-Tuesday. We pack up and leave Km. 38 for Pucallpa. In peru, it is highly advisable to get to the launch 6 hours early (dad might just love it here?). You then have a good chance to chose a good hammock spot, before the myriad of mothers, children, fathers, cows, pigs, chickens, and giant bundles of plàtino arrive. We accordingly arrived at about 10:00 A.M. to hang our hammocks.

Multiple considerations come to bear when choosing your hammock spot. Not to close to the bathrooms (they stink), not to far away from the bathrooms (you have to crawl under hammocks, over plàtino, and into various oddities before releiving your need). Not to close to the lights, (they frequently leave them on all night), avoid speakers at all costs (they blare music all night). Get close to the windows. Face away from the TV, infamous for endlessly showing gratuitously violent films, or music videos of boring, explicit, and undadulterated love making.

Once we had puzzled through where to hang our hammocks, we took shifts of leave, always leaving someone at the boat to watch the gear, while the others made last minute preperations for the trip (e.g. buy a bag of Soda crackers, extra water, eat one more Menù, go to C`est Si Bon for one more icecream, email home one last time).

The original plan for the trip had been to take the whole group. Dr. Matthews (fondly known as Doctòr), Jenni, Karen, Anthony, Ansley, Jackson, Alex, Ryan, and myself. As the date of preperation neared, we found, to our consternation, that Dr. Matthews had to attend examinations in Lima, and so was unable to come. Jenni was sick, we didn't know if she would make it. Karen and Anthony had to leave for Lima the next Monday on a bus, and weren't sure the timing would work.

And so we found ourselves, in a state of instability, compounded by the fact that the boat, which was advertised to leave at 5:00 P.M. this Sunday, did not leave that night, nor the next day, and only at 10:30 P.M . the next night. The problem, as it appeared to me, was that a truck bearing cargo for the launch was delayed, and the launch master, unwilling to leave the cargo, opted rather to wait, at some expense of the passengers. Ansley and Alex decried my interpretation, and proceeded to tell a darker story, (which I think was probably more accurate). "Not satisfied", they said, "to leave with such a paltry assortment of passengers and cargos (the launch was crammed), the master, or captain, had decided to wait until his craft was more amply supplied, at the considerable mercy of the passengers". To Ansley and Alex, forgive the paraphrase, I don't know exactly how you phrased it.

Whatever the case, we eventually found ourselves leaving approximately 34 hours after our intended departure. Jenni, who had stuck with us for the entire period of waiting eventually considered she was too sick to go along. Anthony and Karen also jumped ship (2 hours before departure), on the impression that they would not have enough time to get back for the bus on monday. Consequently, Ansley found herself (as I fear she often does), in the midst of 4 boys, heading for a place we didn't know, on a big, endlessly moving, river.

Day 3. Wednesday. I woke up in my hammock surrounded by strangeness--- bumped into Ryan (lying in his hammock in close proximity to myself), was startled from my sleepy fog by the vigorous banging of the cook's metal spoon, on the cook's metal pot. This, then, was the signal for breakfast. My back hurt, and the acrid smell of cigarette smoke played and sizzled in my nose. Time for me to get used to life on a launch.

Spent the day, as I would spend most days on the launch, alternatively reading, gazing at the passing scenery from the freedom of the deck, or sleeping in my hammock.

We arrived at our destination that evening, a little town on the river named Inahuaya. Carrying our baggage, we walked down the plank connecting us with the boat and the river bank, the eyes of silent and listless passengers following us all the way.

Checked into a small hostel, made the aquaintance of our supossed guide (a sprightly fellow named "Caiman"), and went out to find food. Took a refreshing shower from a barrel (using a pitcher), the water was river water, disgustingly brown. Caiman seems to have high hopes for the following day, I sleep in restless anticipation.

Day 4. Thursday. The adventures of today surpassed all adventures of the trip. We were headed for Hot Springs, to be reached by a "Chalupa", or as we might say in Maine, an aluminum skiff powered by 40 horses.

We boarded the skiff with 3 others, the boat guide, a man named Julio Navarra, and a friend of a man by the name of Walter. Permit me an excursus.

The boat guide: typical Peruvian build, slight, but quite apparently very strong indeed.
Julio Navarra: A fellow with interesting history. Knew Dr. Matthews and Jenni quite well. Had nearly been baptised as an Adventist, but was dissuaded or unpermitted for some unknown reason. Had run for the political position of Alcalde (Governor or Mayor) of his town or district and lost. Seemed to be of sufficiently ample financial means, but appeared to live in a tavern.
Friend of Walter: Jackson had worked with Walter before we arrived, but had not known where he lived. We encountered him here in Inahuaya and enjoyed his company over the next several days. He intended to come with us on the chalupa, but at the moment of departure had vanished, leaving us to wonder, as we sped down the river. His friend, had not departed, and we were fated to spend the day with him, who seemed to be altogether a nice fellow.

We headed down the river, taking about an hour to arrive at a little town downriver from Inahuaya. From there, we hiked over some steep hills to arrive at the hot springs, which proved to be some of the most amazing I have ever seen.

Apparently, the water was heated by some sort of volcanic action beneath the earth, and seeped out in various places in a small river. Seepage was sufficient enough that at one spot we absolutely could not immerse ourselves. Julio took us further upstream to a place where a cooler stream flowed in, and here, we were finally were able to relax in the hot stream. The idea was strange enough, it was hot enough outside, but somehow the hot water was enjoyable, and we soaked, explored, and jumped off waterfalls. It was, quite frankly, incredible.

We left there at about 2:00 P.M. for our chalupa. Once arrived, the motor wouldn't start, despite the concerted efforts of Julio, our Boat guide, Jackson, and myself, the most effort by far being expended by Julio and the Boat guide. Nothing worked. It rained, with the savage tempetuosity so familiar to the jungle. Finally, at about 4:00, we got a peki-peki, a long canoe strangely equipped with even stranger motor. (See previous blog). We loaded the Chalupa on top of the peki-peki, and set off for Inahuaya, this time against the current, and with a very heavily laden, small-motored boat.

The next 4 hours were terrible. The rain soaked us, the wind chilled us, and the warm Peruvian sun went to bed. Jackson and I sat enthroned on the Chalupa, which sat precariously on top of the Peki-peki. I at least had my raincoat, (not to mention a synthetic t-shirt), but jackson was clad in a green cotton t-shirt and boardshorts. Needless to say, we were all very, very, cold. Jackson and I, shaking uncontrollably, opted to lye down on the floor of the chalupa and cuddle. I am not ashamed of the fact, because I know it gave us each vital warmth that could be obtained in no other way.

Finally, arriving in Inahuaya, we ran back to our rooms, and changed into warm, dry, clothes.

Day 5: Friday.
Alex, Ryan, and I spent this day waiting at the port for a launch to take us on to Iquitos. Jackson and Ansley, already aquainted with the place, opted to wait in Inahuaya over the weekend before heading back to Pucallpa by launch. Jackson and Ansley were with us almost all day, companiably swatting the mosquitos that had launched an all-out attack. Around 5:00 P.M., they assumed the launch would not come before sabbath, and although they said their adieus before going back to the hostel, we all expected to spend the weekend there before leaving to our respective destinations. Around 5:30, the launch appeared around the bend in the river, and we were able to board, pay our tickets, and set up our hammocks before the arrival of the Sabbath.

Days 6-7: Sabbath-Sunday. We spent these days restfully floating down the river. Because this is "Semana Santa", (the week observed over the day of passover), not many people were on this second launch, which proved to be a real blessing. We had room to stretch out and meander about. On our same boat, were the first Gringos we had encountered in our journeyings. Suitably eclectic, they brought color and humor to our lives. A social worker from Spain (he had a closely shaven head with dreadlocks hanging down the back), a cabinent maker from Canada, and two social workers from the Netherlands.

We arrived in Iquitos the same day of my writing, that is, Sunday evening, at about 6:00 P.M. We are checked into a nice hostel, which should house us until we intend to fly back to Pucallpa.

Forgive the extraordinary length of this epistle, there was a lot to tell.

Love, John

Gocta

2007-04-01T12:07:00.000-07:00

I must give Alban total credit for these pictures. Although I had recuperated to the extent that I could stagger down the trail (in the rear), I had not the energies to exercise photographic inclination. At least I had the good sense to turn the camera over to Alban, who captured all of the following brilliant photos.

Gocta falls was accessed by steep and treacherous trails, however, it proved well worth the effort. The falls are composed of two cascades, the composite of which seems to be the recorded height. We hiked in to the bottom of the second cascade, although there is also a trail to the upper cascade as well. Anonymity has lent special charm to this experience. Like Cinque Terra in Italy (at least a few years ago), not many people have been to this spectacular natural wonder. In a few years, this sight will be overun by tourists, driving by to snap a picture on the paved road, or the affluent taking a helicopter ride for really spectacular views. As for myself, I was blissfully happy to stumble down the muddy trail in search of an amazing falls which few know anything about.

Gocta.

The Countryside.

The trail, beleive it or not.

Chan Chan

2007-04-01T11:36:00.000-07:00

Chan Chan, ancient, vast (the largest adobe city in the world), brown, dusty, and I feel sick. Pardon my excursus, and let me explain.

We were in Trujillo, and so had to go to visit Chan Chan, a prominent archeological site here in Peru. It is on the coast, so the inhabitants ancient did some fishing. They left us a legacy of vast brown walls stretching over 20 Km, a few parts of which were covered by a milieu of fertility symbols, fish, and pelicans. It was stupendous, to say the least.

Note the Pelicans

"Re Copado" meets "Muy Chevere", the result is fantastically "cool".

The main square in the palace. Note the pelicans ;-)

El gran viaje de "Gocta"

2007-04-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

The Team

The 4, with our guide, incindentaly, an adventist.

Myself, well, after 20 hours of bussing.

Aaron, what a guy!

Cousin Alban, "Lo Maximo".

Ansley, Primita. (She is holding sand for Laurie Gauthier.)

It was a great trip, need I say more?

over hill and dale

2007-03-25T13:35:00.000-07:00

I have just come back from another epic journey with my two cousins Alban and Ansley, along with their friend of the summer past, Aaron. Covering vast tracks of land by bus we went from Lima to Trujillo, onwards to Chiclayo, from thence to Pedro Ruiz, Chachapoyas, Tarapoto, and finally back to Pucallpa. The most notable thing about the trip was the incredible amount of bussing. I think Ansley and I logged almost 100 hours. I have covered the bus experience in a previous blog, so I leave readers to imagine, and not underestimate that number. Pictures will come later.

Screwtape

2007-03-08T17:31:00.000-08:00

I am in the midst of C.S. Lewis' brilliant work, "The Screwtape Letters". The book is a collection of letters writen by senior tempter "Screwtape", to his devilish young nephew, "Wormwood".

Lewis uses an inverted perspective to enunciate truths which he states in a more traditional and elaborated form in his famous work "Mere Christianity". In one of his diabolical epistles, Uncle Screwtape, in attempting to analyze "The Enemy" (keep in mind who is talking) voices general bewilderment when he states that "after all, he (God), really loves the nasty creatures, and desires to form a disgusting union wherein he becomes one with them, while simultaneously wishing them to retain their personality". (note: I sit in an internet cafe without the book or exact quote, whatever is enclosed in quotation marks is simply as close as I could come to reproducing the thought.)

The object of Screwtapes' laborious counseling is to advise Wormwood on the proper technique for tempting a young man. His counsels run the gammit, both in devilish cunning and diabolical simplicity. Each successive letter leaves me breathlessly rooting for the young man, the force, effort, and brainpower contrived to seduce him into sin seem overwhelming--- except for one thing, "The Enemy". The devils are fighting a losing battle, although not without occasional success and triumph. Their greatest fear, is that the young man will form a genuine, simple connection with God, indeed, it is my greatest hope.

It is tempting for me to use some flashy adjectives in describing this book. Among others, "Breathtaking", "Brilliant", "Stunning", "Thought-Provoking", and "Stimulating" could apply. However, I have neither the inclination nor the academic weight (say --- the New Yorker) to provide such a recommendation. Rather, my best comment will be: Read It.

Adan Peña

2007-03-06T12:14:00.000-08:00

My world in Peru is constantly changing, but retains enough similarities as to remind me of where I am, who I know, and what I remember. Of the many I have come to know, Adan Peña stands in my mind at the forefront of peruvian mannerism, peculiarity, and sheer....... well, let me describe him.

The first time I heard of the man, and the events surrounding his arrival, was shortly after church on one sabbath afternoon. As a firmly entrenched Peruvian SDA tradition, I weekly participate in the exchange of greetings after church, progressing slowly down the line, kissing the cheek of an old peruvian lady, wringing the hand of some young buck, and exchanging a merry "Feliz Sabado" with a bashful peruvian niña. After the proceedings, I forsaw the imminent arrival of a wonderful Peruvian interim-grandmother (hermana olivia), and braced myself accordingly. After unfolding myself from the depths of her hug, we began to converse. My spanish is still at the level where conversation follows approximently the following course. In spanish, Hermana Olivia told me of the soon arrival of an old friend of hers from the states, who planned to direct a choir, the constituents of which were to be our church. In beautifully flowing Spanish, this took about 5 minutes, after which I responded with "Ahhhh, Si?" (vigorous head-knodding). "You will participate, I hope?" she said. "Claro que si!" I responded, not knowing quite how the lady always managed to extract such things from me.

Resultingly, the next sabbath afternoon, I was ensconsed in the pews of our little church, participating in it's first choir rehearsel, compulsively making observations. Adan Peña, the director, originally hailed from the land of Peru, but about 20 years in the past, had moved to Berrien Springs, Michigan. Apparently, he had neither the inclination nor the need to learn English in his soujourns, but had rather aquired a interesting breed of communication, which he chose to practice on us, the gringos. "You speke spanish?" he queried in a dusty voice. (I use the word dusty, because if a book could speak, a dusty books' human counterpart would almost certainly be Mr. Peña). The import of his question was immediately lost on me, as he launched off into a gerbil of mixed spanglish; just when I was beginning to understand, he would throw a new spanish word at me, which would take me over 10 seconds to realize it wasn't spanish after all, but actually english. He persisted, however, painstakingly attempting to feret out our information, which could have been done more easily if he had stuck with either language. Eventually satisfied, we continued on with our rehearsel, which consisted of Adan thunking out each part on the piano, while that part attempted replicate the strange noises and rhythyms being created by the duo.

When distracted, I turned my observatory powers on our director. An adolfian mustache worked up and down in truly virtuostic style. Whenever startled by a particularly bad rendition of the desired part, he would run a thin hand over his hair, which seemed to be even thinner. His voice worked in concert with his adams apple, which seemed to be one of the more expressive peices of his facial machinery. These qualities when described in unison don't give the desired picture though, the man I am trying to describe has a whimsical charm about him. His brilliant smile, an even more brilliant tie-pin, and the constantly waving index finger give the man an aura of mystique, which, like a dusty attic, has surprises waiting in every trunk, box, and duffle bag.

People are delightful to observe. Eccentricities, normalities, immaturities, and recall of memories, all cooperate in providing each and every person with essentially delightful mannerisms. I hope to never stop observing the things that fascinate me most: others, myself, creation, and the creator himself.

The Town

2007-02-19T08:56:00.000-08:00

We live adjacent to the small town of Campo Verde, which, despite it's size is fully equipped with the essentials of a town or city. The following guidelines are derived from my travels, in which I have noted many of the towns or cities contain these elements.

1) A town square, or plaza. Every town of countenance must contain this, whether it is the magnificent "Plaza de Armas" of Cuzco, or the decrepit soccerfield in the disheveled town of Tinqui. These are ideal places to go and soak up some sun in the companionship of complete strangers. Sitting on a bench in town and chatting is a national pastime, in which I have partaken enthusiastically.

2) All towns must contain a Market, or "Mercado". Once inside, you are assailed by every imaginable sight, smell, and sound. A typical series of events are as follows. Bending my head, I step into the vast field of experiences awaiting me in the market. Pushing my way through the crowds, I am momentarily distracted by the sight of guinea pigs roasting on the spit, and then nearly run into the man selling boiled pigeon eggs. Ever thoughtful of the danger of pick-pockets, I glance behind me just in time to see a woman hacking ferociously at a pig carcass, each successive swipe is just a fraction from her unflinching hand. Distracted, I don't notice the little girl directly in my path who is attempting to sell me some gum. "No, gracias" I intone, but am drowned out by the insane hysterical laughter of a man who is wearing nothing but a tattered pair of shorts, who has doubtless succumbed to insanity, or imbibed in way to much alcohol. A lady who manages a fruit juice stand spots me, and decides I must be an ideal customer. "Joven!", she shouts, "Ven por aqui!", I wag my finger at her in typical peruvian style and continue on my way. I stop to heckle with a lady managing a fruit stand. Eyeing a big bunch of banannas, I querie, " Señora, Quantos para estos?" "Estos son 4 soles, Joven". I eventually walk away, banannas in hand, and 3 soles in the hands of fruit lady. We are both content. I continue on, repulsed, shocked, and enchanted, just part of the seething mass of humanity.

3) Every town has a cathedral, basillica, or church. Because of a strong Catholic presence, most of these churches hail to mary, but the evangelical and adventist congregations are growing rapidly. In many towns, the church is the most beautiful building, their architecture ranges from ancient gothic to modern simplicity, but in general, these buildings are quite extraordinary.

4) The Menú is a classic icon of a peruvian town. Among the most common dishes are "Tallerin Saltado", "Arroz Chaufa", "Lomo Saltado", and "Tortilla Verde". Most menús cost between 3-4 soles, or about a dollar. The word Menú can mean both the place you are eating in, and the food on your plate. A good Menú has a hot soup, a big plate of food, and a cold drink, called respectively, "Sopa", "Segundo", and "Refresco".

5) Most Peruvian towns have a bus station, as the bus is the primary mode of long-distance travel here. Bussing costs approxamently a dollar an hour, so a 20 hour bus ride will cost about 20 dollars, or roughly 60 soles. The bus station is typically chaotic and stressful. Chaotic because each destination is represented by a ticket counter, at each of which the attendant screams out the destination at top speed and volume. "Limalimalimalimalimaaaa!" shouts one in a nasal voice, "Arequipaarequipaquipaquipaqupa!" is intoned in a correspondingly aggrevating manner. Bus stations are stressful because of the necessarily constant vigilance against theives and pickpockets.

All this has the Peruvian town, in addition to many other and smaller threads, which also seem to make up the amazing fabric of life in Peru.

Fire

2007-02-12T09:01:00.000-08:00

This past week we have burned large swaths of land in an attempt to stem the rapid and continual growth of all plants and vegetation around us. Because of the unusually dry conditions, the fires we start are usually fast, powerful, and downright scary. One day in particular, the Doctor started about 6 separate fires, which we spent the rest of the day attempting to control and put out.

I was allotted to help Ever, a powerfully built Peruvian helper, control a fire which threatened to destroy a sachayenchi crop. Sachayenchi is a nut that José, our guardian, periodically harvests and laboriously extracts a few precious bottles of oil from. Although this particular crop looked fairly ill-kempt, it was our job to protect it, especially since we had lit the fires. I followed Ever (pronounced with a hard B sound) through the long grasses to the location where the fire and sachayenchi crop had nearly adjoined. Using long thin boards, we beat the flames until they were extinguished, or we were too tired to continue. Gradually, we worked our way along the perimeter of the field, not able to stop the fire, but simply directing it. Frequently, the wind would turn on us, and we would run doubled over, attempting to escape the enveloping haze of smoke. Breaking out of the haze I would glance over at Ever, tears running down my face, grin at him, and head back in for a second try.

Although our efforts were largely successful, the fire eventually grew larger, and I went on the run to summon some more help. I went to get the Doctor and Alex, while Ever remained to fight the fire. With the extra help, we were eventually able to stop the fire.

We fought those fires all day long, and were completely exhausted by the days end. After a shower, we ate a delicious supper (courtesy of Ansley), and then returned to our house to relax. The candles cast dancing shadows on our walls, and my mind, in some corresponding dance, replays the events of the day.

What, after all, is fire? I am sure a scientist could give a neatly packaged answer about how fire is the product energy of combustion, and how the light created is merely electrons jumping from "excited states" of energy shells to "ground levels" etc. etc. But these theories only provide a framework by which we can begin to understand something of the process. What is this thing called fire, which bounds the gap between my flickering candle and the roaring blaze I fought all day? It burns me, warms me, heats my food, battles me one instant, and taunts my curiosity the next.

Life, is what I call an indisposable unfathomable. Unfathomable, because I cannot, of myself understand the incongruencies of obesity and starvation, affluence and poverty, philosophical naturalism and voodoo. Fire, as a part of life, is unfathomable because I simply can't comprehend it's reality, it's being. It is also indisposable, because of it's intrinsic function in our lives. It was also created, by God, who is after all, the ultimate indisposable unfathomable.

Good Times

2007-01-28T10:23:00.000-08:00

Memories are rich with the infusion of pain, laughter, smells, and sounds. My memories of Peru are priceless, the good times, and the bad times. I hope the last thing I relinquish to the inevitable process of aging is my memory. Let me sit in my armchair, when I am crippled by debilitating arthritis, when I honestly can't remember the difference between lettuce and spinach, and let me not set my good memories away on the shelf alongside such aging relics such as motor function, eyesight, and the ability to run, and run fast. Let me sit in my armchair with the open book of good memories on my lap, and look into my face, and see me smile.

Photos

2007-01-15T13:43:00.000-08:00

On the recent trip that we took over Christmas, my camera ran out of battery power, and as I lacked the forsight to bring a charger for my batteries, I consequently relied on my good friends for pictures for the rest of the trip. Besides myself, the only other photographer here represented is Alex. I have been tardy in recognizing his photgraphic talent, and so henceforth put a (*) sign by his pictures. Thankyou Alex.

Moments from our week

2007-01-15T07:09:00.000-08:00

Taking an afternoon shower under the eaves of our house. A moment of joy. (*)

Alex suited up for combat with the wasps. (*)

Cutting down a tree, take note, I am not smiling. If you can click on the picture and enlarge it, you may get a better idea of my expression. (*)

Here I am carrying our monster 36 inch bar chainsaw. Alex and I figure a modest estimate of the weight would be 30 pounds. This is the only practical way to carry the chainsaw long distances. (*)

The problem with Wasps

2007-01-15T06:38:00.000-08:00

Apparently, the wasps weren't quite finished with me (see their dastardly deeds in the picture below), so the following day, as I was hauling brush, another of their breed came and stung me in the eyelid. The inflammation was excessive, it felt like someone had stuck a tennis ball under my eyelid. (*)

This photo was taken about 20 minutes after a wasp flew out of it`s nest, and injected it's venom into my cheek with considerable expedition. A subsequent sting to my forhead (see the slightly swollen right eye) gave me the appropriate lopsided appearance! (*)

This week, Alex and I have been working on clearing out the jungle for some fruit orchards. One of the major problems we have encountered is the tremendous amount of wasp nests. We now count ourselves lucky to find a tree without a wasp nest. We have developed a method for dealing with the nests, but sometimes finding out about the nests can be painful.

My face, never overly attractive, was made especially hideous this week by the efforts of the wasps. Of all the places for a wasp to sting you, a face must be the worst!

In the both of these pictures, I was clearing out brush, when the wasps swarmed out and attacked. In the picture of my eye swollen shut, I happened to get 7 other stings in various places around my body.

Alex and I

2007-01-07T07:37:00.000-08:00

Note: the pictures in this blog were taken by my good friend Alex, who happens to posses considerable photographic talent. My thanks to him, to whom all credit is due.

Alex and I at lake Titicaca. (*)

Alex and I at Machhu Pichu, Wayna Pichu rises behind, which we climbed. (*)

Alex and I at 17,071 feet. We were on the highest pass of the Ausangate circuit. The mountains rose alluringly around us, but time (and weather) prevented. This picture was taken with numb hands and numb minds! (*)

Me, playing my recorder by a waterfall on the Ausangate Circuit. (*)

Alex and I on a mountain near lake Titicaca, in Bolivia. We were at about 14,500 feet, and thought we were VERY high! (*)

Focus on: Ausangate

2007-01-03T13:51:00.000-08:00

Camp 1. Ausangate dominates; albeit it's bulk is partially shrouded. 14,500 feet.

Camp 2. Alex's 1-man tent is visible in the foreground. Landmarks include the glacier in front, and lake to the left. 15,200 feet.

Myself at Camp 3.

Ansley brightens a picture of Camp 3. 15,400 feet.

Camp 4 was unphotographed by myself, so I will have to wait until others load their pictures to include a picture of it. An amazing hike!

The big picture

2007-01-03T13:17:00.000-08:00

The classic picture of Macchu Picchu is now mine!

Lake Titicaca

Sunset, Copacobana-Bolivia style.

Myself in the lovely town of Arequipa, Peru.

The team: From left to right: Ansley, Jackson, Myslef, Alex.

Perspectives

2006-12-26T07:04:00.000-08:00

Perspectives on life are fascinating, partly because of their complexity, and partly because a glimpse of the world from another's perspective tends to broaden our own. Intercultural communication must necessarily center on an attempt to view the world from a different place, a place whose groundwork is made up of different cultures, religions, and economic backgrounds.

I was in Guayaquil, Ecuador. We had spent the previous night wandering the recently renovated riverfront, which is a showpeice of archetectural mastery and wealth. Our wanderlust satisfied, we crashed in our 3 dollar hostel. Sleep came readily that night, and departed reluctantly the next morning, when we set off early for some more exploration. As we wandered through streets of varying size and prosperity, we came on a group of juice stands, clustered under a bridge. Not hungry, I didn't join the group when everyone went to buy some crunchable, munchable, or sipable snack. Still sleepy, I leaned up against a cement wall a little ways off from the stands. I love to observe people, and my subconcious immediately began to observe a little girl, who danced between the stands with the infectious enthusiasm of a 4 year-old.

Suddenly, I wondered what the world looked like to her, and for that matter, what she thought the world was? My perception of her world is dimmed by the multiple differences between us, not least of which was the simple difference in height. I normally stand a head taller than most of the adults here, but the difference between myself and the little girl was even more dramatic. I remember clearly when my perception of the kitchen sink was simply the limited portion I could see when I opened the cabinent and stood on the edge to reach the faucet knob. This problem was solved easily enough, I sat down on the sidewalk, and suddenly her world came into focus. The business man walking down the street was no longer a face creased with worry and stress as it studied the progress charts, but rather a rapidly moving pair of navy blue pants, the shiny black shoes, and the unfathomable upper portion of his body.

Still, there were barriers between us, barriers of age, experience, and ethnicity. All I could do was guess, guess what the world looked like through her eyes. I knew that even if we saw exactly the same things, (extremely unlikely), we would interperet them differently, and so I was left, left to plumb the depths of her world, as the blind man would attempt to navigate through a complex intersection in New York city.

Her world, I postulate, is like a huge rambling house, each room is lit by a lightbulb of varying brightness. As she passes every day with her mother from her house in the city to the fruit stand, she walks through the rooms of the greatest clarity; After all, she knows this route well enough. The weekly trips to the bakery, market, and church are journeys into rooms of lesser brightness, in which the main features of the room are distinguishable, but not intimate. Even further afield, there are a series rooms that is only a memory, fascinating, but just a wee bit scary. It was the chirstmastime journey to the relatives in another city, the trip consisted of a long bus ride, and a new home, and broke all barriers as they passed rapidly from room to dark room, flying through the doors at a bewildering pace. And then there are rooms that are completely dark, those doors have never been opened, and just now, at 4 years old, they don't need to open. With age, more doors will open, and the areas of brightness will undoubtedly change. Life however, does not exhaust the capacity of this house, after all, there is always that valley or mountaintop, (excuse me, doors) that is unknown, unreached, and enchantingly alluring.

This,however, is only what I can guess. I am left like the blind men with the elephant, only to guess at the accuracy of my imaginations. Frustrating work it is, but inescapably, one of life's greatest pleasures.

Guano War (part the second)

2006-12-20T17:37:00.000-08:00

We slept cozily in our thrifty hostel throughout the night. At 7:45, we took a taxi to Paracas, and from there we caught a boat out to Islas Ballestas, also known as the "poor mans galapagos". Through good fortune, we were on a boat equipped with twin 80 horse-power motors, and so made it out to the islands in good time.

The islands, rising up out of the blue pacific, are populated by an astonishing amount and variety of biodiversity for their size. We were able to sight sea lions, copious quantities of cormarants, a few penguins, and many other types of birds as well. In the 1800's, the islands attracted an ingenious but somewhat hardened band of entrepreneurs, who began to export the droppings of the "guano", the resident avian fertilizer producers. Their production was extraordinary, as in places before the beginning of exportation, the guano dung was 50 meters deep! Guano dung came to be valued very highly, as it's fertilization capabilities tickled the fancy of colonial (and european) gardeners. As it's value became increasingly apparent, Spain tangled with other countries in what became known as the "Guano War", which was short, probably violent, and somewhat incongruously, fought over bird poop. Guano mining began to take it's toll on the wildlife; but thankfully, the depletion of the Guano reserves coincided with the development of nitrogen fertilizers, and the business slowly dwindled and then died, leaving the prolific Guano to replenish the islands store of treasure.

After circumnavigating the islands, we made our way back to Paracas. In Paracas, we caught a bus that took us throughout the national park of Paracas, stopping for lunch by a tiny beach. We continued on until 3:00 P.M., when, the tour being over, we caught a bus back to Pisco. We took a bus from Pisco to Lima, where Willie Matthews met us at the bus, and took us to their beautiful home in suburbia.

Guano War (part the first)

2006-12-17T17:04:00.000-08:00

After our hike around Ausangate, we spent a full day in Cuzco to recuperate, and then set off the same night for Pisco, A small coast town a few hours (by bus) south of Lima. The ride was estimated to take us about 20 hours, so I considered the resulting 22 hour ride to be remarkably punctual. Emerging from a 22 hour bus ride feels about like I would imagine a bear feels when emerging from hibernation. My limbs are cramped, sleepiness still sustains it's smothering grip on my mind, and I am very, very hungry. Unfortunatly, our bus dropped us off at 5'O-clock in the morning in a town about 2 hours bus ride from Pisco, our desired destination. Our bus driver was either a spiteful, apathetic, or genuinely confused, because he had informed us that we were getting off at Pisco, although the locals informed us quite emphatically of the opposite. We ended up catching a bus back to Pisco, arriving there around 7 A.M.

We managed to locate one of the hostals indicated by our trusty "Lonely planet" guide, but they insisted on a price of 15 Soles, which is unfortunatly incompatible with our meagre budgets. We set off to find a cheaper option, and finally settled on a certain Hostal "Las Americanas" in Plaza Belen, with a 10 soles per night budget. The great price came with an unfortunate proviso however, in that there was a double bed, and a single, for the four of us. The price was right, however, so we rationalized away our doubts, and settled on Ansley taking the single bed, Jackson and I sharing the double, and Alex stretching out on the floor on top of ansley's comfy thermarest.

Alex and I spent the rest of the morning hiking down to the pier at the edge of the Pacific, while ansley and Jackson rested in the room. On returning, we set out together to find some lunch. After some searching, we settled on a 4 sole menú, which served us some delicious "Lomo Saltado", and "Tallerin Saltado". After buying a watermelon, we headed to the town of Paracas, where we spent the afternoon on the beach.

(This concludes part one, the title of the blog will be explained in part two)

Ausangate Circuit

2006-12-12T07:13:00.000-08:00

We just came back from our 5 day hike of the Ausangate circuit. Expectations are turned into memories as the future turns into the past, and all my expectations of what Ausangate would be like are now fused inseperably with my memories. What words would I choose to encapsulate those memories most concisely? I'll try these: exquisitely beautiful, very remote, numbingly cold, always wet. This is frustratingly inadequate, but imagine with me anyways........

Day 1.
We slept in a small hostel in Tinqui (the phonetic imagery in this word is perfect, Tinqui is exactly like it sounds, the only thing to do in tinqui is tinker) after a long bus ride from cuzco. We ate a good breakfast in the hostel facilities, and then set out on our hike under a canopy of gray sky. Following the directions provided by "Lonely Planet", we hiked by a green school, crossed 2 streams, and climbed up a steady incline, towards what our guidebook told us was the "gleaming bulk of Ausangate" which, unfortunately for us, was hidden from our view. We passed between rock walls and small stone houses, pestered by the occasional child (and adult!) saying "dame dulces" or "give me sweets". After about 2 hours leisurely hiking, we arrived in the small village of Upis, where we decided to take shelter (from the rain) under the overhanging roof of the local school. Hardy school-children dashed about in the 13,000 ft. altitude without concern, seemingly invulnerable to the cold and altitude alike. Our arrival was something of a sensation, and they crowded round us, taking special delight in the digital displays of ansley and alex's cameras. We waited for about an hour, hoping that the rain would come and go, leaving us to continue on our way unmolested. Despite the threatening clouds, the rain never came, so we decided to continue on our way. School was let out almost simultaneously with our departure, and two small schoolboys accompanied us on our way. After hiking for a ways, we parted company with the boys, and descended into a broad green valley, at the head of which was our campsite. The valley was marshy, streams that criss-crossed the valley occasionally impeded our progress, but we made steady progress. It eventually started to rain, but thankfully it was very light, and didn't give us too much trouble. We arrived at our campsite at about 4:00 P.M. set up our tents, and cooked supper. We camp tonight at about 14,500 feet.

Day 2.
Getting up was a sluggish process, it seemed like every lapse in concentration meant a lapse in progress; I would find myself sitting up in my sleeping bag, staring at a section of the tent wall, still half-way to finding my other sock. When I finally crawled out, I had the privelege of seeing a portion of Ausangate, only partially shrouded by clouds. We took our time packing up, cold hands meant little or no dexterity in our fingers, which slowed us down considerably. Our hike immediately involved some upward climbing, through barren rocky fields, the landscape interupted by the occasional grazing llama or alpaca. We navigated by a combination of a map, the guidebook description for the day, directions from local herdsmen, and a liberal sprinkling of common sense. The trails we followed were primarily stock trails, sometimes easily distinguishable, sometimes non-existant. We climbed up to a spot where we sat to rest and eat a snack, at about 15,300 feet. We hiked around a long spur and then descended into a valley with a few lakes scattered along it´s floor at regular intervals. We paused by a beautiful waterfall for lunch, the which I found so inspiring that I had to accompany the falling waters with some tunes on my recorder. We continued to hike up along the valley floor, until we arrived at the lake by which we set up camp. We look up at a large glacier on the side of a mountain, which descends down until it meets the striking green of the lake. Camp at just over 15,000 feet tonight. I fall asleep to the occasional rumble and boom of a small avalanche up on the mountain.

Day 3.
Today we crossed 2 high passes, including the highest pass of the hike. We climbed steadily from our lake-side camp until we arrived at the first pass, (about 16,200 feet) where we took a snack break. The view from the pass was both beautiful and discouraging. Far below us spread out a small valley with a beautiful lake at the bottom. The discouraging aspect was immediately apparent, our path led us down into the valley, and then steeply up the other side to the high pass. We clambered down into the valley without serious mishap, except for a slip I had in which I fell back on my pack and slid for a few feet because of a misplaced footstep. We took pause at the bottom of the valley to gear up for the upcoming climb, eating some high calorie food (snickers bars, rasins and peanuts, dried fruit). The climb would not have been so daunting if it hadn't been above 15,000 feet. As it was, we started at about 15,000 feet and then climbed steeply up to the pass at about 16,800. At the top of the pass, Alex and I immediately dropped our packs and (with GPS in hand to determine altitude) headed for the 17,000 foot mark. Ansley and Jackson followed at a little ways behind. Climbing was easier without our packs, but breathing still came fast and hard. We had set our sights on a small peak above the pass, so we kept going even after we had passed the 17,000 foot mark. We finally gained the peak at about 17,071 feet. A quick picture, then a wait for Jackson and Ansley to arrive, and then a group picture, and then a fast descent back to the pass. I think the altitude was playing with our minds a little because it was tempting to be snappy and snippish when we were that high. Thankfully, we soon picked up our packs and headed down the other side, all the way down to a valley close to a little stream. We camped close to the Ausangate base camp tonight, but unfortunatly did not see any mountaineers in camp. Our camp is at about 15,500 feet tonight.

Day 4.
Today we were supposed to camp at the head of the Jampa valley, but instead climbed over another pass and made it into a fairly vigorous day. We ate a quick breakfast, relishing the warmth imparted to our hands from the warm mugs as we took in the breathtaking view. We hiked up the lower Jampa valley, until about 11:00, when we ate a snack. We kept on, hoping that by climbing up and over a ridge we would be able to climb down into the upper valley. We climbed for a long time, until finally taking a break, we realized we had come higher than we should have, being above 16,000 feet. The next day we were supposed to climb up and out of the valley to climb another high pass, but we realized we must be fairly close to the pass now, and so decided to keep going and combine the 2 days. As we climbed over the pass, we were deluged in a snowstorm, and took pains to stay together so that none of us would get seperated. We finally made it over the pass and then hiked steadily downwards, following Alex, whose sense over direction proved good, as we ended up in the right valley, although it wasn't immediately apparent which way to go. We rested in a shepherds hut down in a snowy valley, sharing the cramped quarters with 3 generations of a family, represented by the an old couple, a young couple, and their tiny son. Once rested, we continued on to find a campsite by a lake. We camp at about 15,000 feet tonight. We are absolutely exhausted and very, very wet.

Day 5
We awoke this morning to beautiful and welcome sunlight, illuminating the rugged face of Ausangate. We cooked ourselves a leisurely breakfast, spreading all our clothes and gear out in the warm sunlight to dry. Alex attempted to catch some trout in the nearby stream, but failed in his efforts. We packed up and hiked the remaining distance out to Tinqui, accompanied by a lightning and hail storm. We catch the bus back for Cuzco, and arrive there at about midnight. It has been an incredible trip.

Parallels

2006-12-05T16:24:00.000-08:00

When I was studying geometry, I learned that the concept of parallel lines is by definition "two straight lines that are equidistant at all points, continuing on indefinitely, but never crossing or diverging". In this blog, I wish to discuss parallelism in the format of ideas, cultures, and band music. Obviously, this definition of parallelism is by necessity more elastic.

It was sabbath, and the four of us (ansley, jackson, alex, and I) set off to hike some of the mountains surrounding Lake Titicaca. This day was also chosen by the police force of Bolivia as an anniversary demonstration. They had tuned their band up the previous night by playing some ponderous marches to the citizens of Copacobana, so we were accordingly prepared for festivities on the day following. As we passed through the further borders of the town, the band broke into an inspiring march, although the various orchestration of winds and brass was superseded by the steady beat of an enthusiastic drummer.

As we climbed, I began to ponder the parallels between the proud strains coming from the military band and the Bolivian political situation. The massive orchestration was comperable to the many strident voices beckoning Bolivias public towards a supposedly brighter future; and the steady beat of the drum represented the pulse of the public, highly patriotic, and steadily pressing on to a future they hope is brighter, although like the drummer, they simply don't know if their orchestraters will follow their hopeful beat.

We climb higher, and a new beat is introduced, it's beginning is indefinable, but is presense is undeniable. The winds and brass momentarily waver, trying to decide which beat to follow, and then confidently strike off in opposing directions, some following one beat, while others follow the other. The resulting chaos is peculiar because of a marked determination among the players to continue on. The parallel is striking. Although the Bolivian public is marching to a beat, the beat is not necessarily unifying. When two (or more)"beats" are introduced, the persons in power are often indecisive, until when they finally strike out on one course of action, the volatile situation is transformed into discord. Despite this, the country struggles on from one note to the next, hoping that somewhere the music will resolve into harmony.

I am an idealist. I am still young enough to think that beneficial concrete changes on a grand scale are a possibility. I therefore hope that somewhere, somehow, Bolivia's economic and political situation will resume a more harmonious tone. The band plays on, and yet the score has yet to be written. Bolivia (in particular) and our world (in general) need good composers. Start composing.

The bus

2006-11-29T16:48:00.000-08:00

The scene inside the darkened bus is unique. It is 3:00 A.M., the passengers sprawl across their respective seats, simultaneously serenaded by the noisy efforts of the bus on such steep grades, and by a cacophonic "shoot-em-up" movie, replete with lots of gunfire, shouting, and a seemingly invulnerable hero.

I shift in my seat, attempting to releive my sore bottom from the pressure of my own weight. This is understandable, after all, it´s my 16th hour on this bus, after a 23 hour bus ride preceding this one. We are heading to the city of Arequipa, after a short stop-over in Lima.

Time passes in a different dimension on the bus. It flows by like a river of molasses, it is always dissapointing to notice that you have exhausted an eternity in 5 minutes. Conversely, time is easy to lose track of: it is late in the night (or is it early in the morning?) and what day is it?

I awake, my neck is cramped, and my face has that strange mouldy feeling that comes from resting on hands and arms wet from your own slobber. To my discomfort, I visualize a man with a bag of candy raised aloft in his clenched fist, his eyes roam to and fro around the bus, all the while maintaining an incredibly loud diatribe. I take some time to collect my muddled thoughts, and realize that this is one of the ubiquitos "bus sales-men". These fellows are almost always on a bus, trying to sell their product, whether it be a cure-all potion, a handful of caremels, or a passionate discourse on brushing your teeth. This fellow has endurance, maintaining a full cry for one half hour. He finishes by throwing a handful of his candy into everyones laps, and then coming back up the aisle to ask for a sole or two for his generosity.

We finally arrive in Arequipa, there is a hectic scramble for aquiring our luggage from underneath the bus, followed by a search for a reasonable taxi to take us to our hostel.

Our bus ride is over, finally.

Expedition

2006-11-24T12:00:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow afternoon, we set out to do a month of exploring in the countries of Peru, Bolivia, and Ecuador. One of the most exciting things we will do is to circumnavigate Nevado Ausangate (see picture at right), crossing several high passes, (one at 17,000 feet). The hike will take 6 days. I hope to be able to get on a computer while on the trip, if not, I bid you all adieu, until I get back!

Toenail Legacy

2006-11-24T11:52:00.000-08:00

Some of you may remember the story I wrote about the window falling on my toe, while Jackson and I were attempting to fit it. I watched for about 4 weeks as the tissue under the nail slowly died, and the toenail lifted up. Finally about 2 weeks before our upcoming hike, I showed it to the doctor and Jenni, and we decided it would be better to take it off, than have it rip off during the hike.
Accordingly, that evening, the doctor injected me with 2 shots of lidocaine in the toe, and wripped it out. Now, almost 2 weeks later it is feeling much better and on it´s way back to normalcy.

My toe, wrapped most professionally by my cousin, Ansley.

And my toe, unveiled. Not too beautiful.

Dental

2006-11-24T11:31:00.000-08:00

This blog is dedicated with much thanks and gratitude to Dr. Houmann and Dr. Baasch, who both gave valuable time and advice about dentistry.

Manuel (a peruvian dental student) and I.

Me giving some local anesthetic. This kid displayed some considerable vocal talent later on.

Me triumphantly holding a tooth.

Working on an elderly peruvian lady.

Jackson Henley and Melanie Luske; Melanie helped teach me how to do the IA block!

The tools I use most often.

Our dental table.

The tower

2006-11-24T11:15:00.000-08:00

We stayed in a municipal complex while we did clinic in Masisea. The complex had a very high tower in the middle of it, which I could not resist climbing, twice, once in the night, and once in the day. Here are some photos.

The tower.

From the bottom: looking up.

Jackson and I on top.

From the top: looking down.

From the top: some of the houses in the village.

From the top: the library where we worked.

There and Back again

2006-11-24T10:22:00.000-08:00

This past week, we spent working in a clinic in the town of Masisea, adjacent to the river Ucayali, one of the headwaters of the Amazon. This describes the various experiences we had getting there and away.
Getting there was fairly uneventful. We all took moto-cars to the river, where we boarded a "Fast Boat" bound for Masisea. A fast boat is essentially a skiff equipped with an outboard motor. The motor is usually 40-50 hp. The stifling heat was only alleviated by the breeze created by the motion of the boat. It took us about 2 hours going upstream to reach the port. Once there, we had to haul all our dunnage up a steep muddy slope to where some moto-cars were waiting to take us to Masisea. We took a 20 minute ride through massive Papaya groves to reach the town. Once there, we set up clinic in the towns virtual library, or "Biblioteca Virtual".
The week went by very well, we treated about 130 patients a day, both medical and dental.
The return trip was more eventful, due in part to the fact that we chose to take a "Peki-peki", one of the ubiquitos boats of the Amazon. The peki-peki is the local commuter, used much the same as a metro, tube, or local bus line. The locals here use it to travel between the small river towns. The dimensions of the peki-peki are as follows: Usually 40-50 feet in length, and 8-10 feet wide, with a rounded hull and a canopy over top for the protection of the passengers from the elements. The peki-peki is equipped with a singular type of motor, it is an outboard motor with a long (10-12 feet)propeller shaft which lies almost horizontal to the water, as opposed to the vertical shaft of a normal outboard. The reason I was able to come up with is this: it is easy to lift the entire apparatus out of the water to clear it of river weeds and other flotsam. All the driver has to do, is stand on a peice of rebar welded into the motor for this purpose, and it lifts it entirely out of the water.
We loaded all our gear into the peki-peki, and set off. A little ways down the river, and we met another peki-peki which offloaded a considerable portion of it´s passengers onto us (midstream) who wanted a ride to pucallpa. The bumbling roar of the peki-peki motor prevented me from sleeping, so I attempted to observe my surroundings. On both sides of the river, the Jungle rises up, green, thick, and palpably alive, it´s continuity broken only by the occasional thatchroofed hut. The muddy water of the river swirls lazily along it´s way; although this sentence is deceptive, since I coincidentally sense the exceptional power and strength of the current. Occasionally, another river boat will pass us, it´s motor filling the air with noise until it passes, and then the sound slowly dies away into nothing, swallowed up into the past.
Then there is a new sound, the sound of rain. I wonder if it will get stronger, and then notice that it is stronger already, the big drops beating a weird rhythm on the metal roof of the peki-peki. Our ride stretches on into the night, and I become progressively tired, slumping down on my hard wooden bench. Finally we see the lights of Pucallpa, and know that our trip is almost over.
Once we landed, the doctor and jenni went in search of a truck to bring us and our baggage back to the mission headquarters. They made it back in about half an hour, and then we had to haul our stuff up a nearly vertical mud slope to the waiting truck.
A short ride later, and we were back at the mission, our journey finished.

The view from the fast boat, on the way to Masisea.

The side of the Peki-peki, on the return journey.

A small village we passed, peki-peki in forground.

The interior of the peki-peki. Alex (left) and Anthony (right) in the foreground.

Intermission

2006-11-19T11:53:00.000-08:00

I must apologize to any who may have been looking for news of how the clinic went this past week, as I don´t have the time to do extensive blogging this weekend. I hope to be able to post something next weekend, before I leave for our epic hike. I am safe, happy, and healthy. I had some incredible adventures, and must thank my dental friends (the Houmanns and Baaschs) for all their help and advice, it was most helpfull.

Darwin on Trial

2006-11-12T17:18:00.000-08:00

I am presently reading a book entitled "Darwin On Trial". Written by Phillip E. Johnson, a law professor at Berkeley, it scrutinizes the theory of evolution. I am reading the second edition, wherein (in one chapter) Johnson responds to the criticizms of Stephen J. Gould, one of the leading proponents of evolutionary theory today. In his response, Johnson is clearly in his element; after all, he specializes in examining the logic of arguments. My asessment: a regular humdinger.

Pre-Clinic Anxiety.

2006-11-12T08:57:00.000-08:00

This picture actually represents my desire to play with my camera, rather than some serious amalgamation of manic-depressive disorder I might have contracted in these southern climes. We leave for a week-long clinic tomorrow. A new adventure, and a new opportunity to reach out to others. Who knows what this week will bring?

Sabbath afternoon hike

2006-11-12T08:45:00.000-08:00

What our team dubbed "the brainfruit". Alex and I relish it exceedingly.

The fields alongside the road we took a hike on.

The road we jog on every other day. Round trip: 4.5 miles.

La Chacra. A typical small-holders farm, almost universally subsistence farming.

In the kitchen

2006-11-10T08:24:00.000-08:00

The table where we eat

Jackson and Ansley in action

Puppies

2006-11-10T07:51:00.000-08:00

Jackson and I had just come back from washing dishes. As we entered the house, we heard a very strange sound. It sounded like someone or something was in dire distress. Having ascertained which direction the sound came from, we parted ways: I to take a look from the window on the side of the house, and Jackson to walk around the perimeter. I looked out the window and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly, Jackson called out. "John, come here, I think Chevy just had a puppy!" (A quick word of explanation, Cheva, a purebred rotweiler we are keeping at our house until the doctor comes out to the land, was pregnant, and we were expecting puppies around that time.) As I ran around the corner of our house, I encountered Cheva head-on. It occurred to me that if Cheva had just had puppies, she certainly wasn't being a very good mother. I came up to where Jackson was and beheld on the ground a mess of amniotic fluid, in the middle of which was a puppy, still encased in its placental sack. Cheva apparently had forgotten her duty of licking the sack off, and Jackson and I were left to do the job ourselves. Jackson ran to find scissors, while I broke the sack and lifted the newborn puppy away from the nasty mess. Jackson arrived with the scissors, and we cut the umbilical cord. We toweled the puppy off, and then attempted to instill some mothering instincts into cheva. Half lifting and dragging Cheva, we managed to get her to where the puppy was, and made her lie down. Cheva, however, seemed to be in denial of the fact that she was nursing a newborn puppy. Jackson decided to look around and make sure cheva had not deposited puppies in another place. After a minutes search, he found another puppy, also entombed in it's placental sack. Unfortunately, we had not been able to get to this one fast enough, and it had died in the sack in which it had been conceived and matured for so long. Jackson broke the sack and attempted CPR, but it was to no avail. The puppy was dead before we got there. At half hour intervals, Jackson and I delivered two more puppies, after which Cheva finally took over, and delivered the last two puppies on her own steam. 6 puppies, one dead, five alive. I buried the dead puppy, pondering the incongruency of the occasion, wherein a miracle of life had died before it was given a chance. Nevertheless, we have 5 happy and healthy puppies to bring up. They are lots of fun.

Alex spending some family time.

*Yawn*

Construction

2006-11-10T07:33:00.000-08:00

The shelf I built for storage of my luggage and tent.

The shelves Alex and I built for our clothes.

Ansley and I build a bed: (for her).

A different angle.

Part of our lives

2006-10-27T20:31:00.000-07:00

Jackson and Ansley washing dishes

The ditch we ran the pipes in for gray water from the doctors house to the septic tank.

A pineapple in the field. We feast on them every day.

These thorns torment us daily when working in the jungle. Once they grab on, you have to tear yourself loose to get free.

Washing Lola

2006-10-27T20:07:00.000-07:00

Our team of SM's (student missionaries) has acquired a puppy. We dubbed her "Lola", and she is quite a healthy and exuberant youngster. Our puppy, however, has a singular capability for getting dirty. We accordingly give her a bath about once a week, although she seldom stays clean for very long afterwards. She seldom seems to appreciate our altruistic efforts, but puts up some sprightly resistance. Despite this, the deed is done, and Lola, whether she likes it or not, is clean.

run

2006-10-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

I am tired, and breathing fast. A thought crosses my mind: How do you think you are going to survive at 17,000 feet with a 40 pound backpack? I run faster, pushing myself to the limit.

I am with Jackson and Alex, training for our upcoming backpacking trip. We will be hiking the Ausangate Circuit, crossing several high passes (think 17,000 feet). The hike is 6 days long, has spectacular views, and the occasional hot-spring!

Nevertheless, when I roll out of my bed at 5:30 A.M. every morning to start my run, Ausangate seems far away. We have been running to a town and back almost every day, a run of about 4 miles. As we start out, I always feel sluggish. I see Alex and Jackson pushing on ahead of me, and force myself to catch up.

Thankfully, my build lends itself to running. I have long legs, long arms, and not a great deal more. The three of us push each other, one of us takes the lead, and the others catch up. 10 minutes into the run, we are all sweating. My body grumbles to my brain, which returns the favor by mocking and taunting my body, daring it to go faster. We reach the town, and turn around. Now the pace goes up a notch. Breath comes fast and hard, and as sweat trickles down into my eyes, I secretly wish I could still be snoozing in bed. Go, go, GO, just keep going.

We reach the last stretch, Jackson and I are now in the lead, pushing ourselves to the limit. I always like this stretch, my body gets into the groove, and I let it go. I always feel an intense pleasure in this stretch. Every muscle and nerve is straining together with one intent and purpose. I push myself really, really hard. Almost to the end, I take a final lead, almost sprinting now. I finally reach the driveway where we finish by walking in, to let our bodies cool down. Gasping, I wait for jackson to reach me, and we walk the remainder together.

I still don't know how my body will perform at high altitudes. But I am looking forward to the challenge, wondering where I will meet my limit.

Those moments

2006-10-15T18:52:00.000-07:00

I directed my patient to a seat, attempted to create small talk in spanish, and pulled on my surgical gloves. It was sunday, a week from the day I had first wandered into the realm of dentistry; now, we were holding another clinic, and I was again designated to the dental section. My patient was a middleaged woman, slightly overweight, and fidgety. She took a seat, and I proceeded to examine the interior of her mouth, noting a variety of teeth in various stages of dilapidation. Upon asking her which teeth were hurting her, she indicated 3 separate teeth, 2 on the top, and 1 on the bottom. I took the cap off my syringe, put a slight pressure on the plunger, and watched as the lidocaine spurted out in a thin stream. Since I don't have the expertise to do a "block" anesthesia yet, I simply injected the lidocaine into the gum around the tooth, once on the inside, once on the outside. As the lidocaine slowly flowed through the tiny flexible needle, I noted with pleasure that the gum-line was turning white around the perimeter of the tooth. This means the patient is anesthetized, and is unlikely to feel pain at the point of operation. So far, I told myself, things were going well. I hoped this procedure would continue to run so smoothly.

I picked out an extractor, and began attempting to loosen the tooth. After 5 minutes of fruitless labor, I decided to try the forceps. I pushed back the wall of the cheek with a tongue depressor, and got a hold on the tooth. My grip was too strong. The rotten tooth crumbled completely, leaving the roots secure in the strong embrace of the gumline. This complicated my job considerably, and my early optimism sank as slowly and surely as the ebbing tide, until I finally hit bottom, on the mud flats. I thankfully was not on my own, and had at my right hand an experienced dentist, who took over and completed my job with expedition. As I watched him pick out root after root, I felt a little foolish. I had a lot to learn. I guess it was just one of those moments.

Later on that morning, I had a boy enter the thin partition which we called the dental quarter. He had one rotten tooth, no doubt it had given him sufficient recompense and reprimand for the excess of sweets which undoubtedly caused the problem. I followed our procedure for children, first swabbing the area with a topical antibiotic, then numbing the site with a cartridge of lidocaine. As I reached for the extractor, I was entirely unsure of the outcome of my efforts. Secure in the knowledge of my ignorance, I proceeded as best I could, loosening the tooth with painstaking care, doing my utmost not to slip and gouge the tongue or cheek wall with the sharp tip of the extractor. Thankfully, my patient was well anesthetized, and I could work without the usual encumbrance of a wincing patient.

Once satisfied that I had loosened the tooth, I again grasped the forceps, took a grip, and began to rock, slowly. Back and forth, slowly increasing the tempo as I felt the roots slowly loosening their grasp on the gum. Finally, triumphantly, I held the bloodstained tooth aloft, for a moment oblivious to my patient, staring up at me with mouth agape. I eventually returned my attention to my patient, but the tide was coming back in, a tide of euphoria. I still have a lot to learn. I guess it was just one of those moments.

Monday

2006-10-15T11:18:00.000-07:00

Monday--

Crunch. My backbone compressed as the shocks on the doctors motorbike bottomed out. My ears were filled with the powerful roar of the engine; my eyes, with the omnipresent dust that covers our landscape, and fills every available crevice.

I was riding around Pucallpa with Richard, our Peruvian doctor and friend. Our mission was to buy the missing parts for our tractor, which was disemboweled by a capable and determined group of thieves.

We went to various automotive shops in search of an alternator, radiator, and various other paraphenalia. Richard was determined to find the best prices, so we probably went to five or six different shops. We didn't end up buying anything, but priced extensively.

Next, we went to a church sister's house, where her sick husband was in need of medical attention. Whatever his ailments, they were of a private nature, so I was invited to the table to partake of a late breakfast. The sustenance offered by hermana (sister) Blanca looked far from appetizing. The main dish was hot boiled bananas, mixed into a gruel with another nameless substance. Unfortunately, what the dish lacked in quality, it more than made up for in quantity. I helped the gruel down with liberal portions of white bread, deciding simultaneously that I should eat the dish as fast as possible to avoid prolonging my agony. I am sure I left my hostess with the impression that I had enjoyed her cooking tremendously, although I didn't take much time to savor it's finer qualities.

Richard and I remounted his motorbike, bound for the base of "Peru Projects", a similar organization to our own. There was an old tractor on their land which they had consented to let us scavenge for parts. The road out to the base was extremely rough; this, coupled with the fact that the doctor has no respect for the condition of a road, but continues to drive at breakneck speeds nonetheless, made the ride hair-raising. We found some valuable parts there in the rusting frame of the old tractor, not least among them, a servicable alternator.

All told, the weight of all the tractor parts in my backpack must have been in the range of 40 pounds. The ride back was therefore a challenge physically and mentally. Physically, because I was forced to grip the sides of the motorbike in an iron grip to avoid falling off. Mentally, because I could only imagine the consequences of letting go. We took the parts to a mechanic, who spent about 2 hours taking the various tools apart to examine them for soundness. Most of them, after a good clean and grease, seemed quite serviceable.

The doctor and I now headed back to his house where we were served a delicious lunch by his wife, Shirley. I was again faced with the dillema of how to politely turn down the piece of chicken that formed a part of our meal. I ate around the chicken, waiting for an idea of how to deal with this problem. Finally, a solution occured to me. Why not give it to the ever-ravenous doctor? He was quite partial to the idea, and I was able to avoid offence.

A late lunch at long last finished, we decided to go back to the mission to pick a few more things up before heading out to the land. Unfortunately, when we got there, Anthony's motorbike had broken down, and the doctor, Anthony, and I spent the remaining daylight attempting to fix it. We didn't, but arrived at the conclusion that it needed to be taken to the mechanic. Finally, as dusk was setting, we set out for Kilometer 38.

As twilight slowly morphed into darkness, the doctor pushed the switch to the headlight. Nothing. We pulled off to the side of the road to fiddle with the wiring, assuming a loose connection. After about fifteen minutes of fiddling, the doctor extracted the light bulb, and ascertained that it was faulty. We held a quick conference, and decided to stay the night at the misson, to leave at six the next morning.

As soon as I got back to the appartment, I took a shower, and went to bed.

Pulling Teeth

2006-10-09T15:07:00.000-07:00

Pain, both physical and mental was amply expressed on the face of our patient. Manuel, (the peruvian dentist here) slowly injected lidocaine into the nerve, forming a "block", a part of the patients mouth that is completely anesthetized. After tapping the rotten tooth to ascertain whether the patient still felt pain, Manuel handed me the extractor. This tool is reminiscent of a tiny wood-working gouge, and though the medium of work is vastly different, the technique for using the tool is very similar. I felt clumsy as I inserted the tool into the mouth. I directed the tip of the gouge to the gum line and tentatively pressed down. After gaining confidence that the patient felt none of my probing, I worked around the tooth, carving back gumline to loosen the tooth. Every so often, I would ask the patient to spit, ridding themselves of a mouthful of blood. I would swab around the tooth with some gauze, and then continue. Eventually, I felt I had loosened the tooth enough, so I picked up the forceps, took a good hold near the gum line, and pulled.

Nothing happened. I took a fresh grip, and started to slowly rock the tooth back and forth. At first, the head of my patient rocked along with my push and pull, but after some work, the tooth loosened. More blood, sweat, and work down the road, and I triumphantly held aloft the blood-stained tooth. I dropped the tooth in the trash, gave the patient some gauze to bite down on for twenty minutes, and then some Ibuprofen for pain, and some Amoxicillin to prevent infection. Next Patient?

Later, I realized I actually enjoy pulling teeth. Challenging, sickening, frustrating, and yes, fascinating are all words I would use to describe my experience. And most importantly, in a world full of pain, I am doing something to alleviate that pain.

Clinic & other random pictures

2006-10-08T15:36:00.000-07:00

One of the many giant mango trees at the mission headquarters.
A flower I thought beautiful. More Flowers.
The Jeep on the way to clinic: out of gas!
. The building where we held our clinic.
Me pulling teeth.
Using the extractor to loosen a tooth.
Hauling on a tough one!

More pictures

2006-10-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

Me building the first part of my bed.
The finished product, viewed from the entrance of the room.
My completed bed, from another angle.
One of the "windows" we built.
The shelf I built for Ansley.
Some of my most treasured possesions: Dr. Bronners & Tools, both of which my parents sent down with ansley.

Injuries

2006-10-06T19:12:00.000-07:00

Manual labor (in general), and Carpentry (in specific), lend themselves to injury. This week, I maintained two accidents, neither life-threatening, both painful.
We had bought 2 cement sinks in Pucallpa, for transport to the project site, where we intended to use them for washing dishes, clothes, and other paraphenalia. They are very heavy, probably weighing upwards of 150 pounds. Once safely transported to the project site, Alex and I began unloading them from the back of the jeep to the front porch of our house. Somehow, the combination of the weight of the sink, and my general clumsiness, contrived to make me stumble over the lip of the porch. As I fell, I held on to the sink, hoping somehow to avoid cracking the structure. In the end, it came to rest on my foot and my fingers. In the process, it scraped my knee rather badly. Parting with a little skin did not worry me much at the moment, but the next morning, carrying water from the well, I slipped on the treacherous mud path, and fell again, slamming my knee into the mud and dirt. This broke the fresh scab, and caked mud and dirt on the wound. I approached ansley about the matter after breakfast, and she, being an excellent nurse, cleaned and bandaged it most handily. Nevertheless, I sustained an infection, and have had to keep a bandage and antiseptic ointment on the wound for most of the week.
My second injury occured as Jackson and I attempted to fit a window into its frame. This process is complicated by the fact that the window frame is seldom (if ever) square. We therefore have a great deal of fiddling to do once the window is built in order to fit it into the frame. Jackson and I would usually plane down in one spot, lift the window up into the frame, and find another spot that needed help. This means that we end up lifting the window up and down into the frame multiple times for each hanging. Keep in mind, the windows are not traditional windows, but rather more like small doors, which open and close on hinges. These windows probably weigh 60-70 pounds each when completed, so it is a lot of work to heft them up and down. As we were fiddling with a particularly ornery specimen, we failed to notice that the bottom of the window had been pushed off its 2x4 by our various hammerings, and the window, without warning, fell to the ground. Jackson was quick enough to avoid it falling on his toes, I was not so quick. In fact, the entire weight of the window smashed into my right foot, concentrating it's force on my big right toenail. This hurt badly, and I deemed it necessary to hop about the room on one foot with vigour, murmuring an occasional "ouch". Ansley and Jackson were quick to express concern, and encouraged me to desist from leaping about the room, and sit down for a moment. Upon seating myself, I finally took a good look at my foot, and found nothing impressive. Simply a rather blackened toenail, and a scratched upper foot. In 1/2 an hour, my foot had swollen considerably, and it still remains to be seen whether or not I will lose my toenail.
Despite these minor ailments, I continue on in excellent health and spirits. Except for a peculiarity of gait, due to my blackened toe.

Bent Nails & Crooked Cuts

2006-10-06T18:50:00.000-07:00

Our week has been occupied by the construction of doors and windows for our house. Our small spectrum of tools includes a saw, a hand-plane, a hammer, a square, chisel, and some nails. These tools, under the control of a skillful workman, are sufficient for the construction of almost anything. The all-important proviso being this: that the workman be skilled.
For me, it is a daily battle to keep my cuts square, my nails straight, and my project from desentegrating into a complete failure. Despite this, or rather, as a result of this, my skills have improved slightly. I now bend fewer nails, and cut less crooked cuts. I learn, slowly.

Pictures

2006-10-01T11:39:00.000-07:00

Mi Amigos: Ansley, Karen, Jackson, and Anthony.
Jackson and Anthony chilling.
Me and Alex at the project site in early morning
A beautiful sunset at the project site!
Me on my way to Peru!

Painted hands

2006-10-01T10:24:00.000-07:00

The Jeep coughed, spluttered, and died. This event happens with enough regularity that it has ceased to surprise us; however, the disappointment inherent in the experience never grows stale. This time, in particular, there was good reason to feel frustration at our capricious vehicle. We were on our way to a children’s program, the director of which was a passenger in our vehicle. On a second try, however, the jeep showed a semblance of cooperation when it carried us another 20 feet towards our destination. Jackson, Alex, and Karen got out to push while the jeep struggled gamely down the road. One more try, and the jeep was ready to cooperate, albeit not without emitting strangled cries and noxious fumes as it limped down the road. This time however, it was necessary for Anthony to ride the brake to keep from hurtling too fast down the bumpy road. There was not enough time for Karen, Jackson, and Alex to get back in the car, especially as we feared to stop this last effort of the ailing jeep. It happened, therefore, that the jeep carried Anthony and myself the remainder of the way, while the rest of the hapless team were left to walk. The ride took it’s toll on Anthony and I, however, for though we were spared the hot and dusty walk, we were forced to inhale large quantities of fumes, which no doubt shortened our lifespan considerably.
When the team was finally united at the site of the children’s program, we began the program without further delay. Our program was kicked off to a promising start by a round of singing, in which we were accompanied by a recording, adding much to the prestige and general volume of the event. Rounds of singing were interspersed with bible stories and a skit, in the which, an enthusiastic David managed to slay the giant Goliath, who fell on his spear with considerable dramatic effect. After another round of singing, it was time to commence the children’s activities. We divided the children up into groups according to age, and had each of them perform a different activity. In the particular group I was involved with, a passel of 5-7 year olds were given paint with which to paint some stones they had picked up from the road. Black, Green, Red, and Yellow were duly applied to the stones by the fingers, with a wide margin of outcomes. Some of the finished products were dismal, while others showed signs of budding artistic talent. There was one factor, however, which unified all their efforts. The children had invariably managed to smear the majority of their hands with paint. They surveyed their hands with interest, and were evidently relieved to find that the paint would come off with water, but in the meantime were content to dash about, showcasing their art to Jenni, friends, and the occasional passing motocar. I was in a state of high anxiety lest they should manage to collide or otherwise come in contact with me, as I was in my church clothes, and did not wish them to be smeared with paint. However, as I sidled this way and that in an attempt to avoid the stampede of dirty-handed children, a striking parallel occurred to me. Insofar as the children’s hands were covered in paint, all of us have a nature of sin, and that while we were yet covered in the filth and rottenness of sin, Christ, the sinless one, was willing to come down and touch us. While we were yet covered by darkness, groping for light like blind men, Christ came to show us the way. He was not afraid to let us touch him, unlike the Pharisees, who despised the unclean, and feared lest their uncleanness should mar their appearance. No, Christ let all come to him, and touch him, that they might know a better way. What an example to us.
The rest of the children’s program passed without a hitch. Please pray that these dear children may see a portion of the masters face, and feel a little of his touch when we interact with them.