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Interesting Experiences in Peru S.A.
By: Brother H.C. Mc Swain
Another interesting and exasperating experience is a
trip by bus to the mountains. Of course, you have to
realize I am looking at life from the foreigner’s
viewpoint.
On many occasions, the bus and a truck meet in a most
inconvenient place. Say for example, a spot in the road
that is only wide enough for the bus and if you look
down, it is, let’s say, a thousand meters to the bottom.
That does not do much for your confidence level.
Please get the picture: Two large vehicles meeting on a
road, and I am using this word advisedly, that is too
narrow for one vehicle much less two, a thousand foot
drop over the precipice, and a sleepy bus driver. It is
enough to unnerve the most dedicated and courageous
missionary.
My first inclination was to yell, “Let me off this bus!”
You know one of them is going to be forced to back up
and only the Lord knows how far. This can be very
unsettling as you try to remember where the last “wide
spot” in the winding, twisting, mountainous road was.
And you really can’t remember how far back it was. And
it is dark.
What usually happens is the two drivers have a “meeting
of the minds” (did I say minds?) to decide which one
will back-up. This “meeting of the minds” may last from
15 minutes to 1 hour. Just how the decision is made I
don’t know but I suspect they see who can spit the
greatest distance and bus drivers are notoriously bad
spitters. At least they never seem to win.
Just before he begins to back up on what seems to be a
suicide mission, I had to make a big decision. I can
stay and go down with the bus and be a big hero
(somebody can read my name in the paper), or I can
disembark. But I now face a dilemma: if I stay I am a
fool, if I get off, I am a coward and it will show how
little faith I have. The people would not understand
because they did not know how to read.
What does reading have to do with this situation? Well,
it goes something like this: I read the papers every day
to learn more Spanish and just about everyday I read
about buses going over the precipice in some mountainous
area. Not to mention the gory pictures that seemed to
always accompany the stories. These thoughts always
bubble up in my little finite mind when I faced these
kinds of situations.
Then there was a picture in the bus station that would
always catch one’s eye. The picture was like a magnet to
the eye. This was a nice picture of one of their buses
that had ended up perched precariously balanced on its
middle on the edge of the road (assuming you were
generous enough to call it a road), something like a
seesaw. It was a stunning picture. It was also a
confidence killer. It failed to tell how many people
were killed when some unsuspecting soul walked forward
and overbalanced the vehicle.
And they seemed to be proud of this disquieting picture
displayed in the bus station where you caught the bus to
Cascas and Contumaza. All these things, along with the
fact of how careless and nonchalant the drivers were,
gave me the jitters when we would meet a huge truck,
loaded to the gills, bearing down on you in a “no
passing” zone.
Another exciting experience connected with the bus was
when some poor stomach decided to “evacuate” right on
the spot without warning. Well it seemed that way. You
always prayed about two things before embarking on a bus
trip: The bath you might get and the bath you were going
to need if you got the first bath. (Water was scarce in
Peru.)
If some poor soul got sick on the bus, the driver did
not stop. I suppose his “smeller” was extra strong
(maybe he had an olfactory alteration, that is where
they switch the wires in the brain), or perhaps he could
not smell it up front in the driver’s seat. Anyway, in
Peru there are so many bad odors, one soon becomes used
to most of them. I remember passing through Chimbote, a
fishing town on the coast, and experiencing the terrible
odors there. I thought that perhaps there was one giant
septic tank for the entire city and someone had vented
it in my face. I asked a man how they could stand that
terrible odor all day every day. His answer was “What
odor?” A very clear case of “olfactory alteration.”
And while we are on this sickening subject, I just can’t
resist the temptation to tell about a trip that I took
one lovely day, with two other missionaries, Bro. Kite,
and Mrs. Holley. Well it was lovely until what I am
about to tell happened. We took one of our young (about
13 years old) church members with us for company. That
was mistake “numero uno.” His name was Juan (John in
English). It turned out he was accustomed to riding
donkeys not cars.
We had entertained the thought before embarking on the
trip that he might become car sick on the winding,
twisting, snake like mountain road to Contumaza. Some of
those roads were so snakelike, you could see the place
you were headed for 3 hours before arriving!
On the way up (it was about a 4 hour trip), all went
well. Ah, but on the way down was when disaster struck.
Bro. Kite warned me to keep and eye on Juan, as he might
get the “urge.” (He and I were in the back seat.) We did
not dare use the correct word as it might trigger, well,
you know what. If you ask, “Do you feel sick?” he will
most surely become sick and if you just sit there like a
knot on a log, he may also become sick. You can’t win
(as we were about to find out). You have heard of the
“thin blue line,” well, in this case, it is the “thin
green line.” You can guess as to what the word “green”
refers to.
To continue with the story, I lost. Well, actually Juan
lost, that is lost everything he had eaten for a week.
At least that was what it looked like to me. Well, make
that felt like.
I had been keeping an eye on poor Juan, as Bro. Kite had
strongly suggested. He needed more than an eye. (Make
that a doggie bag.) Anyway, he seemed to be turning
“green around the gills” as we used to say about people
that were becoming sick. I asked him if he were feeling
sick. He was not about to admit it. I did not know what
to do. However, I could see something was going to
happen and I did not think it was not going to be good.
I decided to act.
I tapped Bro. Kite on the shoulder to stop. This seemed
to stop Bro. Kite but start poor Juancito. Before we
could alight from the car, Juancito had ruined a
perfectly beautiful day not to mention a beautiful car.
He seemed to be glued to the back seat and spewed to the
front. Finally, we pulled him out of the car. It was a
few spews too late. It was also some sight. Four
perfectly normal (well almost normal) people standing
around a beautiful little Volkswagen, looking at it as
if it had some terrible plague and nobody wanted to
touch it. That is nobody but Mrs. Holley. Bless her
soul. She seemed to have an iron cast stomach. We all
agreed she was our only hope to clean the car and
continue on our way.
Well the old adage, “Live and learn” is so true. That
day we learned, in the mountains, it is better to travel
by donkey than by car. You may get sick of the donkey
but you are not likely to become “donkey sick.”
The Mc
Swain's Stay in Peru SA
From 1960-1967
My connection to the Peruvian mission work goes way back
to the fifties. The old Calvary Baptist Church, located
in Tampa, Fla., which was where our membership was in
those days, supported a missionary by name of Oliver
Bell. He had gone to Peru in the mid-thirties as an
independent (as opposed to one sent by a mission board).
Even though I did not know him personally at that time,
I was well acquainted with the work he was doing by the
letters he sent to the church.
After organizing the Congress Avenue Baptist Church in
Lake Worth, Florida, in the early fifties, I became
pastor of that church and I encouraged it to support
Bro. Bell. During that time, I became even more
interested in him and his work.
Sometime during the middle fifties, he decided it was
time to retire from the mission field. After he arrived
back in the U.S., and taking up residence in Tampa, we
became personally acquainted with him. Also, another
pastor friend of mine, Bro. Markey Kite, became
interested in the Peruvian work and got to know Bro.
Bell and his wife Juliet, who was from Canada
originally.
All of us had hoped that someone from the States would
go and replace him and had been praying to that end.
During these several years of thinking, praying and
talking about all of this, it finally occurred to us
(Bro. Kite and me) that no one was going to go. We both
felt a call from the Lord to replace him. (So, it looked
like we prayed ourselves onto the mission field!) Going
to the field required a lot of preparation on our part.
For example, we needed to raise support and plane fare,
not to mention having some cash on our pockets upon
arrival. Then add to that, learning a new language.
These were gigantic challenges.
I was in Tampa at the time of this decision.
Immediately, I started a fund for the plane ticket and I
also matriculated in a Spanish course offered by one of
the local high schools, which was
some two nights a week. Over the next two years, I
managed to learn how to say "good morning," "how are
you?" and a few other useful words and phrases in
Spanish. However, the most important thing I learned was
how to study and help myself, which proved be the
difference between some success and complete failure, as
I never did find a good teacher on the field. In the
night school, I learned how to conjugate verbs, use a
dictionary (I wore out several of those small ones), and
in general, lay the foundation for learning the language
well enough to eventually deliver a decent sermon and
converse about different subjects.
Of course, few adults can hope to do as well with a
second language as with their native tongue. I remember
one of the missionaries in Trujillo was out on a
mountain tour. She was speaking of John the Baptist
coming to town with his sandals on. The crowd began to
crack up with laughter. She thought she was really
getting across. Later, she found out she had used the
wrong word for "sandals." What she had really said and
what had caused the extreme laughter was that John came
to town with watermelons on his feet! (There is not much
difference between watermelons and sandals in Spanish.)
By 1960, we began to prepare for our departure. We sold
(or maybe we should say gave away) most of our
possessions. About all we took with us was the clothes
on our backs, but we sent several barrels of things
ahead. At the end of the year, we went to Miami, staying
for a few days with a family there that offered
departing missionaries a helping hand. They were quite
well prepared to get things ready to ship, and to help
in ways that only a missionary could appreciate.
We left Miami early one September morning on a Peruvian
airline. We stopped in Jamaica and Panama on the way
down. The trip took some 12 hours (of misery as I was
deathly afraid of air travel), arriving in Lima around 9
PM that night. Bro. Markey Kite, who was already in
Peru, met us at the airport. He had been there for a
year and was very knowledgeable of most things except
the Language. (He had not continued to study as I had.
This proved to be a mistake, but most recently, he
called me and told he had gone back to school and
learned the language better and is working in Mexico.
But he was a great help for which we will be eternally
grateful.)
Bro. Kite had reserved us a room with the Institute of
Summer Languages in Lima. In the States, this group
assumes another name, the Wycliff Bible Translators. We
finally passed through the customs in Lima and went to
the Institute for the night. Bro. Kite had also arranged
to travel to Trujillo, about 550 kilometers north of
Lima, the nest day. He had rented a collectivo, a
private taxi that will come to your house, pick your
party up, and deliver to the door of your destination.
Ordinarily, it cost about 20 dollars each for the trip
one way of about 300 plus miles. But Bro. Kite had
rented the car for a flat fee.
That is one trip we will never forget. We were traveling
on the Pan American Highway, which started in the U.S.,
went through Panama, and the length of South America. At
that time, there was a place in Panama that was not
finished. In any event, not too many miles outside of
Lima, the road runs right along side the Pacific Ocean.
Now that is not bad, in fact the scenery is beautiful.
But what is not beautiful, is the road and the ocean is
not on the same wavelength so as to speak. In fact, that
ocean is some several hundred feet below the road. And I
do mean the road borders right on the edge of the cliff.
It is scary, especially to someone like myself, to whom
an anthill was enough to make the head swim.
Add to that, the driver was doing from 90 to 110 per
hour! (Do you suppose that Kite put him up to that?) We
thought this was miles per hour. What we did not know
was it was kilometers per hour. Your mother and I
sweated blood all the way to Trujillo. We finally
arrived there around 10 p.m. that night. I will never
forget my first view of Trujillo. We could see it
several kilometers away.
However, before arriving in Trujillo, as we approached a
rather large town (in Peru, a large town is one of over
30,000, Lima is the largest, with, at that time, about
1,500,000 souls), I later learned its name was Chimbote,
I noticed the worst odor I had ever smelled. As best I
could, I questioned the driver about the odor. He did
not seem to notice any odor! It smelled like perfume to
him I suppose. But not to us. It smelled like a big
something had died and they were unable to cover it up.
Later on, we grew used to such odors, as it was a dirty
country. Anyway, this was a fishing center, and later
on, I found out they made fertilizer for export to other
countries. Apparently, they didn't think the smell was
worth exporting. I am sure it was reserved just for the
"gringos" to enjoy.
After arriving in Trujillo, we found Bro. Kite had
rented us an apartment on the third floor of a rather
nice apartment complex, and had placed army cots in it,
borrowed from a missionary who worked with the GARB
group. Bro. Kite did so many things for us it is
impossible to enumerate all of them. Needless to say,
that was not one of our best nights. But I often
wondered what we would have done if he had not been
there for us. We had only 300 dollars in our pockets
when we arrived. Knowing what I know now, I would never
have done anything so foolish. But God seems to know how
to get us to go and then provide the things we need
along the way, in all reality, that is what faith is
about.
Trujillo was a city of about 50,000 at the time we were
there. It was a typical Peruvian city. It was dirty,
people every were, beggars on the streets and add to
that scene an open-air market (later they built a better
one), and no public bathroom facilities to be seen
anywhere. I remember the next morning after we arose
from a fitful night of sleep, Bro. Kite, who was living
on the same floor as we were, called us over and pointed
out the widow (I got the distinct impression he couldn't
wait for this moment), said, "take a look." As I looked
out the window, I saw 20 or so people, both men and
women, using a large open field for bathroom purposes.
This was not exactly my idea of privacy. Of course, it
was good for weight watchers, as this scene would sort
of make you eat less if accidentally viewed before
breakfast. Oh yes, I made a mental note not to take a
short cut to town through that field. Seeing my
philosophy was to look for something useful in all
negative situations, I decided it might have been useful
for training football players in open field running.
I recall an incident that took place on the main drag of
Trujillo, after we had been there for a few months. Bro.
Kite and I were hurriedly walking down the main street
sidewalk, and he decided to pass the slower walking
crowd in front of us. Just as he stepped off the
sidewalk onto the street pavement to pass the crowd, it
just so happened a small boy's kidney's were frantically
calling for relief, and I am sure his mother pointed (no
pun intended) him in the direction of Kite's path. Well,
you can imagine the complete surprise of Bro. Kite when
he felt something wet on his leg and saw a funny yellow
spot on the leg of his recently dry cleaned pants! But
rest assured he did not use an expletive. He just
grimaced and, "Harold, you have to have a lot of the
grace of God to work with these people."
We did not actually have a work in the city of Trujillo.
We were working with a small church that Bro. Bell had
established several years before leaving there, which
was in a place called El porvenir, which was some two
miles from Trujillo. (From the smell, it could have been
called El Pormanure. Of course, it was not too poor
smelling.) This was a town of about 20,000 people, which
was built on top of the city dump. Through the years,
these people came down from the mountains (remember, the
Andes run from one end of the coast to the other),
seeking their fortune, and finding no fortune, not even
enough to eat, resorted to the dump to survive. Where
you survive, is where you build your "home." So this
town eventually grew up there, and was called El
Porvenir. The meaning of the words in Spanish is
"looking to the future." Some future! There was not one
paved street, not one inside bathroom, not one sprig of
grass, not one electric light. (Well, we did bring a
generator down and light the church building from time
to time.) But there was plenty of dust. Oh yes, there
was one bright spot, they did have running water. You
ran down to the spigot (they had one for each block,
sometimes they worked and some times they didn't but
that was typical of most things in Peru), and drew a
bucket of water and ran back to the your adobe hacienda
with it.
Space was at a premium. So, they built their houses
jammed up against each other. Of course, this lack of
space was due to the Andes Mountain Range that runs
along the coast, greatly limiting the amount of useable
land. There was no such thing as a front yard, at least
in El Porvenir. If there was to be any breathing space,
it was in the back of the house in the form of a corral.
In this place, they washed and hung clothes (if they had
any clothes and any water to wash in), played, and what
ever else one might do in a yard of any sort. And of
course, it had a think wall around it.
Due to the fact of being crowded, and walls running
around every home, one could walk all over town without
ever touching the ground. This was a great advantage to
the sightseers and thieves as you were subject to "cut"
your foot while walking on the ground. Of course, you
needed Louis Hogue feet to do this as when the walls
were built, they placed upright pieces of broken glass
in it. Or failing that, they would place upright iron
spikes in it. (Louis Hogue lived in Bonita, and was the
winner of the World's Toughest Feet Contest. He could
not walk on water but he could walk on upright oyster
shells. This contest went something like this: the first
test was hot Florida sand, then rocks, then Florida
sandspurs of the dried variety, then upright oyster
shells. He won it going away.)
Upon leaving El porvenir and circling northward around
Trujillo, you ran into another town of similar
circumstances. It was Las Flores. That means the
flowers. I am still looking for those flowers. I saw a
lot of things but nothing that resembled flowers. Three
words would describe most these places: dirt, dogs, and
ninos. However, they cannot be faulted for taking the
optimistic view, even when there is little to be
optimistic about.
One morning I arose and told your mother that I had a
vision of us going out to El Porvenir and living like
the natives. She informed me she had a more recent
vision and I had lost my marbles and they were not in
Porvenir. That settled that. We did not ever live in El
Porvenir. Of course, she was right, we could not have
stood that kind of life. But we did have a pretty good
work there. In fact, it is still there on a much larger
scale now, tended by Bro. Carlos Angulo.
If you travel from the coast of Peru to the jungle side,
it is like two different countries. On the coastal side,
where we lived, it never rained. The last time it rained
was in 1925. That was a disaster. The whole system was
set up for no rain. The houses of the poor are built in
such a manner they can't stand any rain. Even the better
houses have "exposed" kitchens. That is they don't have
a roof over them. We used to joke and say we need to
paint a sign and place it on the roofless kitchen
saying: tenga la bondad de entrar aqui para que no danar.
(Translated, please enter here, so as to avoid damage to
the house. Should have tilde over "n" in danar.)
Even though it did not rain, often times a lot of dew
was deposited on the coastal side. In the mountains, it
did rain a lot. In Cascas, some 50 miles from the coast,
it rained fairly hard at times. (The climate in Cascas
was very good, never too hot, low humidity, and never
too cold. On the other hand, the coastal climate was
foreboding. It was damp, cold, and foggy.) I met a
German who was a "rain maker." He used electrical wires
and was located way up in the Andes. He was hired by the
cane growing company (La Casa Grande) to make it rain
for them. They had an irrigation system that brought
water from the mountains to the coast where they were,
to make the cane grow. The reason I met him was he had
written a paper in English, on his activities as a
rainmaker, and wanted me to help him correct it.
The Andes was a formidable obstacle all along the coast
of South America extending as far as Panama, a distance
of over 4,000 miles. And Peru had more than her share of
this huge range. As we left Lima, I, a Florida Cracker,
having never lived in the mountains or hardly ever even
seen them, saw them as an amazing sight. All along the
coast were these sand mountains. They were of
different colors, green, brown, jade, almost all colors
of the rainbow, and most of them not very high. But
there was hardly a tree, a sprig of grass, or a bird to
grace them. Further inland, some of these mountains were
over 20,000 feet high.
On the other hand, just across the mountains on the
jungle side, there was an abundance of all the things
the coast lacked. There were millions of trees, plenty
of rain, level ground, and animals, all kinds of
wildlife, citrus groves, and rivers. It is hard to
believe they all belonged to the same country.
The transportation system of that country left a little
to be desired. But that little was a lot in my mind.
They had taxis of course. These usually were old beat up
cars that made you think each trip was the last trip. (I
never saw a car in a junkyard, as all the junks were
running or at least giving it their best shot. Come to
think of it, I never saw a junkyard like you see here in
the U.S. Of course, when one realizes a car cost twice
what it costs here, it is easy to see how reluctant they
are to just discard such an expensive item.) In those
days, you could ride a local colectivo for about a Sol
(this was about a nickel in U.S. money). Now things are
much different. I recently read in the Reader's Digest
that a shoeshine cost 500 Soles now. That was about 20
dollars U.S. when we were there. Of course, what this
really means is the Peruvian money is highly inflated.
Their buses were fairly nice. You could get one going to
most anywhere. It might have people inside, outside, and
on top, not to mention a few goats, pigs, and, oh yes,
don't forget the chickens; but if just getting there was
more important than comfort, then it would serve the
purpose. But then we Americans are spoiled.
Toward the end of our stay there, the Greyhound Bus
Company (USA) sold The Peruvians their second hand
buses. It was some experience to walk aboard a bus that
had air and a bathroom. I am not sure the Peruvians
appreciated it but we gringos did. I don't know what the
Peruvians did with their old buses. But we can rest
assured they did not go to the bus graveyard. Old
vehicles never died, they just faded away (to quote Gen.
McArthur), probably to the mountain routes.
Of course, the donkey was the favorite form of
transportation in Peru. At least in the rural areas. We
called him the poor man's Cadillac. He was used to ride,
carry things and for most any other purpose four-footed
animals were capable of doing. (No animal rights there!)
I remember while we lived in Cascas, I woke up most
every morning to the sound of a donkey braying. It
sounded like a Goliath's hand saw hard at work. And
while on the subject, we must not forget the next best
form of transportation: The heads of the poor Peruvian
women. I never figured out if they were just naturally
flat headed or if there was some secret to acquiring
this skill. And add to that equation their poor backs.
Really, the poor peruvian women were used much like the
donkeys.
I used to ride the bus quite often between Cascas and
Trujillo. It was never boring. It was also a confidence
builder. On the wall in the Trujillo station, there was
a large picture of one of their buses. They were quite
proud of it. Like I said, this was a real confidence
builder, as half of the bus was sticking out over a
cliff which God seemed to have forgotten to bottom out.
I do believe it was so delicately balanced that placing
a hair in the front part would have pushed it over the
edge. This picture served to give new meaning to the old
saying "it pushed him over the edge." The strange part
was they said nobody died from this accident. But what
they didn't tell you was how many died of heart attacks,
just pure fright, and lack of luck lung action.
I had some unique experiences on buses and around bus
stations. One thing still well etched in my mind is the
smell of the bus station bathrooms. They missed a great
opportunity to sell or rent gas masks to all foreign
ticket holders. I remember one time on the road to Lima,
I really needed relief. (It was an all day trip. My
kidneys were also a little weak.) We stopped at a fairly
nice looking Exxon station on the Pan American. I had
high hopes but soon realized that was only a cover up
for the bathroom facilities. In that one, you needed
rose colored glasses to go with the gas mask, and a
guide to lead you and out. I often wondered how the
Peruvians could stand such odors. I figured their
olfactory system was not wired like ours.
To pass the time away, I would try to envision how it
was possible for human beings to have messed up a room
like that one was messed up. I am certain it took more
than one generation. Though I never worked out all the
details, I did decide it was impossible to have done it
without someone standing on his head. But Peruvians were
the masters of mess. I almost forget to tell you I used
it anyway. I used to dive a lot as a kid and became
quite skilled at holding my breath. Anyway, it was a
choice between exposing one's nose to a terrible odor or
exposing other parts of the body to the whole world.
I hope no one thinks I am obsessed with bathrooms. It
was that we were accustomed to privacy and to sanitary
conditions, and the Peruvians were not acquainted with
either of those ideas. So, it was a very disagreeable
experience with us and a problem that I never really
solved. On the mountain routes, the space behind rocks
and trees were thought of as bathrooms; we granges never
did quite get in synch with that idea. Of course, the
ideal would have been to drive your own car. But again,
the cost of vehicle was prohibitive.
One rather amusing incident took place on a bus I was
riding from Cascas to Trujillo. At La Casa Grande, a
sugar growing plantation run by Germans, a little boy
got on. I did not see him pay the bus driver so I was
curious about what was going on. (I thought I might
discover his secret and do the same.) After the bus
started to move, he jumped up and started singing a
little song:"Un poquito de carino yo te pido, un poquite
de carino para me." Translated it means a little hand
out or gift for me. After going through this little
ritual, he passed his cap among the passengers, hoping
for his little "carino" (gift). He was begging in a
rather unique way. I usually didn't fall for these
tricks but I was so amused by his unique approach, I
gave him a Sol or two. Oh yes, I almost forgot, he paid
the bus driver his part of the take as he got off some
few blocks from the station. I soon realized it was a
"business arrangement" the two of them had.
One time on the way to Cascas, dark overtook us. The
roads were extremely narrow and very dangerous, as they
were very serpentine as they wound their way to their
ends. And add to that mix, my nerves were always on edge
in those mountains. After darkness had overtaken us, we
met a truck as big as an army tank, coming from Cascas.
We stopped, he stopped (fortunately both drivers were
sober). There was not room to pass and the little game
had begun and I or we were caught in the middle. It
meant one of us had to back up to the last passing zone
and I knew it was not close, and therefore, most
dangerous, as backing up a huge bus or truck at night
was tricky. The question was: Who will be the lucky or
unlucky one?
If someone had consulted me, I could have solved the
problem: the bus is more important because of the
passengers, well, at least one passenger. But I had
already made my decision, I would walk as the rest
backed up, but I would cover it up by acting like
guiding buses backwards in the dark was my second
calling and anyway, I was sure my eyes were the best on
the bus by virtue of fear alone). I know it looked like
a lack of faith but I figured I was in good company as I
reflected on the apostles in the boat on Galilee, but it
really was not my lack of faith in God, but lack of
faith in the Peruvians.
As near as I remember, the driver got out of the bus and
met the other driver half way. They spit on the ground,
drew a line in the dirt, smoked a cigarette, repeated
hocus pocus dominosus rotten tomato cans (they were
Catholic), and each one returned to his respective
vehicle. I figured we had won. The bus driver sat down
behind the wheel, started the motor and of all things,
pushed the gearshift in what I perceived to be the wrong
direction! I knew right then he was going to need
someone to guide him as he backed that big bus and I had
a very strong feeling that someone was I. Like a flash I
jumped out and did my duty. It was times like this that
one wondered if that G.P. he saw in the sky while
praying didn't mean "Go plow," not "Go preach."
I must tell of one of my most anxious experiences on a
bus. We had you children in a Methodist school in
Trujillo. I took you to school on a city bus. On the way
back, I had to stand. There was a rule among foreigners:
If one has to stand while riding the bus, don't ever do
so with both hands occupied. This was an open invitation
for the man "with silk fingers" (this was the term the
Peruvians used to describe a pickpocket). Well, that
morning the silk-fingered man had an early work call and
I was the perfect victim. I had my brief case in one
hand and had to hold on with the other. That was my
mistake. We had hardly gone a block when I felt someone
touch me on the shoulder. I had been warned that sooner
or later I would meet this man. So I had made it an iron
clad rule to check my hip pocket when I felt someone
touch (actually I still do this today). I checked, and
much to my amazement, my wallet was gone! It was not the
money that was at stake but my boast that no one would
ever rob me. I started to scream: "Me robaron, me
robaron!" There happened to be a cop on the bus. He
began to look around, I kept screaming. I also knew the
bus had not stopped since I felt the man take my wallet.
So he was still on the bus.
It was a creepy feeling. I kept screaming. The bus was
continuing to slow, the cop was still surveying the
passengers, the man of silken fingers realized he had
made a bad mistake, and I knew he was becoming nervous.
He was nearing his waterloo. He had met one gringo that
was not going to have his pocket picked, at least not
without a fight.
Finally the bus came to a full stop and opened the door.
The man of silken fingers took the bait; he jumped off
the bus and took off down the nearest alley, tossing my
wallet on the ground. This animated the policeman to
take off after him (he lead the pack), I was right
behind him, and some of the passengers also were
following after us. It was some parade (sounds like a TV
event) and the poor pickpocket was about to meet a fate
he had not anticipated that morning when he got his
early work call. He had taken a blind alley, he could
not escape the cop, and he administered a beating like I
would not have wished on my worst enemy. I finally
pleaded with him to stop as it seemed to me he was going
to kill him. After the smoke had cleared away, the cop
asked me if I wanted to bring charges against him. I
did. We went to the police station. On the way to the
station, he informed me this man was a pro and was not
stranger to the police. He also said the fellow would be
out of jail soon.
One amusing experience happened in a Volkswagen. Bro.
Kite had one, so he, Mrs. Holley, an elderly lady who
worked with us for a time in music, Juancito, a Peruvian
boy, and I all decided to go to a place called
Contumaza, a small place some four hours even further in
the Andes than Cascas. It was about 8,000 feet above sea
level, whereas Cascas was only about 4,000 feet.
Everything went great on the trip up, but Bro. Kite
warned us to watch Juan on the way down as he was only
used to riding the poor man's Cadillac. The road was
terribly serpentine. Juan and I were in the back, Mrs.
Holley and Kite in the front. He was driving. As we
winded our way down that mountain side, I was appointed
to watch for any tell tale sign of car sickness, such as
getting a little green around the gills. Bro. kite took
a great deal of pride in his car and he did not want
Juan to turn his beautiful brown seat covers to a sea
green.
Before long, I realized the signs had appeared but what
to do about it was a mystery. If I said anything, he was
sure to get sicker and something tragic would surely
happen; if I didn't say anything, something was probably
going to happen. While in this state of indecision,
whatever it was in Juan's little tummy (he was only
about 10 years old) suddenly made the decision for us.
He only said one word: "Wop!" I bellowed "Stop!" but his
wop beat my stop and there went Bro. Kite's nice seat
covers. (There was one thing to be thankful for, at the
last instant, he turned his head a little down instead
of up.) He not only turned the inside of his car green
he also turned Markey and me green! Somehow, Markey and
I caught the same disease. Really there was a big
dilemma of who was going to clean up the mess. Well,
poor Mrs. Holley was the only one not sick, and I, well,
I and Kite were as far away from the car as possible,
acting as though it was carrying a plague of some sort,
as none of us could stand the sight or smell of that
stuff, so by the process of natural selection, another
momentous decision was made for us. Mrs. Holley earned a
great reward that day.
On one occasion, Carlos and I decided to go to
Contumaza. (Juan and Carlos were brothers.) We arrived
and found a beautiful hotel there with swimming pool and
all the comforts and conveniences of life. It employed
about 25 people. He and I registered and then I noticed
something strange: We were the only guests there! We had
a hotel full of employees at our disposal. They were
just anxious to wait on us! We found out it was seldom
they had the opportunity to actually do what they were
hired to do! I was amazed at all of this. I asked him
why in the world they built such a sumptuous place at
the end of the world. He said it was pork barrel
politics. So, this sort of thing happens even in less
advanced societies. Politicians are politicians, world
over.
On the subject of transportation, the only thing I have
neglected is to tell about the Honda motorcycle I
bought. The price of cars was so high I soon realized I
could not ever afford one. So, I decided to try for a
motorcycle. Can't you imagine me on such a machine?
I finally located what I thought to be a good used
cycle. (There was not any surplus of anything in Peru
except dirt and dogs.) They were asking 6,000 soles for
it. This was about 200 dollars. I knew it had been
wrecked but I bought it out of desperation. The buses
were impossible to ride and I did move around a lot in
my daily ministration. This was a Honda 50 model or
maybe that was a 90. I do remember it had a piston about
the size of my thumb. After I saw that little piston, I
knew why I could not get it in high gear on the Pan
American with a stiff wind blowing.
To avoid the bus, and needing to go to Cascas (this was
about 5 hours northeast of Trujillo), I decided to try
out my new found toy. I took off down the Pan American,
going north for about an hour, and then I had to make a
sharp turn to the east, leaving the hard road behind,
heading into the mountains. This was a once in a life
time experience. It turned into the roughest ride of my
life. It was like mama's washboard all the way to
Cascas. By the time I arrived in Cascas, some four hours
later, all my moveable organs had moved to new positions
and even after I went to bed that night, my insides were
still doing the Jello dance.
On the return, once I hit the Pan American, the wind was
so strong from the Pacific (it was not so Pacific that
evening), I never got the Honda out of second gear all
the way back to Trujillo. In fact, part of the time I
had to run in first gear. That was the day I really
discovered what a little machine I had acquired. When I
finally arrived in Trujillo, it looked brighter and
better than I remember it before.
That was some feeling as I put-putted along the Pan
American, in second or first gear, after dark, with all
kinds of cars and trucks coming up hard on me, all of
them anxious to make Trujillo, all the chauffeurs of a
careless nature (remember, I had used the public
transportation system for some time, and in my mind, I
could well imagine what every driver was like that was
approaching me). Needless to say, I never did that
again. The cycle was good for some things, but long
trips were not its purpose.
When I left Peru, I sold it to one of my church members.
But he did not pay me until some few months later, after
I arrived back in the U.S. I made the mistake of
bargaining in soles instead of dollars and by the time
he paid me, the exchange rate had moved down so much
that I did not fare well in dollars from the sale. Later
on, I heard the man that bought it had been murdered. I
don't suppose buying the cycle had anything to do with
it, as his wife killed him.
Later on, when Bro. Kite left, he gave me his Jeep. It
served me well but it was an organ juggler also. Not too
long before we left in 1967, a church in Tampa, Fla.,
sent me a new Chevrolet pickup. However, because I was
on the verge of leaving, I did not enjoy the use of it
very long (maybe about 6 weeks). Originally, this truck
was to have been sent to me earlier, but due to one
delay after another, it was several months late in
arriving. It had something to do with import duty, as we
were trying to get it in duty free, which Dr. Money
eventually was able to accomplish. Dr. Money was from
Australia, and had become quite influential in
missionary affairs with the Peruvian government. He had
been there for over 30 years.
Upon leaving, I gave the truck to a native Peruvian
missionary by name of Ricardo Roldan, who was affiliated
with the ABA, which I was with also at that time.
In all the time we lived there, we only lived in two
different places: Trujillo, a coastal city, and Cascas,
a mountain town. In Trujillo, we first lived in a third
story apartment in the Montalvan Apartment Building,
located on the outskirts of Trujillo. We could catch a
city bus to town.
In Cascas, we lived in the same house that Bro. and Mrs.
Bell had lived in. This house was two story, with no
conveniences at all, such as water, lights, etc. (Later
on, we had electricity at night when the water was swift
enough to run the generators up above the city, located
in the Cascas River. Before this, we used kerosene
lamps, of the sort that operated under pressure, which
gave off plenty of light but also excessive amounts of
heat, and could explode, upon overheating.) We paid
about 10 dollars a month
and kept it rented year round, as the church services
were also held in a spare room on the ground floor.
Recently, Carlos, who is now in charge of the work, and
visited me this year (1994), told me he had bought the
same house and is restoring it as a historical monument
of some sort.
We had to buy water every day, dig a hole in the back
yard for a toilet, and take a bath in a wash tub once a
week, whether we needed it or not. We bought a kerosene
fridge that was imported from Sweden, as none were
available in the U.S. We still went to the market every
day or sent someone as they could get things much
cheaper then we could with our white faces.
We finally got a radio, which afforded us some contact
with the outside world. HCJV in Quito, Ecuador,
broadcast 24 hours a day in several different languages,
English and Spanish being two of them. I heard that
before they founded this station, they made a survey and
found only 12 radios in the entire country! So, they
decided to make not only a broadcast available but radio
set to pick it up on. This radio was very inexpensive
and would only pick up station HCJV. It worked out well
as that is a premier source of good programs today.
While in Trujillo, I met one of the musicians associated
with the station. His name was Robert Savage. I still
have some of his recordings. I heard several years ago
that he had since died. He also published a paper back
hymnal, with special arrangements of many of the old
hymns, as well as some that were written by a man from
Puerto Rico.
While living in Cascas, Carlos took me to the Catholic
Church building to see a piece of art that was on the
inside wall of the building. It was picture of Christ on
the cross, and was some 10 or 12 feet in height. Even
though my appreciation of art was rather limited, I was
still very impressed. Upon asking who was the artist, he
informed me the man who painted it was a native of
Cascas, and still lived right there in Cascas! I was
incredulous to think a person of such skill would make
his home in that obscure place. He went on to tell me
the artist had been offered several opportunities to
study in the art schools of Peru, but preferred to live
out his life in obscurity.
He also told me this man was responsible for the idols
the Catholics used in the church and in their
processions. Later, one night as we were holding a
service, this man came and stood outside and listen to
us. After the service, he, Carlos and I got into quite a
lively discussion about the matter of idols. I asked him
how he could fashion an idol and then turn around and
give it some of divine qualities and worship it.
Obviously, this put him in a bind and he was at a loss
to answer, as there is no logical answer. The outcome of
it all was he finally became very angry and went back,
no doubt, to the father for an explanation. In any
event, as is often is the case, this kind of
irrationality prevails among many different types of so
called Christians. The faithful blindly accept whatever
the church leaders tell them and go ignorantly along in
life.
The work in Cascas was founded by Bro. Bell many years
before we arrived on the scene. The Angulo family were
the original members. Mrs. Angulo was a very dedicated
Christian and a very unusual lady in many ways. She was
crippled (so was one of her daughters) but a go-getter.
She saw to it her sons, Carlos and Jaun were well
educated (she could also read and write, this being
unusual often times in Peru, especially for women).
Carlos and Juan were both college educated and even
studied in the U.S. Carlos had a several degrees. They
are both pastors in or around Trujillo.
We enjoyed our stay in Cascas very much. The climate was
very, very agreeable. It was only at about 5,000 feet
elevation. It was a farming area and had a river near
it. We used to go down to the river and listen to the
roar and you boys spent many happy hours swimming in it.
It did rain some in Cascas, but not too hard.
The people in Cascas were much different than in the big
city. I remember one night Mrs. Holley left her
accordion on the street corner all night. The next
morning she found it exactly where she had so
absent-mindedly left it! This seemed like a miracle to
us as in Trujillo, if we wanted to rid ourselves of
something we no longer needed or wanted, we simply left
it outside the gate and as they used to say in Spanish,
"se hizo humo"- It disappeared like smoke. One time,
Stephen left his bike out and it disappeared like smoke.
This was one item we were not ready to make disappear. I
informed the police, never really expecting to see it
again. I am not sure how, but it was finally located and
returned, no questions asked. The thief said they
thought it was abandoned as they had helped themselves
to several things that were left out on purpose. In
Peru, anything not nailed down or locked up, was for
whoever found it first.
Even though we lived in only two different places, we
visited many places. From to time, we went to Lima the
capitol, Chiclayo, Ascope, Chilete, Chimbote, Contumaza,
Chepen, Otuzco, Piura, Salavarry, Santa Anna,
Huaranchal, and Turnavista on the jungle side. We had
works in only a few of these places. Most of these
places, with the exception of Turnavista, were within
several hundred kilometers of Trujillo. Some were on the
coast and some in the mountains.
I only went to Trunavista once. This was because Olgie
was in a school there. Getting there was not easy. There
was a road that went across the Andes but I never
ventured that rout. Bro. Kite, who was more adventurous
than I, did so once. He said it crossed the Andes at
more than 18,000 feet and people turned blue, got sick
and etc., upon hitting this height. It was some three or
more days journey. The other way was by plane. But even
that was not too certain. There was a mountain pass the
plane had to go through and it was very treacherous,
especially if fog were present. There were no weather
stations to tell the airlines if the weather was bad so
they flew out and often times had to turn back, to try
another day.
I remember the first time I took that plane ride. The
pass appeared as if you could reach out the window and
touch both sides
of the mountain. My imagination always went berserk on
occasions like this. It kept saying what if that silly
pilot flies a little too close, Then what? But we would
have made the headlines.
You may be wondering why they did not fly above it.
Well, the planes of that airline did not have the
capability to do so. When we hit the highest part of the
trip, Olgie turned blue and I thought for sure she was a
goner, and I didn't know whom to sue! The cabin was not
pressurized. But they did have oxygen masks. However, by
the time you learned how to use them, you were already
knocking on death's door.
The city of Turnavista was built by Mr. Tourneau, an
American entrepreneur. Maybe some of my readers will
have heard of him. He was an industrialist and
philanthropist, in the U.S. The city was located east of
Lima, between the edge of the Andes and the Brazilian
border. We did not have a work there but Faith Baptist
Missions did, and I became acquainted with the man in
charge of it. He was building a school building while I
was there. I read recently that it now has over 600
students! Never despise the day of small things. He only
had about 20 or so students while we were there.
The jungle was so much different than the coastal side.
To populate it, the government offered free land to all
takers. The only ones who would move were the
foreigners. I found a huge plywood factory run by
Germans. They employed several hundred people. They had
their own electric plant, and even let the Baptist Faith
Missionary hook up to their lines. Most of the plywood
was for the coastal areas and for export.
The work in Porvenir was also founded by Bro. Bell back
in the thirties. He went there in the early thirties as
an independent. He worked in various parts of Peru for
some 20 odd years. He was not married when he first went
there. After spending many years solo, he returned to
the U.S. and married a wonderful woman who made up for
many of his deficiencies. She was a natural musician and
learned to speak Spanish fluently. (We visited her in
Tampa, on our most recent trips to Florida, of August of
1990, and in 1992. She has since died. There are not
many of her stature around today.) Bro. Bell had been
dead for several years.
When Bro. Kite arrived there, he worked with the church
in Porvenir. This was a fairly well established church
with the Garcia family the mainstays in it. When we
arrived, we also worked with the same church. At the
same time, we visited the work in Cascas, which was
considered a mission rather than a church.
The church in Porvenir did not have a church building
when Kite arrived. They were meeting in a garage
building. Bro. Kite and set out to secure a church
building. He was quite influential in the ABA, and soon
had raised enough money toward that end. In a little
while, we had the building. Of course, eventually, he
would leave Peru and I seemed destined to split off and
start an entirely new work. Today, that new church has
very nice facilities and in fact, Carlos is in the
process of finishing a complex that he hopes to
inaugurate this year (1995). It is a good feeling to
think we had a small part (and it was small) in what has
become a very large and prosperous work. It is difficult
to assess what one's part might be when so many hands
have been involved over a long period or time. Bro. Bell
laid the foundation, Kite and I added a few sprinkles,
and all seems to have to fruition under Carlos Angulo.
But then who really cares what credit goes to whom. The
important part is it goes on.
As I mentioned, after about two years, for health
reasons, Kite returned to the U.S. (He is now working in
Old Mexico.) Mrs. Holley came down to help in music and
tract work. She was unable to get hold of the language.
We used to joke about her language skills (or is that
lack of language skills?). She said the first year she
learned how to say Good morning; the second she learned
how to say Good by and that was exactly what she did.
This left us alone. It was a new and lonely feeling but
I was not ready to return as yet. My theme song for
those days was, He decidido seguir a Cristo-I have
decided to follow Christ.
Bro. Bell had worked closely with the Southern Baptist
during his first years there. They were not nearly so
liberal as today. However, the work in Trujillo was
greatly influenced by them. Garcia's oldest son was a
graduate of the S.B. Seminary in Lima and this made the
leading family of the church sympathetic with their
cause. Bro. Kite and I wanted to change this as we were
independents. And of course, the situation in the U.S.
between the S.Bapt. and the ABA was less than cordial.
We knew if this situation in the church in Porvenir were
found out in the States, we would be in big trouble.
However, we were unable to bring about this change
before he left for the States. This seemed to be my
legacy, but a distasteful one.
In 1964, we decided to return to the States to touch
bases with our supporters and to change affiliation to
the ABA (originally, we had gone out strictly
independent from the Grace Baptist Church in Bradenton,
Florida). Upon returning, I knew I had to change the
situation in the Porvenir work. (Kite and I had worked
together in a loose relationship, mostly of necessity, I
suppose. We both knew Bro. Bell, and we never seemed to
be able to separate from the Porvenir work. I often
wanted to but did not until more or less forced to do
so.)
Finally, out of necessity, I brought it to a head and
the result was not what I expected exactly. The outcome
was they voted me out (actually technically, that was
not possible, as I was not really a member but I didn't
bother to try and explain) and two other members went
with me (they did this voluntarily). One of these two
was Carlos Angulo. He was only about 18 years old at the
time. It took a lot of courage to leave as he had strong
ties to the Porvenir work. But he was a young man of
vision, as it turned out. We went up the street a ways
and started a new work. This was just what I had wanted
to do for some time. It was a momentous occasion but I
did not experience much joy at the time. We rented a
chicken yard (literally) put a thatched roof on it. The
church in Porvenir agreed to give us some of the benches
bought with American money, a few song books, a pulpit
and presto, we were in business. Carlos and I worked
hard to get the new work off the ground.
I worked with this new church the last two years there,
also the Cascas work and we established a missionary
work at Huaranchal, some 13 hours from Trujillo in the
mountains. It was at the end of the world, at least it
seemed that way after you made the trip.
Huaranchal (pronounced Warren-child) was a place far
away and long ago, so it seems now. It was not the end
of the world, but as coach Holtz said once about
Fayetteville, Ark., you could see it
from there. It took some 14 hours by bus and serpentine
road from Trujillo. And those hours did not translate
into miles as much crooked roads. It was also over
10,000 feet up. I believe the connection to this place
was from the Garcia family, as they had originally been
from there. It fell my lot to go there. Of course, the
biggest problem was that of a place to stay and the ever
present bathroom facilities. They were non existent.
We went there to baptize some folks even further up the
mountains (some three hours by donkey, horse, buggy, or
just foot). I rode a horse (can't you just see me on a
horse?) at least part of the way. I walked some also. It
was a most miserable night that I spent there. I
remember how wonderful the daylight looked that next
morning. After having someone help me out of bed (well
that is not exactly what I would call that thing I lay
on-didn't say slept on), I was looking forward to
breakfast. What I found was a fire and roasted nuts!
Nuts for breakfast? Well, I guess you know I indeed had
nuts for breakfast. By then, I realized I was the nut
for getting myself roped into such a venture. But we are
called on to do disagreeable things to further the
Lord’s work.
But later, I did get some boiled eggs. That was down at
a place called the hot springs. Near where we baptized,
there was a hot spring that actually cooked eggs. All in
all, it was a beautiful part of the world, but getting
there was too big of a price. Between Huaranchal and the
place up the mountain, we spent the better part of a
week. But I never returned to that place again.
Carlos recently told me that at one point in time, the
new church had some 13 preaching points, many of them in
the mountains. Carlos has been a power in that new work.
He has the respect of all, both rich or poor, Peruvian
or American. This work is now a member of the ABA and
Carlos is well thought of and supported by them.
Some of our most anxious moments were when earthquakes
struck. Being from Florida, I had never experienced one.
Soon after we moved into the Montalvan Apartments, we
experienced our first but not our last. We were living
on the third floor, which is no place to be in an
earthquake, in fact, there is no good place to be but up
in an airplane. I heard the people run out of their
apartments and I went to the door and heard those soon
to be familiar words, "Temblor, temblor!" I did not
recognize the words then but it did not take long to
learn them.
My most anxious moment came several years and quakes
later. I was down town in Trujillo in a hardware store
looking for a certain item. All of a sudden, I saw
dangling things, and things on the wall start to dance
around. It did not hit me right away as to what was
happening. I looked around to call attention to what was
happening and I found I was alone in the store. Then I
knew what was up. I ran into the street. This was
standard procedure. Across the street was an unfinished
building. Protruding from the top of it were some steel
reinforcement bars. They were singing a song like I had
never heard, and it seemed to me it would never stop.
Later, your mother told me (she was back at the place we
had rented) she headed for an open field near where we
lived. Maybe some of you older boys remember that one.
However, it did not do a lot of damage. Only a few
months after we left Peru in 1967, there was a bad one
that almost destroyed the Trujillo area, killing over
60,000 people. I was glad we were not there.
Up to this point, I have not said much about the people
of Peru. My general impression was of a negative nature.
They were the product of breeding between the Inca
Indian and the Spanish. They were there before the
Spanish came and did a good job, so some say, of running
their empire. The Spanish came in, and by deception,
captured them and this deception seemed to have rubbed
off on the nation as a whole. If that was not bad
enough, throw into the mix the Catholic views of life.
That seems to have been a formula for disaster.
For example, we took some of the youth of Porvenir under
our wing and tried to help them. We allowed them to come
into our home, we fed them and in general, treated them
like our own. We also allowed them to look at our World
Books and later, we learned one of them had taken a
knife and cut certain pages out of one of the books.
Such ingratitude was incredible. Of course, this did not
mean all were like that. The Angulo family, the Garcia
family, and others we met did seem to balance it out
some.
One morning not too long after we arrived in Trujillo (I
have not attempted to put this narrative in any
chronological order), we heard a knock on our door. I
was always eager to talk to anyone as this helped me
improve my language skills. Upon opening the door, I
found a man who was appealing for help to buy medicine
for a huge sore on his leg which he made sure I saw. He
showed me the prescription the doctor supposedly had
given him. I soon had my wallet out. At that moment,
Bro. De Roset, a GARD missionary who lived across the
hall and was apparently keeping an eye on us, called me
from his doorway. He told me this man did not need help
as he could get free medical treatment at the hospital
downtown. He went on to explain how this sore was the
best friend the poor fellow had, and this was his way of
making a living. These sort of
things were common place in Peru. Of course, con artists
are common world over. But this one seemed to be a
little more unique.
I remember reading in La Ultima Hora, a news paper out
of Lima (I read two different news papers for news and
learning purposes, La Prensa and La Ultima Hora), about
an amusing incident. There was a man who came around to
all the houses in a certain poor area in Lima, and told
all the residents he owned the light poles and they had
to pay him something like 10 cents each for their use.
They all paid for a long time before he was discovered.
Such incidents were common in that place.
Another con game was "el cuento del tio" (the story of
the uncle). When I first started reading about this, I
did not understand what was being reported. As I
continued to read such tripe (I learned some of the
slang of the language in such stories), I realized it
was what we call the pigeon drop in our language. A
victim is picked and the con artist goes before him,
dropping a bundle of bogus money. The victim picks it
up, the second con artist comes up, as he had been
following the victim, claims and half of the money.
Finally, a deal is struck, if the victim will give the
con man all the money he had one him, the con artist
will meet the victim later and give the victim half the
money.
One night I was in a local restaurant (El Gallino Rojo,
their specialty was chicken cooked on a rotisserie) and
before I could order, a beggar came in off the street
and asked for a handout. Beggars were well tolerated in
Peru. I responded by inviting him to have a seat and I
would order him something also. This was not exactly
what he had expected (he probably thought those pesky
gringos, always doing the unexpected) and hesitated to
do as bidden. Of course, his dress and odor didn't
contribute much to the atmosphere. The waiter came over
and tried to get rid of him as he could not imagine me
inviting him to sit down with me. I again invited him to
sit and told the waiter to double the order and I would
pay. He also hesitated (everybody was hesitating but I,
and I was having fun), and finally after all were
convinced they had heard correctly, he sat down and the
waiter went warily to the kitchen to order the chickens.
Soon, he and I were happily eating (from the way he
inhaled that poor chicken, I am sure it was the best he
had eaten lately) and all turned out well as the waiter
eyed us warily from a distance. After finishing the
meal, he gingerly got up, profusely thanked me and the
most surprised beggar in Trujillo went merrily on his
way. I paid the bill with both an angelic an impish
emotions. It was not often we gringos outdid the
Peruvians.
I must tell about this poor soul who lived on the street
corner in Trujillo. She had all her belongings right
there on the corner (well, where else would you expect
someone to have their things, this was, after all, her
home, of course everybody else thought it belonged to
the city, that shows how things can get tangled up
sometimes). She had her little kerosene stove (I often
wanted to drop and have brunch with her but this was one
time I couldn't muster up the courage) and she cooked
her meals on the corner. I am not sure how she told
which part of the corner was the kitchen. She had her
tattered rags, old shoe, underclothes, in fact, she
didn't seem to have left anything at her last address.
Though I had a problem with locating the kitchen, it was
not too hard to figure which part she considered the
bathroom (I doubt she wasted time taking baths though).
You are wondering if this story is true. Yes, it is. No
government programs there for the demented. (Anyway, it
was hard to distinguish the rational from the
irrational.) In Peru, it was your privilege and your own
affair if you wanted to act a little nuts. It was a
fairly easy out and people did tolerate you well. I
think most foreigners even considered it, at least once.
That was one good thing you could say for Peru, it was
an easy place to loose your mind in and not worry about
having to find it again. A little more on the serious
side, such sights were common in Peru.
I just remembered the poor fellow (beggar) I saw on a
street in Lima. He had a sack that looked alive. I was
curious as to what
was in the sack. I followed him down the street where he
finally took a seat beside a building and opened the
sack. (I suppose I had a certain morbid curiosity with
this element of Peruvian society.) What do you supposed
jumped out of the sack? A little mangy mutt! He
immediately began to lick and kiss the old man with all
the enthusiasm that only animal lovers know. I am sure
this was about the only friend the old man had as he
traveled the streets of that big city looking for a hand
out.
An incident that happened to us in Lima might give you a
better insight into the mindset of those people. In
order to get out of the country (this happened as were
making preparations to return home in `67), we had to go
to down town Lima to Dr. Money's office, and get all of
our papers in order. Dr. Money handled all the paper
work for most missionaries. Unbeknownst to us there was
a procession on in Lima honoring El señor Moreno (the-
are you ready for this? purple Christ!) I had heard many
descriptive terms about Christ but this one really
caught me by surprise. During this week, yes, seven
days, they take this purple decorated idol out, mounted
on a platform with staves on each end, borne about on
the shoulders of muscular men, and paraded around Lima
on a route previously decided on and published in the
newspapers. Something like out parades here in the U.S.
There was at least 500,000 people following it around
(not much work on these days, or for that matter, others
days either) while all sorts of vendors were selling
everything from purple streamers to chi-chi-morada, a
purple drink. There was also purple pudding! I am
suppose this meant purple insides also. But purple was
in during that week. Of course, it doesn't take a rocket
scientist to see it is big business, similar to
Christmas over here, or maybe the superbowl.
Anyway, we got caught in this tremendous crowd. (It was
even worse than the time I thought the soccer game was
over at half time and nearly lost my life just trying to
go out the front gate, while all the freebies were
trying to come in.) All this happened about 4PM, on the
way back from Dr. Money's office. I am not sure how we
became embroiled in this crowd but I do know it
impossible to escape. You did as they did, if they
leaned to the left, so did you. If they moved, you
moved. If they stopped, you stopped. We were literally
captives of this huge mass of humanity until about 10
that night, when we finally caught a taxi back to our
hotel room. Being in such a situation is impossible to
describe in words.
I had another bad experience while in Trujillo. There
was an American missionary there named Jones. He had
made the mistake of adopting (I do not know if he
legally adopted this kid or not) this boy named Thomas.
This boy was about 17 when we came to Trujillo. he was
gifted in music and deception, I am not sure which he
preferred and excelled at. Actually, he used the music
as a con into your confidence. Because of my interest in
music, he took advantage of me. I finally loaned him my
accordion. Instead of playing it, he pawned it. Finally
realizing I was not going to get it back, I went to Mr.
Jones and told him the situation, although I hated to do
so. But the instrument cost a lot of money and I was
using it in the Lord's work. He found out where the boy
had pawned it, redeemed it and gave it back to me. I
later found out this was a pattern they had fallen into,
he got into trouble, Mr. Jones bailed him out.
After having the instrument returned, I saw Thomas down
town. He offered me his hand and tried to apologize. I
refused his hand (this was his way of worming back into
an offended person's confidence) as I told him I was
sure to get burned again if I even so much as touched
him. I did accept his apology but steered clear of him
from then on. Soon after, Mr. Jones died and Thomas kept
to his old tricks, soon he was back in jail and now no
one to bail him out. When we left, he was still in jail.
Many parents don't realize that sometimes compassion is
misdirected.
While living in Cascas, we experienced one of our worst
times. I got very ill and went to the local doctor in
Cascas. (I had never been seriously ill or stayed sick
very long before that.) The local did not seem to help
me so we decided to bundle up and go to Trujillo. We did
not have the money to hire a taxi as opposed to the bus,
so your mother loaded me and all of you on the bus and
off we went to Trujillo. It was not your ideal mode of
transportation for a sick person to travel by. We
arrived in Trujillo and a lady missionary named of
Jenny, invited us to stay in her place (we knew her
previously as she was with GARB and lived on the second
floor of the Montalvan Apartments.
After settling us in, she got Dr. Ulloa, a Peruvian
doctor educated in the U.S., who spoke some English and
had married an American woman, and he lived nearby. He
soon diagnosed it as yellow jaundice or hepatitis. (I
said there was a surplus of dirt and dogs, add flies to
that list, as that is where I got that little disease.)
Some week or so later, some medication (I don't remember
why I was not quarantined), we decided to return to
Cascas. I stayed in bed for some two or more months. But
this gave me a chance to rest and study. (Don't tell
anyone but I actually enjoyed this is time of R and R. I
read all the World Books; listened to Julio Eglesias and
recovered my strength, little by little.)
The doctor recommended certain foods to assist me in a
more rapid recovery. One of those was liver. As with
doctors, they neglect to tell you how to procure these
special foods. In Peru, liver was at a premium. Most
cows only have one as opposed to thousands of people who
seek it like a blood hound after a deer. In order to get
a liver or even a piece, one had to get up early, go to
the slaughter house, wait until a liver was available,
and beg like the sinner begs God's forgiveness for his
sins. Her enthusiasm soon waned for this activity. I
couldn't blame her. I got some liver but there was no
surplus. But I did eventually recover. He also suggested
honey. But not even the bees refused to work in Peru.
Up to this point, I have said little about you children.
Olgie was about 9, Jonathan about, David about 4, and
Steve was about 1, when we left Miami on that fateful
day in September of 60. Paul was born later in 64, after
we returned trip the States, primarily to touch bases
with our supporters and to be sure, you Paul, did not
turn into a Peruvian. Your mother went to the doctor and
complained of what she perceived a be a cancerous growth
in her stomach. The doctor agreed except he put arms and
legs to it. Such were your very conspicuous beginnings.
You children suffered less trauma than we. Within weeks,
you
could make your wants known. Of course, children learn
faster and anyway, you played with the Peruvian kids and
saw the language acted out. I knew all about it but they
knew it. I often wanted to play with the kids but I
concluded it might be wrongly interpreted. Spinning tops
and winding yo-yos didn't seem to be too adult oriented.
The only adult I ever saw doing that was demented.
You children's schooling was the greatest problem we
had. We tried several different things. We brought an
American teacher down for one year. (That pair of 'jamas
he left behind, I wore for years.) We put Olgie in an
English speaking school in Turnavista; we put you boys
in Spanish speaking schools in Trujillo. One such school
was the Catholic school and the last one was a Methodist
school in Trujillo. While in Cascas, you boys attended
public schools. I ended up teaching you a correspondence
course in English (I learned more than you and that was
when I learned you couldn't speak English very well).
But somehow you have made it, although you older boys
suffered more than you younger. Still, all of you have
skills that enable you to percolate through society and
earn a good living, while at the same time, enjoying
what you do. That is about all we can expect.
This matter of your education was one of our greatest
considerations in deciding to come back home. We were
faced with the decision of either shipping you home to
continue you education or coming home with you. We felt
you were first and so we came home and I might add, we
have never regretted it. Anyway, the best thing that
could happen to the Peruvian work was for it to be
managed by the Peruvians themselves which is exactly
what is happening now.
So, in 1967, we decided it was time to hang 'em up so as
to
speak. We landed in Bonita Springs, Florida, the place
of my origin, staying in Cordell's (he was thought of as
the town fool) old house for a while, and later in Dad's
old place. For awhile, I pretty much lost contact with
the work in Peru. Recently, and not so recently, as I
have stated previously, Carlos Angulo had come by to see
us, and gave a good report on it.
For the most part, this account is factual; however, I
have
enhanced it to some degree. I am sure you can decipher
where this occurs.
This pretty well covers most all the high lights I can
remember (I didn't keep a diary) and will close with
something I over heard a Peruvian say to a friend just
after he returned to Peru from the US. His friend asked
how Peru compared with the U.S. He answered it is like
your mother, she may be ugly but you still love her.
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