Like Ema’s Smile

Rain pelts Yarina palms, whipping and beating at the thatch-roof. I feel no water. Remarkable the way these dry, layered palms cinch in pairs with long strips from tall trees. They are as a fortress.

Night has fallen. We are snugly tucked under the mosquito net. It looks nothing like the ones in department stores back home: wide and long, it’s like a cube of airy netting tucked under the slab of foam that supports our sleeping bags.

Above the mosquito net, I hear bats. Children left uncovered awaken with a stream of blood trickling from their scalp. Exposed heads are open targets for such flesh-biting, darting, winged creatures. Being that their homes are tucked among the thatches overhead, this white cube of netting provides sure relief.

I have heard that snakes enter mosquito nets rather effortlessly. Better not to think about snakes before bed. I dismiss the thought, and smell the rain instead.

As if we are under a waterfall, it whips and sloshes through the mud surrounding our hut. Down the hillside it rushes. Through Aunt Dena’s tidy rows of pineapple, drenching her mint and lemongrass which stretches out of the brown earth, the water follows a predestined trail carved by machetes through hard dirt. A hungry stream groaning toward the rising river.

These same machetes hack deadly snakes, slash pineapples and hoist hands of banana from their lofty places. It cultivates the earth, clears the weeds, and carves trails through fierce, raging undergrowth which wars to dominate every path: from one community to another, from gardens to huts.

Time for laundry. After scrubbing fruit and charcoal stained clothes that have been soaking in rankish river water, with a pasty, turquoise laundry bar, we dip the clothes into the current, watching as cloudy white suds disappear into the cold, moving mud. I close my eyes, face turned up toward the sunshine. I suck in a deep, contented breath of soap and mud and wet sand. The sun, the blue of the sky, and the green of everything growing above the river is intense and alive. And it seems the blue is holding everything together.

In language study, I learn there is no name for the color blue. There isn’t a concept of blue? But what of the sky? I resolve to ask the question again when I may string together a few more vocabulary words in Ashéninka. No blue? There are words for black and green and red. One color for red is basically translated raw. The raw that describes a freshly slaughtered animal. No blue-- but raw, blood red. I note this observation in my notebook, feeling somewhat important-- like an anthropologist. I am very satisfied. I close the notebook, and hold it up to my language tutor, Ema. Red, raw red? I question in Spanish-- is raw red the color of my notebook? No, she insists raw red is purer and my red notebook is really a sort of pink. Names for shades of red, but no name for blue.

I watch Ema. I record her voice that I may wake to her words each morning, at the push of a button. It’s as if she is with me when she is not. Such a tiny, barefoot wonder. Few teeth to speak of. Coarse, unruly hair. Does she own a shirt without holes, or shorts that haven’t been crudely stitched in odd places? I have yet to see either.

I stare at her as she speaks into the funny little box I hold near her mouth. Oh my, but isn’t she beautiful! Content. Wise. Laughing easily. She possesses peaceful resolve. Neither time nor person can steal that certain, impenetrable beauty that is hers alone. And when she smiles! Is there anything so lovely as her smiling contentedness? I include this in my notebook. Ema’s smile.

I often think of her smile at unusual times. It depends little on the ease or predictability of circumstances, for she has neither. Clearly perplexing is that smile, when she launches hushedly into her sagas… her 20-something daughter having died, her own debilitating sickness and those speechless fits of fever, death hovering. Her voice is nearly hoarse as her stories unfold, as if she were looking around to see who might hear…

So cautious they are-- and skeptical-- especially of us. Our skin is a different color. Our feet are so big, and we stand a head taller than most. We are dangerous. There are stories of the white man, and every person seems to know the same one: White Man comes to slice, then peel off their faces, rendering them unrecognizable. He who cannot be recognized can never be found. The white man steals their children and peels their faces, too, then sells their organs. We are the foretold face-peelers.

But not everyone thinks this way. In the clustered spread of huts that is Yarina Isla, we are surrounded by a loving Grandfather who is from another tribe, and his son, Hermano Hyoni (Yoni) who is married to an Ashéninka woman. They have four children, three girls and a boy. They are believers.

When the children have all bathed, and cleanish clothes are all strewn about, darkness begins to settle over the river. Everyone is hungry. I make an extra large pot of soup. The whole eggs have been carefully dropped into a boiling broth, and when they are hard, it will be ready to serve: a fat pot of potatoes and peas and bit of corn in a creamy broth. The fire hisses and sputters when soup spills over the side of the blackened pot.

Behind the potato-pea-corn and cream soup is another toppling pot crowded with slivers of freshly-cut yucca. Every meal must include yucca. A dug-up root, it is still earth-encrusted when the rough, brown bark is hit with a machete, peeling away two layers of protective bark. The starchy center settles into tepid water.

Little MacDina comes toddling toward the fire. Her face is layered with runny nose, caked-on dirt and smeared plantain. Lice crawl from her head. And still, she sparkles, eyes twinkling while she babbles jibberishly. I tell her to sit down and wait for the soup. She throws her doll on the floor and screams. She hits the monkey with her doll. Then she obeys.

Hermano Hyoni is sprawled in the hammock, while his daughters, Laura and Yoselin are pushing him. Baby Caleb is crawling toward a whirring bug that has hit the floor, and is his to smash in-hand. Hermana Manuela gathers some bowls and tells the children to call Abuelito. The soup is ready.

Candles resting atop cans of tuna and evaporated milk are spread throughout the hut. We eat soup by candlelight. Sometimes we are silent. Sometimes everyone is talking at once. Sometimes Hermano Hyoni is playing a guitar, and other times Manuela is preparing the bird or the rodent or the fish he’s caught. Other times we are praying together, or studying the book of 2 Peter. We sing and laugh and listen to one another. And always, there is a certain sweetness in the mysterious clashing of our different worlds. This melding is at times uncomfortable. Awkward. Complex. For them, and for us. But without fail, it is always something beautiful. Like Ema’s smile.

To see more pictures from our latest adventure click here.

Some of September

The Embankment

Rain is beating against the red earth (Pucallpa is Quechua for red earth). Dust becomes thick, hungry clay swallowing up any wheels that try to pass through unpaved streets. Maybe the dust isn’t so bad, I’m thinking as Uncle Marty’s (as the children affectionately call him) truck is sloshing across red mud and begins to sink into a ditch.

An eccentric, elderly Peruvian woman without teeth is in the front seat directing us to continue on this road so that she can get home. Her backward bandana rests on gray curls and high, strong cheekbones. Wearing richly pink pants, and a shirt of many colors, she’s insisting that we move forward, saying aloud in Spanish, “All powerful God, Help us!”

We are helped.

Bad Water

The water tank on the roof is growing algae. Maybe this has something to do with the persistent high fevers: Chloe’s reached 105. Michael’s: 104. With this water, we have cooked, bathed and washed dishes and vegetables. But now the man on the roof is draining the source of our expenditures and foul, green water shoots out through two protruding pipes from the top of the house down to the sidewalk. Sounds like rain.

Groceries

Heavily-loaded canoes and other boats, whose names I don’t yet know, are pulling into the muddy river bank unloading stock after stock of green bananas and plantains. There are sweet-rather-than-sour lemons, and all shapes and colors of hot peppers. In the market stalls, beautifully woven hammocks hang from tin roofs. In others, there are beheaded turtles, whose limbs are separate from their shells.

Snake in a rusty cage. Ducklings and chicks. Quail eggs in jars. Tiny, firey monkeys whose red ribbons tie them to the cages they sit upon snarl, and make threats to passers-by. Quechua women drag carts through the meat stalls with their smooth, wooden spoons and bowls, weaving in and out of hanging pigs’ feet and giant black and white slippery fish piled in sloppy stacks. As the sun crawls higher into the sky, sweat drips from our noses and the bags of garlic and peppers, lemons, meat and mandarin oranges begin to make our shoulders ache. The moto-taxis plunge through the rocky dirt paths leaving little room for street-crossing. 

One father is wearing his tiny baby, while driving his motorcycle. Another small toddler is sitting in her pink walker which is tied to the back of the motorcycle seat resting on the bench of the moto-taxi. We begin to walk, then race through open holes in the traffic pattern, inhaling gusts of diesel fuel. We are on the other side now. There are woven brooms and hanging kitchen sinks from awnings. Painted, peeling turquoise wood panels are made into towering shelves that hold laundry soap beside giant sacks of loose flour and sugar and hard corn.

Strike

Later in the afternoon, Aunt Dena serves fried fish and giant kernels of buttery corn mixed with red pepper and smoked pig meat. There is garlic rice and homemade apple pie. We are celebrating Michael and Uncle Marty’s safe arrival from Lima. Having driven the usual 16 hours in 21, given a two hour road-construction stop and mile after mile of striking cocaleros, their safe arrival calls for a feast.

A convoy of trucks protected by police in army fatigues carrying semi-automatic weapons led the way while cocaine-growers and their sympathizers launched rocks from the hillsides at the Land Cruiser Uncle Marty and Michael were driving. The road was littered with burning rubber tires. For weeks the main highway had been impassable due to coca-growers (whose product is processed into cocaine) on strike. As soon as the newspaper deemed the road clear, Michael and Marty flew the hour to Lima to pick up our vehicle, making the long trip back home with a car load of supplies from Lima…

They hear a heavy thud on top of the car. They’ve been hit. And later-- hit again on the side of the car door…

Home in Pucallpa, Dena and I have lost communication with them and it has been many hours. We are growing restless-- uncertain…

Sunday

It’s been 23 hours. Still--no electricity. A little frog is hopping across the dark house, after finding his way through the open front door. The windows are open, too. We are sprawled with pillows across tile beside the door. Usually fans provide relief-- there is no air conditioning. But even the fans sit dormant tonight without power.

Everyone in my family is sleeping. My eyes are closed. I imagine a warm wind beginning to move through darkness. I am recalling the events of the day: learning to drive that stick-shift Land Cruiser, shifting gears without the clutch only to be firmly scolded by Michael: You’re not doing what I say!

Me: I can’t even understand what you’re saying. That’s not my learning style. I do much better with trial and error.

Michael: You can’t say that about driving! This is not about learning styles. We’re trying to stay alive here, Crystal! Listen to what I say and do it.

I am laughing.

He scolds again: This is no time to be laughing. You’re in the middle of the street and everyone is staring at you. You’re blocking traffic.

He tells the people to go around me, and I try again to shift into third gear. I cannot stop smiling. He’s always great at giving directions. My ability to heed them under pressure can be somewhat lacking. Still, I cannot stop smiling. So he does too.

For in union with Christ, you have become rich in all things… 1 Corinthians 1:5

Pictures from some of September can be found here: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=75281&id=1334529821&l=1419c97b21

The First of Two Homes

Pucallpa

Men without shirts are sitting under brightly colored umbrellas with typewriters conducting business: the typing-out of formal documents or solicitations for a small fee. And on another street not far from this one, there are crowded stalls of hanging light bulbs and machetes and rubber boots and long, fat tubes of chorizo. These streets have no lanes. Motorcycles weave in and out of moto-taxis. There are few cars, few trucks.

Motorcycles are often piled high: women in high heels sitting side-ways holding a small baby in one arm and plastic bags of plantains and potatoes in the other. One or two other small children sit between them and the driver as they dart effortlessly through dusty downtown stalls stopping for one thing or another until the motorcycle is lost in black and yellow and white bulging plastic bags, and sweating bodies. There are also moto-taxis.

A moto-taxi is a motorcycle whose attached 3-foot seat is supported by the two wheels underneath that attached seat. All of us get around town on that one 3-foot seat. Michael gets in first with Nathanael on his lap, then Julia, with Chloe on hers. I get in last with Abigail on my lap and Michael and I hold our bags of bars of soap and scrub brushes and such with our free hand on a little shelf attached to the back of the moto-taxi. Because it is dry season, there is much dirt and little rain. Riding into town, even our teeth become covered in a spray of red earth. It can burn the eyes and make breathing a bit labored every now and again.

The Neighborhood

By the time we arrive on our little street where the corner market stands-- painted a peeling, lovely peach color-- we climb out and pay our driver the price we came to an agreement on in the beginning. Under our feet crunch fat, brown mango leaves from the cluster of tall trees jutting out from littered earth. We follow the mango leaves to our black gate set in a pale aqua cement wall. This must be the third or fourth layer of paint this wall of cement and brick has known. Someone has taken a blue crayon and drawn a wiggly line across that whole front wall. I’m not sure if that someone shares our last name or not.

Instead of being separated by a street, our houses face each other separated by a sidewalk and some red dirt full of incrusted bottle caps and candy wrappers from the little market across the way, and a stray dog or cat.

The house in front of ours has a tall picket fence and mannequins with pink, green and blue-colored hair. If the multi-color-haired mannequins are out, our neighbor’s little shop is open for business. Her screened-in veranda is piled with plastic wrapped sandals she’s designed and labeled, clothing, purses and some jewelry. It’s quite an operation.

At the corner, across a dirt road, Maria sets up a few tables covered in cloth, chairs and a hanging light bulb or two. She lays out a spread of boiled yuca and bananas. There’s usually rice and potatoes. The meat cooks on the fire there on the street corner. There is always a crowd.

The Roof

On the rooftop, there is much wind, little dust, and the tops of palms, almond and mango trees in view. An airplane leaves the airstrip not far away. Driving, Latin rhythms absorb the usual roar of the competing moto-taxi engines.

Our water supply is also housed on the roof: a stout, blue, routinely-filled water tank. While we cannot drink from it, we do bathe in and cook with it. We use this water for our laundry. Beside the blue tank are electric-looking cables strung in zig-zags where we hang the clothes and sheets that have been hand washed, stomped on, wrung dry, and piled tall--still dripping--into a bucket and carried up to the roof to dry in the hot sun...

The first home.

Pucallpa.

Yarina Isla

The next: Yarina Isla.

In October, we will begin to travel. For up to a month at a time, we will be living in Yarina Isla, a tiny jungle community along the river, reached after a long, dusty road trip and boat ride down the river. Our home there is underway: a raised wooden floor built on stilts covered by thatched palm. There are no walls. Water must be gathered from the river and boiled. Wood must be cut. Jungle brush cleared, and yuca and pineapple planted. Yarina Isla will be our next home.

Showers in Rain

Punta Leona

Centipedes are plentiful and Guanacaste trees, ancient and moss-laden. The ocean is clear and green for the first 100 meters or so and the sky is azure with few clouds, unless it is late afternoon when the skies blacken and feed the earth. There is no thunder. No lightening. But beyond the thick grove of palms and other unfamiliar trees lining gray sand, the ocean is translucent green. Then-- where the water and sky meet-- is a collision of angry navy blue with nearly-black. Set against green water, the pending storm is breathtaking. Foreboding.

Meanwhile, we are floating in warm, turquoise pools. Wanting to stay-- if only to watch the sky and the water-- it is time to go. We follow an incline through the yellow and purple-leaved pathway. This is like crossing a spring stream as the rains do not relent.

Punta Leona is masterfully spread out along the Pacific coastline. Tucked away into the rainforest are little cottages and grand pools, winding trails and alas, the white sands of Playa Blanca. Foliage climbs both trees and houses. It is a constant battle between man and machete to tame the growth. When the sky opens and the waters pour, her fury is awe inspiring. Water may beat the rocks and dirt and hungry trees late into the night, but when morning breaks, beyond the trees, the sky is again a sweet blue.

The rain proves useful for showers. We stand in the little courtyard under the afternoon sky and wash our hair in her waters, which pelt so hard, the soap rinses out completely.

Without Power

Power has gone out. The night is completely black. Apparently this is not unusual, and there's a candle and sturdy box of matches on the table. I fumble to strike a match and open the door. Everything is black. Our eyes have not adjusted, but when they do, it is still nearly impossible to see. There is nothing but darkness and the sound of busy monkeys and other unseen creatures among giant trees and their branches. It is seven. Hunger gnaws at our bellies, for it is time to follow the path to the house on stilts lit with candles where beet salad and chocolate ice cream and fresh fish are waiting to be served.

Eventually we hear the steady drone of generators, and borrow a flashlight to follow Greg along the paved trail to the house on stilts, where hurricane glasses filled with sand host lone, white candles. Fat carrots and broccoli are heaped onto silver platters among fuschia bouganvilla. Thinly-sliced cucumber covered in pink yogurt is delicious.

Later that night, we drift off to sleep in the same blackness: waiting, whispering... anticipating these final 15 weeks of language school. August will come and Lord willing, we will board a plane for the jungle, where there will indeed be more showers in the rain.

Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

Thursday
I had planned to do some laundry. The machine is broken. What do I do with all the soapy water and clothes? Should I start washing by hand? Michael specifically asked me to do some writing. So, I shall write.

Wednesday
Nathanael is having a bad day. He's temperamental. Abigail is moody. Julia is pouting because she feels left out and Chloe says no to every command. I'm boiling.
"Everyone be happy! " I command (without a hint of cheer).

Later, Abigail is crying. Her eyes are red. She sits on the corner of my bed and confesses a list of everything that's wrong with her life. Each thing, strangely enough, is something that is actually wrong with someone else in her life: Julia Noel is bossy and pouty, Chloe Joy is destroying her tent, Nathanael won't stay out of her room. Everyone else needs to change: "If they would all do the right thing, I would be such a delightful person." But until then... she is justified to moan and make her family know how they have not only destroyed her tent and her mood-- they are robbing her of the ability to be a delightful person.

Then Julia is forlorn. She stands in front of me with a long, miserable face and announces woefully, "I did the experiment. For 20 minutes, I set aside my own plans. I decided that I was going to serve Abigail. I wrote out my plan, my hypothesis and an empty space for the results. When the timer went off, it had been a horrible 20-minute-experience, so I sat in the corner of my room and cried."
"Why? I thought you were going to spend 20 minutes serving Abigail, making life great for her."
"She didn't want my service. She didn't want my plans for her. I told her that I was serving her."
"Is that how you serve someone?"
"What do you mean? I gave her that whole 20 minutes, and she rejected me. The experiment failed."
"You were not serving her. To serve her is to fit into her world, her plans. To join in with what she's already working on and make it sweeter for her. You ask her what she needs, or even just anticipate it. Serving doesn't make demands. You don't do what you want, how you want to, and call that serving. That's bossing. That's why she's mad at you to begin with."
"But I told her I was going to serve her."
"Then you proceeded to demand how and when?"
"But if I live like this, who will serve me? I'll be doing all the work and all the 'fitting-in'."

Such a good question...

Even as I'm rebuking her, I'm uncomfortable, feeling the weight of my hypocrisy. I look at her, wincing, and admit, "Julia, I'm demanding something from you that I am not doing myself," I begin.

Abigail enters, and interrupts,"Yes, that makes you a hypocrite."

Can she read my thoughts?

"True."

Julia's eyes light up, "What are some other ways you're a hypocrite?"
"I tell you to rejoice in the Lord in your every circumstance, but when I'm bothered with you, instead of praising God, or calling out to Him, sometimes I go and pout, too."

They are clearly both very satisfied upon hearing this confession, leaning in a little closer. I continue, "Abigail wants Julia to stop being the boss and pouting when she's not, but she demands this of Julia, while pouting herself."
"Amen," says Julia.
"And your idea of service is really for your own gain, Julia," I continue. She smiles uncomfortably, knowingly.


While I long for my children to motivated to serve each other out of love, I often serve them out of duty with joylessness. When they act like I do, my own choices become painfully obvious.

I suppose Julia's question is more important than I realized: Is a life of praising God and serving others cheerfully REALLY worth it? In her words, Who will take care of me? If I'm so busy serving others, who will serve me?
We talk awhile longer, realizing that none of us is the innocent party. We are confronted later, when Michael is reading to us:

"...but whoever wishes to become great among you shall be your servant, and
whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave;
just as the Son of Man did not come to be served,
but to serve, and
to give His life a ransom for many."
Matthew 20: 27-28

Therein lies the Gospel, in all it's fullness, as it applies to bad moods and disagreements and everything else that finds it's way into a normal day...

Day Off

Thursday
February 25

From my bedroom window on the top floor, I am staring at green tin roofing. It's encircled in rolls of razor-wire along the top of the neighbor's fence, and beneath the wire is some graffiti- the same three silver letters I've admired from this window for these last 7 months. Above the wire, the sky is white and gray. It feels like a Friday...

But it's Thursday, and there is time to rest. The grammar tests are stacked on our teacher's desks. Our notes are set aside, and my bed, which is usually covered in these notes, reference books, verb conjugations, construction-paper note cards and a Spanish-English dictionary, is empty. It will be a three-day weekend, and this time-- there is no homework. I take a deep breath, and continue to stare at the silver graffiti.

Friday afternoon
February 26

Abigail and Julia are with me. We're walking with our vegetable bags in-tow, but they're empty. The narrow curb we're following into Desamparados is laden with trash and broken glass. The cement is uneven and cracked, making it important to watch where we step. There are deep holes stuffed with bottles and wrappers and something rancid.

We cross a bridge over brown water and admire tin houses built above the river. Some are painted turquoise, some are copper. Drying t-shirts hang just barely above adobe-potted red geraniums. The geraniums are stunning against peeling turquoise paint. We stop on the bridge while Abigail drops a leaf and watches it float slowly into the brown river. Julia is interested in the fact that the leaf follows invisible zig-zags before finally touching the water, carried along by the current. We think about the people who live in the tin houses. We admire those tin houses and the flowers and the laundry, and we keep walking.

The thrift store I anticipated seeing when we turned the corner is completely gutted. Instead, there are men on extended ladders painting the ceiling of the warehouse. "This is the right street, isn't it?" I muse under my breath, tracing my steps.

There on the corner are braids of onion and garlic hanging from the yellow awnings. Stacks and stacks of bananas and plantains line the corner. Fresh melons are cut into different shapes. I know this is the right corner-- where is the right store?

Julia is tense: "You don't know where you're at, do you? Are we lost?"
"No, and no."

We trace our steps back to a church on the corner. Just across the street is another thrift store. We settle for that one. We walk in and hand our empty bags to the lady who stores them behind the check-out counter and gives us a wooden number in exchange.

The music is loud and there is a smiling woman speaking very rapidly into a microphone attached to a karaoke machine. I listen carefully, and decide she's announced that there are 15 minutes left to gather blouses from the front rack where they are 2 for 1,000 colones. This means they're about a dollar each. Julia races to the section where fancy bathrobes and old-fashioned dresses hang.

"Oh, Abigail, I actually had a dream where I was wearing this dress!"
"I'll buy it for you," boasts Abigail, who never leaves home without her coin purse. She's sifting through her heaviest yellow coins. We each disappear into different aisles, lost in the tightly packed rows of skirts and blouses and dress-up clothes.

When it's time to leave, we hand the smiling karaoke lady our wooden number, and she hands us our bags, where we stuff our treasures. Julia's most happy about a scarf she's found that is the exact bright, clear red of the geraniums at the tin house. Abigail's found a layered silver party dress. Neither one of these things are needed: red scarfs are not necessary in the tropics, nor are party dresses for the jungle, but we couldn't be any more delighted, until we smell the bread bakery, nearing our house.

Instead of going straight, we turn, and quicken our steps toward the smell of hot bread. We load a little red tray with buns for dinner and Abigail adds a loaf of cheese bread insisting that if I don't want to pay for it, she can.

We turn the corner to see our front gate, long after we've heard Nathanael's grunts and cheers. He and Miguel are playing soccer on the tile behind the gate and race to to find the gate key when they see we have yellow bags with bread.

Instead of saving the bread, we all gather around the table after Nathanael hollers, "We're having a bread party for everyone who wants some bread!" He's the first to tear a piece from the cheese loaf, and we all agree that the hot loaf tasted much better than it would've with dinner.

Saturday
February 27

Miguel has the troops down at the baseball field. Since rainy season is over, the field is no longer a lake. Neighborhood children and men throw and chase balls, preparing even the youngest to join the team.

I am home, taking advantage of the fact that we have water right now. I race through the kitchen chopping radishes and cilantro with celery, green onion and almonds for tuna wraps. I bake oatmeal bars preparing for the time we will spend tomorrow with baby Rebeca, at the cafecito. All the while, I am washing as many dishes as possible and turning over as many loads of laundry as the machine will allow, before there is no water again.

Late Afternoon
February 27

The house is dark and silent and everyone sleeps for now. Oatmeal bars are iced with a vanilla cream, waiting in the refrigerator for tomorrow. I am reading through John 15 both in Spanish and in English over and over, for nothing ever sinks in the first time.

In this moment, I am rejoicing in my freedom: God's Spirit lives in me, directing my thoughts, my words, each choice, as I call out to Him. He is lovingly directing each small detail of my small life, so that I can join Him, the Creator of all that lives and moves and has being, in His huge plan for the nations.