The Festival of Guinea Pig Racing

    Back about the turn of the century, one of the girls in my church announced that a mission trip was planned to Cusco, Peru. It was planned as a backpacking trip deep into the Andes Mountains, near the headwaters of the Amazon river, in search of indians who had little or no contact with the modern world. It was also announced that there was one spot open. The others were most all university students. Without really thinking it over properly, I just announced, "I'm going."


     I have to admit, at that time I was not really the strongest of Christians. My motivation was mainly about seeing one of the wildest corners of the earth remaining, and living among the Catchua Indians. I had put on a heavy back pack and trained by climbing the highest hill in Arkadelphia. When we arrived, as it turned out, we could be driven to the village chosen. But I was in good shape, mostly, except for the knee nearly ruined in my training regimen. I was the only gray-haired member of my team, and the Indian, who seldom ever lived to the age of gray hair, treated me with great reverence. This caused many guilt attacks for me, having impure motives for even being there in the first place.

      I had proudly worn my Indiana Jones hat to Peru, thinking if I was going to be like him, I should look the part. But as it turned out, every Indian woman in the village had one on just like it. That sorta dulled the luster on my hat some.

      After we had gotten settled and talked to the Indians awhile, we found out that today was a big celebration day in the village, celebrating the day it was first built. It was all taking place at the soccer field, and we went. The mayor and elders all sat in chairs along the edge of the field, and everyone else sat in the grass behind. Well, the Mayor took one look at my gray hair, told one of the elders to go sit in the grass, and with much fanfare escorted me down to his seat. Another guilt attack.

      They were having Guinea Pig races, with each girl having a string attached to hers, and a little switch to spur him on. I had doubts about how fair these races were, because usually, the winner just dragged hers the last few feet.  Guinea Pigs were, I found out, in a class with Llamas, etc. in that they did well at high altitude. They just ran free in their houses, a pet, until, one fateful day, there was a need, and they became a meal.

      At church that night, the little Indian preacher from Cusco, Pastor Cirro, who was supposed to meet us there and preach, just did not show up. We sang a few hymns, then all the Indians turned and looked at me. After a couple of minutes, Lenore, the “mother” of the church, suggested we sing some more hymns. Then, they all turned and looked at me again. It finally hit me, they were expecting me to preach! Well, I had no sermon prepared, and I was, really, no sort of preacher. Not even a bad one. Witnessing to a small group was one thing, but I had not even thought to ask God to make me a preacher. That went back and forth awhile, then me and a student or two got up and told them how much we appreciated their hospitality, etc. We said a prayer, and they headed home.

      The girls were to sleep in the church, which was right next to Lenore's house. The ground was rock hard, and had bumps the size of a baseball all over it, but those girls just took that all in stride, even the toilet in that part of town, which consisted of a few bushes out by the creek. Ever since I really got to know these OBU kids, I was just totally blown away by them. I felt honored to be on this trip with them.

      A man in the village donated his house to us men as sleeping quarters. The ground was just as hard and uneven, and there was a bed in there, but we all figured that was where the Guinea Pigs would wind up, and we just spread our bags on the floor. When we got settled, and turned out our flashlights, we began to hear tiny feet scurrying about. We never could spot one, so we were never sure if they were Guinea Pigs or not.

Like I said earlier, I was deeply affected and changed greatly by this trip. I got to thinking about the terrible living conditions of these people, how eager they were to hear us speak God's word, what a sweet nature the children had, and how delighted they were to get these tiny bibles we passed out. That change started that night, as I lay awake all night long, with tears pretty much my constant bedfellows. It would be the third night before I slept a minute, after the whole team prayed for sleep for me, and someone dug out a sleeping pill from their bag.

   

      The next morning, we did craft things with the kids we had brought along, played and laughed a lot with them. They were totally delightful. A couple of young girls just could not accept the fact that I could not understand a lick of Spanish. “No Comprende” became my constant answer. The little girls felt that if they could just take my cheeks in their two hands, hold my face still so I was looking right into their eyes, then said the words very slowly and clearly, a light would just come on in my head, and I would understand. “No comprende.”

      One of the Indian boys stuck a piece of metal almost through his foot. A man picked him up. I asked the man if he would be OK. He looked at me, very seriously, and shook his head no. Seeing none of the Indians with any means of first aid, we dug our kit out, I washed the mud out of it as best I could, covered it with disinfectant, then wrapped it up good. His mother was very appreciative, and carried him home. We prayed for him. I never saw him again.  CONTINUED IN FOUR DAYS.    Thank you for your attention, and your time.