MY MOTIVES, THIS
SECOND TIME, WERE MUCH MORE PURE. This time I was in a small village on the
outskirts of Cusco.
When we arrived at the village, I
discovered that my bag was not in the car. We finally figured out it went with
another group, to another village, a long way off. The pastor who was with us
at the time
said he would take me
to that village, so we started out in his car. Right after we left the church,
we passed a house with a pretty girl, about 18, in the front yard. She looked
at us, and she flushed. I saw a certain look pass between them, that look that
passes between two people who share a dark secret. I saw that look many years
ago, when we lived in another city, pass
between a man leading the singing at our
church and a lady in the front row. Barbara had seen it too, and later, we
discussed it. We thought surely, we had misread it. Both of these church
members had spouses and a family. A couple of weeks later, they ran off
together.
I hope I misread this new look, too, but I
doubt it. This pastor had a large family.
When we got to the village where my bag
now resided, One of the mission trip members, also with grey hair, was leading
a funeral procession up the mountain, about to preach a funeral. Like I said
before, If you are old, and you go on a mission trip, you best be prepared for
anything.
The
people were much the same, except now we cooked a very large meal each day, the
college kids went out in the poor neighborhoods and brought the kids in like
pied pipers, each child with a bowl and a spoon, ready to eat. I was somewhat
unofficially in charge of my group this time, and I was determined to prevent
my kids and I from getting that horrible stomach bug. I treated all the water personally with
chemicals, I watched over what we all ate, and all they did, like a hawk, and
when we were flying home, I had the satisfaction of realizing, It was
successful. No one in my group had gotten the bug. Pride goeth before the fall.
When I stepped off the plane, it hit me, and hit me hard.
My
gray hair, thinner and grayer now, still caused me some guilt attacks. A
ceremony was set up one night at a small village, for me to officially present a
soccer ball, one I had no role in bringing along in the first place, to the
city fathers for the benefit of the children of the village. The main pastor's
wife made a very long and elegant speech one night, thanking me for all the
great work I had done for the children of Peru, over the years. I had been in
Peru, in my life, maybe a total of a dozen days. But, I accepted her misplaced
praise with great dignity, as one with hair such as mine should do.
The
last day, with everyone else headed for Machu Picchu, I begged off. I hired a
car and driver, an interpreter, and headed out to my old village, to see my
friends and search for my God children – and Aqua Amigo.
That did not cost as much as it sounds,
probably about what a rental car alone
would have cost me at home. The little Indian preacher, now my dear friend,
Pastor Cirro, went along. He and I have never exchanged an understandable word
between us, but we communicated easily with smiles, handshakes, gestures,
laughter, and love. He told me, through the interpreter, that he had a picture
of me hanging on his wall. Funny. I have a picture of him on my wall.
I had been trying to trace my God children
all week. Seems the oldest girl, now nearly grown, was in Cusco for awhile,
then the trail went cold. The rest of the family was harder to trace, but I
hoped to find them at or near our old village. Turned out, when reaching the
village, they had moved on. But I did
find Lenore, the church mother, busily cooking corn over an open fire in her
hut near the church. I gave her several more pair of reading glasses I had
brought for her. Her father was there, now totally blind with cataracts. Where
is my friend the eye surgeon, Frank Teed, when I need him? She sat us down to a meal of mostly corn on
the cob.
The corn grains in Peru are huge, larger than a big marble. We just pull them off, and eat them one at a
time. I now realize, that was the one place I messed up, in guarding against
the bug. But what could I do? Just tell sweet Lenore I wouldn't eat her corn?
Afterwords, I found several of my children, now nearly grown. I was wearing my
trademark hat and the same white coat, and they recognized me. My family, with
my four God children, Lenore told me, had moved to a village farther away, but
she would see them at a festival later. I gave her an envelope containing all
the money I could spare, and asked her to give it to them. Indians have
nothing. That small amount would make them rich.
Lenore told me her son was working, some
distance away, but he could be sent for. I really didn't know who her son was,
and time was getting short, so I said, “No, we've got to go.” We were nearly
back to Cusco when it hit me. Her son was Aqua Amigo! My “water friend!” I had missed
my last chance to see Aqua Amigo! My eyes filled with tears, and overflowed.
I
knew I would never be back to Cusco. That altitude thing hit me hard this time,
and I know I would be pushing my luck going again. One of our OBU kids, who
went on up to 14,000 feet or so, got extremely sick, and had to be quickly
brought back down. There's only a couple of places in the world where people
actually live at those altitudes, and there's a reason for that. My very last
morning in Peru, our group decided to take the names of all those we worked
with this week to the top of a mountain and pray for them. I carried the names,
and we headed up. About halfway up, I handed the names off and told the group I
would wait for them there. You young'uns go on. Nice to be young.
I
sat down on a rock, and just looked. Far below, I saw a person working out in a
field. The more I watched, the more I began to realize, I was watching a world
class athlete of some description. He/she could raise one leg straight up, with
the other standing on the ground, and put that body in all sorts of amazing
positions.
I watched a plane take off in the valley
far below. The runway was at least twice as long as an ordinary runway, even
one designed for the large jets. It took every bit of it for that plane to get
airborne. Thin air.
Goodbye Peru. I love you. Goodbye, Aqua
Amigo. I'll hold your hand again in Heaven.
For
some reason, the other leaders had to fly back half a day early. I was given
the job of making sure all the kids got home. At the airport, I was sorta
nervous. Being a world traveler, I shouldn't be, But Barbara had always got me
through the airports, and this was an awful lot of kids to get home. When my
carry-on was X-rayed, they found something. They told me there was Leatherman
tool in there, (with sharp blades) and why was that? Well, I did carry several
of them down in my checked luggage, as gifts, but they were all gone. I emptied
the bag, it was not there. They X-rayed it empty, and there it was. Showed me
the x-ray. I dug around in the bottom, and found it under the first layer of
the bottom. They were very concerned about me now, I could tell. I had no idea
what they would do with me. They could make me stay in Peru. So, told them how
sorry I was, how it was just an accident. I gave up the weapon, I begged and pleaded until they let me off, then repacked
the bag, and hurried down to rejoin the kids.
A few minutes later, the same man came down to see me. Said someone left
a hat up there, did we leave it? My hat was on my head, so I asked the kids. No
response. I said, “Last chance! Did anyone leave a hat?” no response, so he
left. In about 3 minutes, I remembered. I had bought a hat for Frank Teed, and
that was it. I rushed back up to him, told him that was my hat.
He
was about tired of messing with me now, and said, “But you said, last chance!
Last chance!” A couple of my kids had to come up and rescue me. And the hat.
A
strange, safe feeling has always enveloped me on mission trips. What better way
or place to die, than out, doing God's work. Fulfilling the Great
Commission? I guess I figured if I die here, St. Peter will just give me a
pass straight through to Heaven. I won't even have to account for all my sins.
We flew into DFW, and
I rode toward Arkadelphia with
the “wild child.” He had been on the other trip, too, and he was trouble. Once,
in Lima, he followed some stranger off down a dark alley who told him he had a
special deal for him, he said, and he got lost. Almost missed the plane. On the first trip, he
wanted to carry only camo clothing. I told him that camo attracted unwanted
attention in third world countries, told him how my camo hat had gotten a truck
load of soldiers to point their guns at me once in southern Mexico. We argued
awhile. He would always do the unexpected, kept a person nervous about what he
would do next. Little did I know he was about to totally outdo himself.
Anyway, on the way back from Dallas, I was
riding in “Wild child's” car. I went to
sleep in the back seat, and woke up to the sound of our windshield breaking, "wild
child" screaming, and screeching
tires. When I opened my eyes, we were lodged under a 16 wheeler, crossways,
right in front of the back tires, and being dragged down the road at 70 MPH.
The side of our car had cut a “V” shaped,
two inch gash in the bottom of the truck siding, and the car being
lodged in that
gash was all that was
keeping us from being rolled up like a tin can. The driver of the truck handled
it perfectly, slowing down very slowly, and when he got down to about 40 MPH,
our tires were gone and the metal rims were grinding away.
When we stopped, I looked up at the two
boys in front. Other than shaking with convulsions and probably in shock, they
seemed to be OK, and lots of people were already on the scene getting them out.
I was worried that traffic would hit the car before the boys got out. The car
was sticking out in the fast lane. I got out and started directing traffic.
Strangely, I never got excited. Not one bit. Others in our group started
arriving, found the two boys lying in the grass shaking with convulsions. They
knew I was in that car, so they started walking the road ditches trying to find
me. Finally, someone yelled, “There he is! He's the one directing traffic!”
I really just have no explanation for my
reaction, or lack of one. I called Barbara two minutes after I got out, and she
said later I was perfectly calm. Maybe, I've just ran out of adrenalin. Maybe
being asleep when it happened caused it. Or, maybe, just maybe, that strange
safe feeling was still surrounding me. The mission trip wasn't over yet.
As we rode on to Arkadelphia, in someone
else's car, I asked "wild child" for an explanation about how he
could POSSIBLY have gotten that car into the position it was in when I woke up.
“Well,” he said, I've had six other wrecks,
and they were just barely my fault too, and -”
That explained it all.
A perfect ending, I guess, for my
adventures in Peru. To this day, I regularly converse with Edith, my
interpreter in Lema. Her last adventure was leading a group of Christians to
Cuba. She keeps me posted regarding the activities of Pastor Cirro. I guess I
will never again see my four God children in Peru – or Aqua Amigo. But they
will always be in my heart. And it gives me some measure of satisfaction that
my children are probably still rich,
by Peru Indian standards.
No comments:
Post a Comment