I PUSHED AGAINST THAT GATE with every pound of my considerable weight, and every ounce of my
inconsequential muscle, sweat running off me and fear running through me. My
mind was a blur. This could just not be happening to me! This sort of thing
does not happen anymore, Indians just didn’t do things like this. Not for at
least 150 years. But then, I’m thinking
about back home, in the good old USA. I had not been in this remote corner of
the world before. Apparently, these Indians didn’t follow the new
guidelines. No telling how many outraged
Quechua Indians outside pushed back, screaming at me, trying to force their way
in.....
Only a few days before, I was in my
comfortable home in Arkadelphia, Arkansas, spending hours on end, praying that
God would put the correct words in my mouth as I witnessed to the Quechua
Indians of Peru, high in the remote Andes Mountains, near the headwaters of the
mighty Amazon River. Well, I should have spent some time praying that none of
my fellow mission trip members, even with the very best of intentions, would
trigger an Indian uprising.
I had heard about the trip at a community
group meeting of our church. It was planned as a backpacking trip, out of
Cusco, Peru, pushing into the wilds of the Andes Mountains, hoping to reach
previously unreached Indian villages for
Christ. It was organized and carried out by Outdoor Discipleship Ministries,
involving mostly Ouachita Baptist University students. The time was around
1999, and, I must confess, I was not really the strongest of Christians at the
time. My motives for my sudden decision to go were suspect. It was spurred on
more by the thought of joining a great adventure into one of the remaining
truly wild places of the world, than about the thought of fulfilling the Great
Commission. But, I must confess, I came back a changed person. The most
noticeable outward change was, I am more emotional, unable to tell even a
slightly stirring story without choking up. I had never been that way, but the
change appears to have been permanent. The upside of it is, I now can write
with true sensitivity and emotion, and I know when my writing is good, because
tears begin to flow...
I didn't even think to pray about God
giving me the ability to preach, or do dedication ceremonies, funerals, or
anything like that. I had no idea how far my gray hair would take me, what kind
of tights it would put me in, here in a land where few people ever reach the
age of gray hair.
Anyway, when I heard about this trip, and
that a spot remained unfilled, I just said “I'm going.” Maybe I should have
thought it over a little bit. But I didn't. I was the only older person. (In
1999, I was “older.” Now, I'm just old.) My little group consisted of several
girls and a few boys. As I say, this was billed as a backpacking trip, and during
preparation, when I started hearing some of those little girls saying things
like, “I've never slept on the GROUND before” I began having doubts about the
whole thing. But those “little Girls” soon proved it was myself I should have
been worrying about, not them. Their oft-stated motto was, “I could have stayed
at home and been comfortable. Or, I could come to these unsaved Indians and do
God's work. NO COMPLAINING.” And they didn't. Not one time.
As I said, I spent a lot of time in my
room praying for the right words to come to me. At the very least, “words.” I
have never quite gotten over the time in college, in church one night, (This is
another “first time ever told” story) the preacher asked me to pray. Well, I
searched and searched for the words, but they just would never come. Finally I
stuttered out an “Amen.” As I glanced up at my girlfriend Marty's face, I saw
it was red as a beet. She was embarassed about/for me. That always seems to
hang in the back of my mind when I start to pray in public, or when I start to
witness. Also, I dearly loathe hypocrites, and I often just feel unqualified to
witness, feeling like I'm saying, “I sure do wish you guys could just be as
perfect as me.” It took many years for me to fully realize, witnessing is just
one sinner talking to another. But it finally came, although witnessing ability
is coming along somewhat slower.
I read Jeremiah a lot, concentrating on
the part about “If you go, God will put the words in your mouth.” Well, I went,
and God did, mostly, to small groups. But he seemed to have some reservations
about my preaching ability, and the like. (For some reason, I am learning, I
can make confessions to this computer, and God, that I can never make to
another person.)
Things were kinda tight for us then, having
just sold our business and traveled for a solid year in our RV, and I began to
feel guilty about going at all when I thought of that final payment I owed,
$1500. A day or so later, I had to look about something in our old statements
from out rental property manager. The statements are sent to me, the money sent
to our bank. I pulled a two-year-old statement out, and guess what just fell
out of it. A check! Well, guess the amount. Yes, you got it. $1500. Here was
proof. God was in my corner in this adventure.
I
knew I had to get into shape, if I was going to keep up with these kids on a
backpacking trip at high altitude. Or at any altitude, for that matter. I put a
heavy backpack on and walked the steepest and longest hills in Arkadelphia,
daily. As it turned out, I was put into a group going to a village that could
be driven to, and we only backpacked through the airport. But I was in shape,
mostly, except for the knee I nearly ruined
getting in shape.
We
arrived in Lima early in the morning, and loaded onto a smaller plane for the
flight to Cusco. That city is at 12,000 ft. altitude, the highest inhabitated
city in the world, and planes only go out and in during the morning. Has to do
with thin air. Not enough lift. Well, If I'm going to fly over these mountains,
I sure do want some lift!
A group of young women from Peru got on
our plane at Lima, and I was totally relieved to see that they spoke perfectly
good English. We had been told a lot about the language barrier problem, and it
worried me, but listening to these young
ladies made me feel better. “Hey, guys! These Peru people speak great English!”
One of our kids rolled his eyes. “Uh, Pat, they're our interpreters.”
We had been told, in pre-trip planning,
that these Indians who live at high altitude prevent altitude sickness by
drinking Coca tea every day. Well, since Cocaine is made from that plant, we
had quite a discussion about using that at all. After all, this WAS and OBU
trip. Finally, our nurse who was going along just said, “I've done it both
ways. Without Coca tea, I got very sick. With it, I was fine. This is NOT
Cocaine. It has to be refined, refined, and refined to get to that point.” We
drank Coca tea.
That first day in Cusco, at 12,000 feet altitude, we just took it easy, to make
the altitude adjustment. And, we drank Coca Tea.
The next morning, we headed out to our
Indian village, a couple of hours out. We traveled in a hired taxi, a van. All
our stuff, mountains of it, was piled on top, and the driver found a little
short piece of rope on the ground, and tied it down with that. I don't know how
he did it, but he made it all stay on, over some of the roughest mountain roads
I had ever seen. I'd heard the story of
Jesus stretching the loaves and the fishes, and I think God must have stretched
that rope a lot to handle the job that little piece of rope did.
The country was totally beautiful, with
green fields sloping up to great mountain tops, speckled with fields of corn
and potatoes, and villages of little mud houses with thorn fences around them,
keeping the animals in.
Halfway out
to our village, There was a major landslide across the road. A single set of
car tracks told us that at least someone else had crossed it, so we followed.
At the peak, we met another van. No way to pass, and nobody was anxious to back
down. The driver and the taxi owner, got out. A couple of men from the other
van got out. They held a true SUMMIT conference, concerning which van was on
the most important mission. Finally, our driver told them he was carrying a
great team of missionaries, who came all the way from America. He pointed out
that big man with gray hair, me, and I felt my first guilt attack. The other
men could not argue with that. They had absolutely no grey hair in the van. They
slowly backed down the landslide. Being big
and gray headed, I began to learn,
carried a lot of weight with the Indians, because they were very small, up to
my chest, and very few of them lived long enough to ever have gray hair. I felt
like the fake I was the whole time I was there, because I got a lot more
respect, God knows, than I ever deserved, having impure motives for even
starting this trip in the first place.
When we arrived at the village, we
unloaded our gear, and stashed it in the church. It had been built years ago by
another missionary group, and was a small wood and mud structure with very
short benches inside, and with its two doors open, it was mostly being used now
as a place for hogs and chickens to lounge in.
One of my first chores was to filter a
supply of drinking water with a hand operated pump. Although we did have access
to one of the few faucets in the village, the water had lots of specks in it,
and, we were told earlier, 30% of us, at least, were destined to lose a lot of
weight the quick and hard way, when their terrible stomach bug hit. A young
boy, about eight, quickly latched onto me and was a great help in filtering
water. I showed off some of my four or five Spanish words I had learned over
the last 3 weeks by naming him, “Aqua Amigo.” My water friend.
Sure enough, when I got in front of a
small group of Indians, with my two interpreters ready, (first into Spanish,
which the kids understood, then into Quechua, the only language the older
Indians knew) God and Jeremiah came
through for me, and the words just poured out. Partly, I guess, because I had
lots of time to think up the next paragraph, while the interpreters did their
thing. I think God just had it planned out that way, because it took every
spare second to think up the next line.
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 the church mother, 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, They even adjusted quickly to 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 as the
church floor. There was a bed in there, but we all figured that was where the
guinea pigs would all wind up, so 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 – or worse.
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 or two 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 say
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 dug out the metal, 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.
One of the members of our team, slightly
over college age and from a northern city, had brought a trunk just totally
filled with teddy bears and other soft toys. He started passing them out to the
children, and they went totally wild with joy. Many ran to show their family.
The word spread like wildfire. Many,
many mothers came running with their children. Along about that time, someone
brought us the word that the Mayor had been very, very drunk from the festival
yesterday, but he was now awake and sending a truck to haul us across the
village to “city hall,” a large building that at least had wood floors for us
to sleep on. Well, we were beginning to worry that the toys might run out, as
more women and children, and now some men, showed up.
About that time, the truck arrived. We
quickly loaded our gear on the back, and as we started loading the trunk, with
very few toys now, the mothers were tearing at our arms. Pointing to their
children, they screamed, “My baby! No toy!" The last of the toys were in
sight, yet more and more Indians just poured out of their huts. We finally all
got on the truck, and started out, with dozens of Indians running behind. The
men were now at the front of the pack.
About half way to city hall, we saw we
were going to meet another large truck on that very narrow street. The trucks
just kept coming, and the mirrors on both trucks fell off in the road. The
drivers just got out, looked at their mirrors lying in the road, shrugged their
shoulders, got back in, and drove on. Now, in America, we would have soon had
two police cars on the scene, and two lawsuits would have been in the works.
Life is just more laid back and simple, with the Indians, at altitude.
We
reached city hall, with a short lead on the Indians, got everything inside, and
locked the door. But the back yard was a problem. There was a high mud fence
around the compound, with a gate, no lock.
Alright. Now I am back in the jam I was in
when I started this story. As luck, or more likely God, would have it, right
about that time the late little Indian preacher from Cusco, Pastor Cirro,
showed up. He talked to the parents a long time, then came and talked to us. He
told us, through an interpreter, that we must never pass out gifts with
abandon, like that, to people who have nothing. Gifts must be given to the
church, and would be slowly passed out later in an orderly fashion. He also
told us the people had settled down, and that he didn't think this was going to
damage our mission here.
I've thought a lot about that situation,
and knew that somehow, I should have had the wisdom to handle that situation
before it got out of hand. After all, I am
the one with gray hair here, now a little greyer. All I could figure was, to
just prevent the toy “pass out” before it got started. Once it got going like
it did, and without being able to talk to them, about the only option I could
see on the table was what we did. Just run. Gray hair and wisdom don't always go hand in hand, you know. “
Dumb young” usually transfers into “dumb old.”
There were a lot of windows in that building,
with no shades. The Indians, adults and children alike, just lined up at those
windows, and watched every move we made, while we unpacked our stuff. When
someone left, another Indian filled that spot, just staring. They kept that up
whenever we were in there that day, but were nice enough to leave their posts
as it got dark.
That
night, The preacher was there, the church was full. Their little benches were
about six inches high, and I couldn't hang with that, so I just hung out in the
back, Aqua Amigo at my side as usual, and leaned against the wall. The little
preacher saw my situation, and sent me a stool, which I gratefully sat down on.
I put my index finger tip on the end of my chopped off thumb, and flashed him
the “OK” sign. His smile faded. Seems that little signal has a whole nother'
meaning in Peru.
The next day, the Indian christians were
to meet us at noon. We planned to go to every house, witnessing. They finally
showed up, and hour late, and then said we needed to brew up and drink some
Coca tea first. Seems at altitude, things just move more slowly. A way of life.
Things went well, talking to the people. Seems the people who were trying to
tear my arms out of their sockets yesterday just loved us today.
It seems spousal abuse was rampant amoung
the Indian families. Many of the Indian women had bruises on their faces.
Pastor Cirro got right in the faces of the husbands, when he saw that, and they
just stood there, head down, and took it.
Then we were about to head up on the hill
overlooking the village, to talk to the people up there. Our college girls were
hesitant to go, and they didn't want to talk about it. Finally, one told me
that when they went to the toilet, just a few bushes remember, a group of little old men on the hill tended
to gather and try to watch. They really did not want to talk to them face to
face.
That
night, the whole village showed up. We presented the Jesus movie, in their
language. Agua Amigo held my hand the whole time. Then, we put on a little
drama the college kids had worked up. They really didn't know what to do with
me, so I was given the roll of the soldier who beat on the Jesus actor while he
carried the cross. I was told to just continue to lash the Jesus actor with an
imaginary whip until the music stops. I started lashing; the music dragged on.
More lashes, more music. The altitude was hitting me hard now. But that music
just wouldn't stop. I think the Indians were making bets about who would get
beaten down first, me or the Jesus actor.
The next morning, we walked a mile or two
to a small village to talk to some more people. We split up. I followed my
guides and interpreter up to the high country. I was to speak to a group of
people up there, and they were getting their cattle ready to take out to graze.
A young husband and wife team led us, and she had her 17 day old baby on her
back. Well, that young woman, 17 days out of childbirth, just walked circles
around me at that altitude. All the Indians must have developed very large
hearts, because the altitude didn't seem to affect them like it did us. I think
I did a pretty good job, for me, witnessing to that group, and we headed down.
They knew how I had struggled on the way
up, and the husband guide ran ahead and found a donkey for me to ride down.
Well, that was a major guilt trip, getting me a donkey to ride, just like they
did for Jesus in the old day! Bad as I felt, they had the donkey, and there was
just no way around it. I straddled the
little donkey, my feet were touching the ground, and that pore' little donkey
started swaying, then slowly falling over to one side! I had to walk down, but
I felt better about it.
Our
guide couple just really took a liking to me, and I could tell that they were
putting a lot more stock in me than I deserved. At the bottom of the hill, they
called the interpreter over, and made a long speech. The interpreter said they
wanted me to be their children's-- she struggled for the right word--
Godfather. They wanted me to do a dedication ceremony with each of their four
children. I thanked them, told them that was a very great honor for me, and
that I could arrange it. We left them
there and went back to our village.
It wasn't long before they and their
children showed up. They were all dressed up in their very best. I told them I
would go get the little preacher to do the ceremony. The dad waved that off.
No, he wanted me to do it.
I
had no idea what a dedication ceremony should be like, but the principals were
all dressed up and lined up, waiting. I just turned slightly away from the
interpreter, so she couldn't hear what I said. One at a time, I put my hand on
their head, raised the other arm, and began. I remember I had the child's name,
the lord's prayer, portions of the 23rd psalm, and some other
biblical statements in there.
If you are old, and go on a mission trip,
you best be prepared for anything, I learned.
We
were leaving the next morning. Late that afternoon, we all gathered up our
clothes we weren’t wearing, and all our stuff we wouldn't need on the way
home, and laid it out in a row, so the
Indians could pick out what they needed. The little Indian preacher, way under
five feet tall, took my long handled underwear. Said he was going up to very
high altitudes next week, and he could sure use them there. I could only
imagine what he looked like, wearing them.
I announced I had an extra pair of reading
glasses, and did anyone need them? They all pointed to Lenore, the church
mother. She ran to get a tiny bible that she had been given years before. She
put on the glasses, and she screamed. She could read it – for the first time!
She hugged me with tears in her eyes, and thanked me over and over. I had seen
only one pair of glasses in the village, worn by the school teacher. I thought
we had brought an over-supply of small bibles, but now they were all gone. And
many Indians still wanted them.
The Indian ladies announced they were
going to cook their best hens the next morning for us, before we left. I had
been eating power bars, mostly, all week, trying to avoid the horrible stomach
bug so many people got. But who could say no to their best hen?
We
bedded down to sleep late that night. There was only one big room, so the girls
had a sheet hanging up between them and us guys. I got to thinking back to my
younger days. I remembered hearing stories on TV about a group of terrorists,
the Shining Path, who terrorized these Indians in the Andes. 7000+ were killed.
The
Shining Path was the brain child of
Abimael Guzman Reynoso. He had spent years in China, and had become
convienced that Mao's revolution could be replicated in Peru. It was the most
scary and bloody group of Terrorists of the 1980's.Years ago, I had nightmares
about the Shining Path. I had heard more stories after we got here, how they
would come into a church, line the people up in a row, and ask each one if they
believed in God. Some admitted they did, some were afraid to. Those who were
afraid to admit they believed in God, standing here in this church, were shot.
The others were forced to join their group. They wanted only brave people in
that group. Well, over the years, the leadership was caught and put in prison,
and the terrorist group pretty much disbanded. But we had been warned. Remnants of this group were still hiding out
in these Indian villages. Since Indians in these mountains never lived to be
very old, I felt that some of them were dead by now. Just as that thought
crossed my mind, around midnight I believe it was, I heard many, many soft
footsteps going up the stairs outside, up to a big room above. My heart started
to pound faster. Were they Shining Path remnants, and were they going to test
this tiny group of believers tonight, our last night, at gun point? I stayed
awake a long time, listening. But I never heard another sound, and they never
came back down.
I
noticed as we sat down to eat the next morning, some of the college kids were
faking their “best hen” eating as well as they could, not really taking in much
at all. I ate my share, however, telling the ladies over and over how good it
was, and It was good. Before dark that day, I set in to lose ten pounds the
quick and hard way. I'm not sure why native food, well cooked, doe that to us
so often. But it does. But I have a theory. Water, in food, boils at a much
lower temperature at high altitude, and
stays at that temperature until the water boils away. This bad bug must be a
tough one, who can handle that low temperature, and does it's thing when we eat
it. The Indians, over the years, have become resistant. We have not.
After saying our goodbyes, during which
Aqua Amigo just seemed to not be able to let me go, (and I him) we headed out
to Cusco. Tomorrow, our off day, we were headed for Machu Picchu!
On the way back to Cusco, we passed a
small pickup truck. It had just had a flat, and the back was loaded with
Indians. Well, they just hopped out, and the driver changed the tire while they
held the truck up. Never seen that before, or since.
I have to admit, I chew tobacco.. A little
habit I picked up during my construction days. That was a big no-no for this
trip, so I had to swear off it for the duration. I was, truthfully, about to
have a nicotine fit by now. I got to looking at all those little Coca leaves,
lying around the hotel. I wadded up a small piece of one, and stuck it in my
mouth. I found it made a pretty good replacement, and we weren't around the
Indians any more, and besides, the piece was so small, no one knew. Well, it
worked so good, I pretty well kept a small piece hidden in my mouth all the
next day, and until we flew out the next day.
The ride to Machu Picchu was breathtaking.
The train had to do a strange move to get out of the valley Cusco was located
in that I had never seen before. It would start up the hill at an angle, then
stop and back uphill at an angle on another track, then repeat this over and
over until it was high enough to head out.
The Valley of the Incas was beautiful. We
rode past many Inca ruins, and gradually headed down until we were in the
tropical rain forest.
On the way down, we
traveled along beside a river that dropped so fast through those rocky gorges
that I knew no one could survive those waters. A fellow train rider who knows
about such things told me it had a "seven" rating, with
"five" being all a person, swimming, could survive. I didn't know it
then, but I figured out later, this river was the upper reaches of the Amazon, and
world class Kayakers had survived it, traveling the Amazon from end to end.
Traveling
through the rain forest, one could see towering mountains in the background.
Many reached into the clouds, but occasionally, we could see the snow capped
peak in the top of our vision, yet the beautiful flowering tropics in the
bottom. I quickly got out my camera, but that view was covered in clouds again.
A rare sight. Cusco is technically in the tropics, map wise, but so high, it is
very cool.
Machu Picchu is one of the wonders of the
world. An Inca village was once built on the
top of a very tall, very steep mountain. It was so steep, one would have
to be a skilled mountain climber to reach the top. This location provided them
a measure of protection from their enemies. The Incas were the most skilled
rock builders of all time. I saw one large rock, in one of their structures,
that had 27 different angles cut into it. All the adjoining rocks fit so
perfectly to it, that one could not stick a toothpick into the joints. Narrow
terraces were cut into the mountainside, for raising food.
One
young Indian businessboy had it figured out. On the way back down that very
steep mountain, the road consisted of a dozen or more very tricky, long,
switchbacks. This little indian boy kept waving at us all, on the bus, before
we left. Then, the sure footed youngster ran straight down the mountain, in the
middle of the switchbacks, waving at us all each time the bus passed. Again,
again, and again. When the bus stopped at the bottom, finally, he climbed
aboard, pulled his hat off, and walked down the aisle with a big smile,
collecting a whole hat full of money
from the passengers.
Those Inca ruins were lost to the world for
centuries, until discovered by Hiram Bingham, an American archaeologist, in
1911. They were cleaned up, and made
into one of the great destinations of the world. That was a breathtaking trip.
The Inca empire, one of the largest and
most powerful civilizations ever, was brought down by less than 200 Spaniards.
How this came about involves a number of factors. The Indians looked upon the
Spanish, in their metal suits and hats, riding great animals, as Gods. Many of
the Indians were disabled by various diseases the Spanish brought with them,
which spread like wildfire because they had absolutely no resistance to them.
The Inca empire was totally ruled from the top, with orders passed down by sub
leaders.
The
Spaniards marched to Cusco, containing 40,000 Indian warriors. The year was
1533. The Inca King went out to the Spaniards, in a gesture of welcoming these
Gods. The Spanish captured him, and cut his head off right in front of the
Indians. The Indians were like a snake without a head. Nobody was there, once the king was dead, to
issue orders. The Spanish took over, and
brought down the entire civilization. Once Cusco was occupied, the
Spanish installed a compliant
young Inca prince, Manco, as a puppet ruler.
After 3 years, after the Spanish had chained him up, called him a dog, urinated
on him, Raped his wives, stolen his gold and jewelry, Manco got mad. He fled,
and he established an Inca city, Vitcabamba, and restored it to its former
glory. It took the Spanish 35 years to capture this city, and by that time,
Manco had died and Manco's son, Felipe Tupac Amaru ruled. Felipe was led to
Cusco with a golden chain, and he was hanged and mutilated in Cusco's main
plaza. This closed out the final chapter of the Inca Empire.
The Spanish and other European explorers
of the 1500's reported a great, advanced city in the lower Amazon valley. It
was called El Dorado. Many great explorers searched for this great city, later
in the 1800's and early 1900's. Many lost their lives there, such as Percy
Harrison Fawcett, in the 1920's. He was one of the greatest British explorers
of all time. He became so famous there, in those early days of modern
communication, that many more lost their lives in search of him, or trying to
determine what happened to him. Indians, disease, and starvation killed many of
these men.
Later, faint signs of long gone, great civilizations were found by
scientists, and it is generally assumed that diseases carried in by the early
European explorers had so decimated the Indian populations that they now only existed as small, isolated
tribes. Jungle cities consist mostly of plant material, which quickly
disappears in the tropical jungle. El Dorado was no more. The Indians had
learned how to build and maintain great civilizations in the Amazon jungle, a
feat many early scientists thought impossible. But they were unable to deal
with European diseases brought in by the early explorers.
Cusco is a mixture of Spanish and Indians, but there appeared to me
to be very little mixing of the bloods over the centuries, because the Spanish
one sees there look just like the Spanish one would see in Madrid. They are
very beautiful people. I did see one tall, slim, very beautiful Spanish woman
with a very short, heavy, Indian husband. The children varied. Some looked like
her, some like him. It appeared to me that was the exception rather than the
rule.
We flew home. I arrived 10 pounds lighter.
Like I said before, I was changed, and that has been permanent. But there was
something else going on with me, that puzzled me. If you have read my writing,
I am sure you have picked up on the fact that I have been the insecure, shy,
retiring type around most women, except Barbara. And she has brought a change
in that aspect of me, to a certain extent. But I arrived home with different feelings.
Something unexplainable.
We were headed out for a short vacation
with Barbara's sister‘s family, upon my arrival home. As we toured around, I
began to put my finger on it. I was feeling like I was a true chick magnet! I
felt like every pretty woman we were around had eyes only for me. I even felt
sorry for the young, muscular, handsome men they were with, because I knew
their women was thinking only of me. This was a total and complete,180 degree
change in my thinking. Barbara was so lucky to have me, and I was sure all the
other women around were green with envy. How could I ever go back to
Arkadelphia, and work on my rental properties in shorts, as I did before? I
knew the young women would just never leave me alone, and let me work.
By the time we had gotten home, that
feeling was beginning to fade. I looked up my chemist friend, and asked, “How
far is the juice of the Coca plant from being Cocaine?” He looked at me,
puzzled, then said, “It's right there.”
All I could figured out was, I was getting
a super concentrated dose of Coca juice by substituting it for chewing tobacco,
nothing like the much watered down Coca tea. I never felt like I could fly, but
who wants to fly when you can be a full blown chick magnet!
I
recently read a book about traveling on the upper Amazon river at great
altitude. One of the explorers had been chewing on Coca leaves all day, and
that night, he just suddenly ran out into the snow naked, thinking nothing
could harm him, and ran around that way for a long time. Thankfully, I managed
to keep all my symptoms inside me, and never put on a show. I'm glad about
that.
Before Peru, Barbara
has been working on me for a long time. My spiritual life was not what it
should be. I had this problem, for many years. I looked at many fellow church
attenders who seemed hypocritical to me. Some seemed to pray long, very elegant
prayers. I didn't feel God required that kind of elegance in order to talk to
him. If not God, then who were they trying to impress? Others were in their
church position to further business interests, obviously. And some “strong
Christians” appeared to be that only on Sunday. See them later in the week, and
it was a different story.
Collectively, Barbara, Michael Holloway,
my best friend who was killed in a motorcycle crash, and that trip to Peru
affected me in such a way that I begin to realize that everyone around me, and
I, was a sinner. My relationship with God had nothing to do with other people
around me. They had their own spiritual life to work out.
I returned to Peru, a
few years later. CONTINUED, NEXT POST –
THREE DAYS...
