Storms and Singing

Following more technical difficulties, here is the text which accompanies the boa picture series (we all know the one):

Our day yesterday began with a breakfast of eggs, papaya juice, and coffee, which might lead some to mistakenly believe that I am a coffee drinker.  Coffee here is less acidic than in the states, and so fresh!  They serve it blacker than tar in a pitcher and you pour out a little into the bottom of your cup.  It all depends on who you are.  Me: half an inch.  Dad: half a cup (diagnosis possibly necessary afterwards).  Then you dilute the pitch concentrate with another inch or so of hot water, and out of compassion towards yourself the rest is milk.  

Properly fortified with our Peruvian coffee we set out on our clandestine expedition.  It ought to have been conducted at midnight (that's what Dad always says), but mid-morning turned out to be fine too (though not quite as suspenseful).  

A number of years ago, Wycliffe Bible Translators turned over their base in Yarinacocha, Peru, to the government (as is their policy) with the hopes of a university being built.  The founder, William Cameron Townsend, made a long term goal that in the end the Wycliffe mission in every country should be self-supported by the nationals, and the base buildings given to the government to support relations and to show support for the country.  

A university does occupy the former mission base at Yarinacocha on the lake, but the buildings are run down and everything is in disrepair. The last time a group of missionaries asked access to the grounds just to look around, they were denied, so to ensure entrance we adopted the policy "don't ask--apologize later".  I'm not in jail, and that much at least can be said for the motto.  

Groups of us wandered through the overgrown paths and dirt roads of the base; brainstorms among the former missionary children came thick and fast as memories were stirred.

"Was't that the Price home?"

"No, because remember they had an overhang on their porch."

"Well, it could have been taken down."

"Oh!  Look!  The Hibbard's house!"
"Joy, do you remember whose house this was?  I know the Bancrofts lived in it for awhile, but they didn't come till later. Who was before them?"

Two hours of this...surreal exploration deep into memories of these men and women now grown from the lake-swimming, alligator-hunting, snake-catching, trick-playing children of decades ago.  Much had been forgotten and they struggled to piece together the Base as they had known it.

As we walked among the houses, college students watched us in groups from the windows or yards.  It was a scary thought that this is what all college dorms would look like if students had their way.  :)  We stopped to talk to them, to ask if they had any idea what this place was before they lived in the homes.  Nope.  They were friendly, but they had no idea; they didn't really care.  

And just like that: the dying of a vision that hundreds of men and women had lived out in the virgin jungles right here.  They left home and family and comfort and certainty to give their lives up for the Peruvians who had never heard the good news--could never imagine that something so beautiful could be true.  

The rewards were eternal, both for them and for those who were captivated by the grand epic of the gospel.  But was there no trace left?  

We were about to find one.

In the heart of the settlement of houses, the hospital, the school, and other buildings, was the meeting hall.  All the mks remembered it fondly as a the place where all gatherings and events took place: skits, old movies, worship services, plays, singing, game nights, and everything in between.  They began to tell stories, then someone began to sing.

It was then I knew that history had lingered in this place.  The building was the same as they remembered it, except for the addition of fans and lights among the roof beams.  A tall stage stood up front, and crazy rows of chairs stood in half-hearted rows.  

But this was the building they remembered.  This was the building where the generation before had worshipped, had praised, had rejoiced, had taught their children.  

In the middle of our singing the rain joined in.  We could hear the downpour on the roof above.  

Later, as we were leaving, we encountered a true tropical storm.  As we came out of the trees we ran through the filling puddles and orange mud to the shelter of the hangar.  The roof was tin, and it sure did make a din!  All the mks had memories of going to sleep with that same noise thundering on the roof above their head.  They also had memories (that is, the girls have memories) of night raids the boys made on the newcomers.  These involved assorted citrus fruits and tin roofs.   

To get to the hangar we had to cross a barricade.  The dirt path was strewn with chewed up pieces of green leaves.  Except they were all marching across the path!  Those who ran inflicted casualties.  Those who lingered became the casualties.  Photographers linger...

After visiting the base we took the boat to a "zoo": i.e. random cages set up at intervals along a rickety walkway.  The last exhibition was a beautiful snake (the one who didn't speak Spanish).

For dinner we had ceviche, a traditional Peruvian dish of raw white fish marinated in lime juice with thinly sliced red onions and tomatoes.  The large slices of tomatoes turned out to be fiery peppers.  At my leisure I compared various methods of putting out the fire: rice, fish, fish, fried plantain, rice, fish, and fresh mango juice.  The mango juice turned out to be the best, hands-down.  I would consider patenting the theory, but further testing might be unpleasant.