Above and below are three photos of Iquitos, Peru, in 1983. I was a greenie missionary there for about 60 days. That's me above by the baptismal font. This past week, trying to find escape times while enduring a loved parent's death, I browsed through old computers, stored for 15 to 20 plus years, unopened. I encountered a 5950-word short story that until it jogged my memory a bit, I had completely forgotten. "Iquitos in 1983" was written in 1999 over the course of several months, so say my notes. It's a narrative story, heavy on description, based on my mission experiences. The narrator is me, although some of the characters and situations occurred in other Peruvian locations I tracked in. But every location is in Iquitos, situated by the Amazon River.
Either I wrote it for a contest in which I neither won, placed or showed, or, maybe more likely, I had an idea to write very descriptive stories of locations I served in Peru. You see, my mission journal was stolen at a Chimbote, Peru, bus stop late in my mission. I hated losing my journal. Maybe rediscovering this story will spur me to write "Chiclayo in 1983," "Lima in 1984" and Chimbote in 1984." That seems a fun goal for 2020.
I want to share this story on the blog as an example of a missionary's experiences in Iquitos 37 years ago. Through social media and communicating with friends in Peru I know that many areas I once trod have experienced economic upticks two generations later. I love Peru and appreciate my many close friends who live there. I hope readers enjoy the short story:
Iquitos
in 1983
---
In a small room at the back of the storefront Latter-day Saint
Church on Avenue Tupac Amaru in Iquitos, Peru, Elder Tom Harris supported his
upper body by the elbows and laid on the bed watching the blades on the
portable fan twirl around. Sweat poured down the sleepy elder's forehead,
rolled around the eyelids and continued down his cheeks. It was June and the
humidity hovered near the 110 mark.
Tom rose from his bed, two church pews with a mattress on top,
saw it was 3:15 p.m. and went in search of his companion Elder Eric Robertson.
He found the 19-year-old Twin Falls, Idaho, native inspecting the baptismal
font scheduled to be used tomorrow afternoon.
"It looks just fine, Elder," Robertson said, waving
his hand over the small, squarish, outdoor concrete font located within the
church property. On top of the green-colored water, several unlucky insects lay
floating.
"Boy, you're getting skinny Elder, you've got to eat more
paneton," Robertson remarked, referring to the well-preserved sweet bread
Peruvians enjoyed almost daily.
Elder Robertson had been in the Peru, Lima, North mission for
about four months. Tom, five weeks in
the field, was his "greenie." He was fortunate to have Robertson as a
companion. The small, blonde haired Idaho farm boy was a hard worker with a
very strong commitment to the gospel. It
was a testimony that Elder Harris had leaned on a lot the past few weeks.
A 19-year-old product of Southern California "suburbia,"
Tom, a "born in a the baptismal font" Mormon had lived his entire
life in Long Beach, Calif. He'd been a swimmer and a lifeguard before promptly
entering the mission field six months after his last birthday. When the call to
Peru came, he'd uttered a quick prayer of thanks that he was going foreign and
checked the globe to pinpoint his ultimate destination. After eight quick weeks
in the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Tom and five others boarded the
Peru-bound plane at Salt Lake City, stopped at Denver, Atlanta and Miami for
short layovers, and finally had flown through a rainstorm to arrive in Lima.
After a couple of days of wide-eyed staring, he'd been assigned
to Iquitos, a medium-sized city in the heart of the Amazon Jungle about 100
miles west of the Brazilian border and several hundred miles north of Lima.
He'd cheered when he heard the news since all the elders in his group had
wanted "The Amazon" as an early assignment. On the airplane Tom practiced his Spanish
with a Peruvian sister missionary.
Nothing, especially the MTC culture classes, which he now
realized were silly sideshows featuring displayed Peruvian money and teachers
dressed in cute Inca garb, had prepared him for what Iquitos really was.
It was a place unfamiliar to a Southern California native as the
surface of the moon would have been. Dust, homelessness, poverty and garbage
could have passed as a descriptive thesis. Uncollected trash blew softly down
streets as thick-waisted men and women, some balancing heavy packages on their
heads, hawked everything from baked goods to match sticks in booths and tables
spaced a few feet apart. Small, dusty, grayish family stores, bakeries,
bookstores, barber shops, little diners, etc., lined the avenues.
Schoolchildren dressed in grey Catholic uniforms rushed with scabbed knees to
one-storied buildings with cracked windows and graffiti-ridden walls. Pickpockets and sneak thieves roamed the
streets searching easy, unprotected prey. Tom had 15,000 soles stolen by a
thief who had boldly snuck up behind the young missionary and grabbed the cash
from a front pocket. Burglaries in their room were commonplace. Every pair of
Levis Tom had brought from home had already been stolen despite the elders
changing locks every few weeks.
On the street corners herds of adults waited patiently for
battered, 1950-type buses that arrived every minute already full of passengers.
To get on the bus and ride, travelers hung over the exit with a hand clasped to
a pole or window edge and one foot stretched just far enough to just reach the
open exit. The high humidity, mixed with the very hot temperatures, made the
air heavy. Tom's armpits, collar and waist were usually drenched in sweat
before noon. Although rainstorms frequently erupted, fierce, quick bursts of
storms that caused havoc for a half hour and echoed loudly off the tin roofs,
the sun's rays quickly destroyed evidence of those "monsoons."
City-wide blackouts were common. Smells that had never assaulted Tom's nasal
passage now introduced themselves daily. They were in part, mixtures of sweat,
garbage, rotten fish, sugar, boiling soup, boiling rice, ice cream, dust,
gasoline, beer, dirty feet, unwashed bodies, flea-ridden animals, exhaust from
cars, and feces, both animal and human.
Down the street a little boy lived in a cardboard box behind a
donut stand. The child, who never awakened before ten, always slept with his
tiny feet protruding from the outside of his makeshift home. Every morning the
missionaries walked by the youngster and stepped over carefully wrapped paper
that contained the child's feces.
With Peru's lack of middle-class population and high
unemployment and disemployment rates, political fervor and unrest was high. On
the sides of buildings and fences were scrawled the terms "Izquierda
Unida," (United Left) "Sendero Luminoso," (Shining Path, a
Maoist terrorist group) "PCP" (Communist Party of Peru) and voices
constantly yelled "!Escucha Belaunde, el Pueblo no Se Vende!," a
chant that told Peru's current president that the people would not allow
themselves to be "sold." Youths about the same age of Tom would jeer
at the two missionaries, shout insults and slogans that Tom never understood
and occasionally toss a poorly aimed rock at the two missionaries. Soldiers
also had their fun. One day, the two missionaries traveled past a company of
Peruvian soldiers. Tom heard their leader bark a command and suddenly every gun
was pointed at the two elders. He was in pure terror until Elder Robertson
nudged him and pointed at the laughing sergeant.
What impressed Tom the most about Iquitos, however, had been his
inability to escape dysentery. It clung to him from the first 48 hours he'd
arrived in the jungle and refused to let go. Every morning he'd have to make at
least five trips to the toilet before they left about 9:15 for the mile walk to
their pension, a place they ate. Every afternoon and night included three,
sometimes four, bathroom visits and tracting was always interrupted every
couple of hours for a pit stop.
Losing weight had been the natural result of the illness. His
belt needed to be fastened at the third loop to keep his pants up and Tom, who
stood two inches taller than six feet, guessed his pre-Peru weight of 175 had
dropped about 15 or 20 pounds.
The two had just spent the "siesta hours" from 12:30
p.m. to 3:30 p.m. studying (Tom also sleeping) and were ready to tract for
another five and a half hours before calling it a night. There was only one
appointment for that evening so a lot of doors needed to be knocked.
As he grabbed a piece of Peruvian brown chocolate before
leaving, Tom thought for the 500th time of how stupid he had been to throw away
the last half of his pack of Oreo Double Stuff cookies as he left the airplane
at Jorge Chavez Airport in Lima. The sweets hadn't seemed a necessity at the
time. Now he dreamed about Oreo cookies and how wonderful the thick, white
cream would taste between the chocolate outsides. The best Peruvian cookies for
sale, "called Galletas del Norte," (Northern cookies) were thin,
artificial chocolate-tasting strips with only the barest amount of cream
filling put in the middle. They tasted a bit like he imagined burnt wood with
very old shaving cream would.
"Elder, why don't we go visit Hermana Vasquez," Elder
Robertson suggested as the pair turned toward the downtown plaza. Traveling
around the statue-filled park were the curious looking "mototaxis,"
motorcycles with three wheels and a canopy-covered seat in the back where
paying customers traveled to various destinations. Tom had ridden one once
(there was room for two) and found the bumpy ride more exciting than
conventional taxis.
"Whatever you say is fine with me, Elder," Tom replied
wondering who Hermana Vasquez was. He looked at the "Centro" movie
theatre. "Rambo," Con Stallone," it read. Tom wondered if the
film was "First Blood." They continued down Avenue Ejercito and walked
past a bookstore with magazines on display. One read "The Ring, In
Espanol," and Tom, a long-time boxing fan, wondered who was fighting who.
An imbecile wearing nothing but trousers cut off at the knees walked past the
elders. The dust was caked to his body. In the skies Peruvian Air Force jets practiced
maneuvers. Afternoon papers, already out, were displayed at the newstands. The
headline of the "Republica" read "Senderos Matan 47 Campesinos
en Huanaco." (Shining Path Kills 47 Peasants in Huanaco). An elderly
Peruvian lady with a bundle of fried bread carefully balanced on her head
walked toward the two missionaries.
"Let's buy some bread Elder. It's my treat," Elder
Robertson suggested. Stopping the lady, he asked "?Cuanto cuesta por dos
piezas?," (How much for two portions?).
"Cinqueeentraaaa Liibreeees," (500 soles) the woman replied in the long, drawling manner of
speaking so familiar among jungle-dwelling Peruvians. After paying they both
bit into the delicious, fried food with sugar sprinkled on the bread. Tom
finished his portion in less than a minute. It was a snack he was later to
regret having eaten.
After turning left from Ejercito and continuing down a main
street the pair turned right into a small avenue that led to a block of poorly
constructed homes called "pueblo jovenes." The dirt street was
bookended by long streams of "shanties," homes makeshiftedly
constructed of wood, plywood, mud brick, etc. Few of the structures boasted
windows, most substituting paper over the holes. In other dwellings a blanket
or piece of plywood acted as a door. Through the middle of the road twisted a
small, dirt canal where ducks, hens, roosters and pigs relieved themselves and
bathed in the cold water with children. Young Peruvian teenagers and boys
traveled over wooden bridges across the road and down the block. Most, because
of the hot weather, wore only bathing trunks. Girls wore straight, light
dresses that came down to the knees. At the corner a group of teenagers played
an energetic volleyball game with only a suspended line of string as a net. One
girl, diving for the ball, came to a sliding stop at Tom's feet.
"Lo siento, gringo," she giggled before scooping up the ball and returning to the
game.
Most of the toddlers scurried around in yellow diapers or ran
naked. Several children, playing, ran as they pushed old tires down the street.
Because running water wasn't available in the pueblo joven, every few moments a
mother would open the front door of her home and toss a bucketful of used water
into the street. There were few men in the area at that hour. Most were either
working or, if out of steady employment, selling wares on the more busy
streets. Glancing at the ground Tom saw many discarded centavo coin pieces. Now
that Peru was using the "sol" monetary system. The one, five, and 10
centavo pieces were worthless and obsolete. Scattered among the old coins were
a few Brazilian cruzieros. He picked up several as souvenirs and stuffed them
in his pocket.
As the elders approached the Vasquez home, they saw the sister
sitting in front of her adobe home selling flat, hard rolls of yesterday's
bread for 50 soles a piece. Tom, who now recognized her, couldn't remember ever
seeing her away from the bread stand. She was about 70 years old and talked in
a soft slow, drawling speech. Her hands were gnarled from too much hard work. A
member of the church for about six months, the white-haired, bare-footed, thin
woman clad in a white garment that resembled a longyi showed her four remaining
teeth when she smiled at the elders.
"Hola Elderes. Que Taaal," Hermana Vasquez asked. She offered the pair a piece of bread,
and not waiting for a response, gave one to each.
Both replied they were fine and after a few moments of small
talk Elder Robertson asked her if her husband Antonio had shown a desire to
receive the "charlas," LDS lessons.
"He's in the house. But I don't know. How that man drinks!
He suffers horribly without beer. I would like it so much if he knew Jesus
Christ since his drinking costs so much money,"
Hermana Vasquez related in Spanish with much arm waving. She told the two to go
into the house and waved the elders through. The Vasquez home was a short
dwelling, about 5 feet, 5 inches in height. It was necessary for the elders to
hunch down as they entered. The floor was hard dry adobe. They found Antonio
Vasquez lying on the living room floor next to a wooden chair and table with
old crates around it. He was just lying there, fully clad without a pillow,
mattress or blanket. Several calendar pictures that included a Catholic Procession
where a purple-clad multitude marched, a black priest in a brown robe with a
cat, dog and mouse eating from the same bowl, a picture of Christ with a
glowing heart over his chest and several of naked calendar girls, adorned the
room in an untidy order.
"Hola, Hermano Vasquez," Elder Robertson said in a
jolly tone. The old man, short with a twisting, almost hunchbacked body, opened
his eyes and focused on the two elders.
"?Hermanos?"
The ancient raised himself up and shifted his legs into a
squatting position.
"Como esta, Hermano Vasquez?," Elder Robertson asked.
Antonio Vasquez responded by describing to the two elders in detail a litany of
ailments that were afflicting his body. He had boils, a sore back, a sore
throat, fever, flat feet which hurt to walk on, a severe cold and several other
illnesses Tom couldn't translate quickly enough from Spanish to English.
However, the elderly gentleman displayed little enthusiasm for listening to a
"charla." He hemmed and hawed, said he had to do this and that, but
finally the elders were able to get him to agree to an appointment for Monday
morning at 10 a.m. They wished Antonio well and said goodbye to Hermana Vasquez
before leaving.
"You know he's not going to show for the charla
Monday," Tom told Elder Robertson.
"Oh, you're probably right elder, but you never know. We
give them the chance at least."
After continuing a couple of blocks, the pair decided to begin
"tocando puertas" (knocking doors). The first home was a small
dwelling of bricks that were piled on top of each other to compose about three
rooms. There was no mortar or filling to connect the material. It was simply
hundreds of bricks piled upon each other.
"You take this one, Elder Harris."
Tom knocked three times on the wooden door. They heard light
footsteps and a small Peruvian girl of about five years answered the door.
"Hi little girl. Is your mommy or daddy at home? Tom asked
in Spanish. The child smiled shyly and said nothing. Behind her a toddler boy
of about two years sat naked on the floor playing with a duck.
"We're missionaries. We'd like to speak with your
parents," Tom continued.
"Mami!," the
child yelled as she took off in pursuit of her mother. The missionaries heard
hushed voices behind a curtain separating the living room from the kitchen.
"My mommy is not at home," the girl told the elders in Spanish when she returned.
The elders looked at each other and exchanged smiles.
"Could you ask her
when she's going to return home? Elder Robertson suggested to the youngster.
The girl dutifully returned to her kitchen to ask her mother
when she would return home. There were a few moments of hushed conversation.
The elders heard a female, adult voice say crankily in Spanish. "I told
you to say I wasn't home!" A moment later the youngster came back with
a perplexed look on her young face.
"My mommy is not here," she said.
"Gracias, nina," both elders replied and left the
house.
The elders gradually followed a series of blocks that followed a
semi circle path east before leading out again to Avenida Ejercito. They
knocked at about 20 doors the next two and a half hours and delivered six first
charlas, which dealt with the life of Jesus Christ and also required the pair
to challenge the investigator to set a baptismal date. Six persons accepted the
challenge and second charlas that dealt with the plan of salvation were
scheduled.
"In the MTC they told me that knocking doors only converts
one for every 1,000 investigators you contact. But it seems here about every
tenth person ends being baptized," Tom mused to Elder Robertson.
"Yeah, you know, Elder, in Europe they must have to knock
about 10,000 doors just to get one convert," Elder Robertson replied.
"We need to get more adults, I feel like the Pied Piper
teaching so many kids."
"Well, maybe the parents will start coming along,
Elder."
As they turned right into a heavily populated, very green and
dense pueblo joven, Tom thought about the Herrera family. Brother and Sister
Herrera and their five children had been baptized by the elders almost two
weeks ago at the chapel. Although the sister and her five children had arrived
bright and early for church the following week, the father had been absent.
That hadn't been too surprising, since that dad had missed the family's regularly
scheduled baptism time and had to be dunked under the water later that night.
After searching for Brother Herrera after the baptism, Tom and
Elder Robertson had located him asleep at his home. He had smelled slightly of
alcohol but announced that he was ready "to enter the waters of
baptism." Elder Robertson had been concerned enough to take Brother
Herrera to the zone leaders for an interview. It was determined that despite
getting drunk on his day chosen to enter the church, he was fit for baptism that
night.
Tom didn't question the logic openly. Greenies don't do that.
And “the zonies” had helped him adjust to Iquitos by staying close to his
program and frequently dropping by to inquire on his state of health and mind. Besides,
every zone had a baptismal goal for each month. And baptizing a father and
potential priesthood holder was no easy feat. Tom hoped the elders at the ward
would fellowship Brother Herrera so he'd eventually feel welcome. The man's
baptism, hours after church services finished, had only been witnessed by the
four elders and the rest of the Herrera family.
The elders arrived at a long, lean looking tenement-type
building on the outskirts of their program. The paint was peeling from the
interior. A dog lay in front of a door scratching its fleas and oblivious to
the presence of a sleeping cat two doors down. It reminded Tom of a Norman
Rockwell painting, except things were in more disrepair. Here resided Juan
Torres, a 21-year-old student of engineering who despite his best efforts, was
too poor to get into the university at Iquitos. Currently he was studying at
one of the many post-high school academies that poor Peruvians attended until
they were able to get in college or just decide to give up trying. Juan spoke broken
English. He was also the son of the ward mission leader. They walked up three
flights of stairs to his small, two-room apartment.
Tom remembered Juan's father warning the elders of how rude and
obnoxious his son would be during the charlas. "He's a good son, but
doesn't trust North Americans,” he said in Spanish.
The crazy boy thinks that the United States is against the Peruvian people."
True enough, he'd been a pain during the first charla. Every
sentence of the lesson had produced a quick question from a smiling Juan. Some
were as deep as where was Christ during the three days he was dead and others
were as ridiculous as whether or not Mary was a Hebrew. A lesson that usually
lasted about 20 minutes had continued for more than two hours before finally
finishing.
Elder Robertson had patiently sifted through all of Juan's
questions that first day. Finally, when challenged for baptism Juan took off
his glasses, wiped his forehead, and with a smile, replied that was fine so
long as they answered all his questions.
"No problem," Elder Robertson had replied with his own
smile. The funny thing was after that first charla, Juan had apparently decided
he liked the "gringos" because he never brought up another question,
ridiculous or serious. Today was the fifth charla. It dealt with repentance.
After some kidding around and small talk, the elders settled
down and began the lesson. Juan sat quietly nodding and only responding when
being asked a question. After the charla was finished and the baptismal goal
reinforced, Juan asked the elders if they thought Peru's women's volleyball
team had a chance next week against the U.S. squad.
"They going to destroy the Norte Americaan girls," was Juan's assessment of the match. The elders good naturedly defended their
country's team.
"See you both tomorrow," Juan said as they left his apartment.
"It's about time to head out and see Elder Post and Elder
Stone," Robertson told Tom. As a
"district leader," Tom's companion was really in charge of two
programs. Post and Stone were two missionaries who worked on the east side of
Iquitos. Their area was like most of the other areas, a mix of urban and slum
areas. The elders, on Tom's insistence, took a mototaxi across town.
While walking up a dirt road toward the gate of the elder's
home, Robertson and Tom were treated by the neighborhood children to a
ceaseless chorus of "Chicla Libre!." It made no sense but the
kids chanted it anyway. Some, engrossed in other matters, nevertheless took the
time to stare at the elders and ritualistically chant "chicla libre."
Elder Robertson explained to Tom that some past elder and probably taught them
to say something like that in English and the sound stuck.
"Hey, look. There's some cross people," Tom pointed
out to Elder Robertson.
The cross people were an
odd looking cult of persons who always wore long, flowing white robes with a
green sash and a large cross hanging over their neck on a string. Some hung the
cross with a chain. No one seemed to know exactly what doctrine they believed
in but the cross people always walked slowly around with benign, contented
expressions on their countenances so Tom figured they were happy. The cross
lady Tom had pointed out turned toward the elders, bowed slightly with a
beatific smile, and continued walking.
"It's evil to place that much emphasis on the tool that
killed Jesus Christ," Elder Robertson said as he shook his head.
"Elder, this city is just full of sin."
Tom pushed open the gate and both walked toward the small room
where Elders Post and Stone lived. Both elders were outside washing by a small
pump. Elder Post was the senior companion. Stone was a greenie who had arrived
in the same group as Tom. They'd been roommates in the MTC. By an almost
unspoken agreement the greenies and the senior companions separated into
different groups.
"You live next door to a whore house, don't you," Tom
remarked as he watched a few scantily clad women walk in and out of a house
next to Elder Stone's dwelling.
Elder Stone, a blonde-haired 19-year-old from Vernal, Utah,
nodded his head in amazement.
"Can you believe it? Five months ago I get my call and I
never dreamed I'd live next door to a bunch of prostitutes. It's bizarre the
sounds that go on around here at night."
Elder Stone pointed toward his house.
"See the nets on the beds. Do you guys use them?"
"No, it's not too bad in the downtown area," Tom replied
glancing at the pair of twin beds encircled with mosquito netting.
"There are holes in the nets," Stone said pointing at
several red bumps on his forearms.
"Did you ever think it'd be like this," Tom asked.
"No way, Harris. I mean, I knew that there weren't going to
be lot of cute little Incas running around but I never thought everything would
be so," Elder Stone thought for a moment, "so, so poor. This is
ridiculous. A person can't, shouldn't have to deal with this. And it goes on
forever with these people. It will never change," Stone shook his head.
"I guess it isn't so bad. We can take it 18 months,"
Stone said.
"Fifteen months and counting amigo," Harris replied.
---
After Elder Robertson had finished his district meeting with
Elder Post, the pair returned to the storefront church. They took a
conventional taxi. Tom watched from the window and felt a sickness in his
stomach and fever in his forehead develop. Outside on the streets he could see
children running with old, balding tires that they rolled at the sides. Gaunt
buses with the paint peeling at the sides rushed around corners and through
what appeared to be clairvoyance the bus drivers missed the shouting and
laughing kids who took no notice of the vehicles or how closely they had missed
death. Dust was everywhere. It swirled around and settled on the top of an
ancient's head or the smooth, bulging belly of a malnourished toddler. A few
dead dogs and cats, victims of a government-poisoned meat giveaway designed to
stem the high birth rate of cats and dogs, lay in the alley and street, crusted
foam on their lips and half eaten raw hamburger drying nearby. Just recently
three children, ages five, three and two, had finished some meat meant for the
animals and two of the kids had died on the street before help arrived. The
sole survivor of the unlucky trio, the three-year-old, lay in the hospital in
critical condition.
"Elder you don't mind if we buy some pop tarts or something
from across the street rather than return to the pension," Elder Robertson
asked. It was already about 9:15 p.m. and the senior companion looked a little
too beat to walk the mile distance to dinner.
Tom, who by now felt more than a little sick, (his head was
burning, his stomach constricted, he desperately needed to go number two),
shook his head okay. He wasn't up to talking.
But for the next hour or so, after a 25 minute bathroom visit
and a Pepto Bismol, he felt better. They went across the street to "El
Torre," a large bodega that sold Pop Tarts, Brazilian Nestle chocolate and
some North American cereals. Tom nibbled on a piece of chocolate while Elder
Robertson munched on a strawberry Pop Tart with white frosting spread on top.
Later they walked down the street and entered a tiny, dimly lit
bodega that was run by an old Peruvian named Edilio. He was a small, portly man
with tufts of white hair who played poker with his buddies most every night.
Tom didn't speak the language well enough to converse in detail with Edilio but
Robertson and they old guy usually chewed the fat for about 15 minutes every
night. As Tom, resting at a table, sipped an Inca Cola, he absentmindedly
followed the trail of a green lizard, about four inches in length, scurrying up
the west wall of Edilio's establishment. The little creature scrabbled up to
the ceiling, bumped his reptilian head at the top, and then continued downward
until Tom's sight of its path was blocked by the counter. Elder Robertson
munched on a handful of rectangular, thick, homemade peanut brittle, made by
Edilio, while the two jawed. It was tasty stuff but Tom didn't feel up to
having any.
Later the companions returned to their room and wrote in their
journals. After prayers it was about 10:30 p.m. and time to sleep. Tom loved
his makeshift bed. Putting the mattress between two pews was actually more
comfortable than resting it on the rigid, peeling, splintering frames provided
for the missionaries. Despite the 90 degree-plus temperature, the fan blew a
pleasant breeze on his body. Two blankets lay at the foot of the bed unused.
The elder sank into a restful sleep minutes after the lights were turned off.
He woke up and noticed that his entire body was covered with
sweat. At first that didn't alarm him but as he raised himself to see the clock
(it was 3 a.m.), a wave of sickness caused him to fall back on his bed. His
head ached, his throat felt like there was a pile of split pea soup blocking it
and his stomach was bloated out about an inch. Tom forced himself out of bed
and without bothering to put on a robe hurried past one room, through a door
and into the tiny bathroom. His head was swimming and his bowels grumbling in
discomfort.
He threw up a splotchy white mess with what appeared to be
little crystals mixed inside it. "The fried bread..." he started to
say before another loud gag preceded more sloppy mixture exiting his throat.
Three, four times the vomit poured from his mouth. There was then no more to
spit out but that didn't stop the heaves. They came, five or six bursts, and
Tom dry heaved spit, mucus and air. It physically hurt and tears filled his
eyes as his lungs constricted every time. The vomiting finally stopped and he
stood bent over the enamel bowl gasping. Slop was splotched on the outside and
around the bowl on the floor.
Tom turned to turn the light on and his bowels reminded him they
were about to burst. He quickly sat on the seatless toilet and felt the vomit
mixture drying on the toilet sear wet his upper legs and backside.
He relieved himself painfully. Every few seconds his face and forehead
would chill up and sweat as he tried to ease the pain of his sick bowels.
Finally it was over. During his sickness Tom hadn't noticed that there was a
Saturday night party going on full steam in the street outside. Sitting on the
toilet he heard the drunken shouts and sounds of feet dancing and running.
"Mire Lo Que Encontre!" The vibrant, high-toned sounds of salsa music also filled the
air. Tom heard a bottle break and violent oaths sworn. "Mire Lo Que
Encontre!" His eyes filled with tears and he began sobbing.
"I'm all alone," he whispered to himself. "I
might as well be on the moon." He lifted himself slowly off the toilet and
cleaned himself as best as possible. Fortunately the shower, usually only
dripping after 6 a.m., let out a stream of water about the size of a pencil
during this early hour. The shower cooled Tom off and enabled the missionary to
get back to sleep.
---
"Boy Elder, you sure must have been pretty sick last night.
Are you better," Elder Robertson remarked the next morning while he
adjusted his necktie. Both were getting ready for church services.
"Yeah, it was a little rough but I'm a bit better,"
Tom replied. In reality he was pretty weak and his headache still caused a
thumping sensation in his temples.
"Well, ready for the baptism after the meeting?" Elder
Robertson continued as he rubbed a faded white handkerchief over his black
dress shoes.
"Sure."
---
The meeting was over and Tom, standing knee deep in the font,
put a hand on the shoulder of Raul Acosta to steady him as the 25-year-old
newly baptized member exited the water. Seated in front of the font in folding
chairs were about 20 spectators left over from sacrament meeting. Brother
Acosta was one of Stone's baptisms and Tom didn't know him. He seemed nice enough
and had borne his testimony enthusiastically before the service.
Brother Acosta walked up to Tom after the service. "Thanks
a lot Elder. I don't want to forget your name. What is it?" he asked
in Spanish.
"Elder Harris."
"Ah, Elder Harris, Could you pose with me for the
photo?"
They finished the photo and then Acosta changed his clothes and
Elder Stone, in halting Spanish, confirmed the new convert with the gift of the
Holy Ghost.
---
"Elder, I need food of some sort," Tom whispered to
Elder Robertson after the services. His headache had returned in full force, he
didn't feel like retching but he was so weak his knees were shaking and he felt
faint.
"Well, I told the pension not to cook since today's Fast
Sunday. Let's go to that bodega by the movie theater. Sometimes they have
bread," Elder Robertson said. After walking the couple of blocks to the
small store both entered the establishment. Behind the counter an ancient
Peruvian grandmother sat in a rocking chair holding what was probably her
youngest granddaughter. The baby played with an old Barbie doll that was
missing a leg. In the corner four Peruvian men were drinking the hard Peruvian
beer. About eight empty bottles were mixed in with ones all were guzzling from.
The stench of the sour beer caused Tom's stomach to do a lazy
roll. His eyes started to feel heavy and it was getting difficult to breathe
without sucking that beerish smell into his system. His legs trembled and he
groped the wall for support.
"Elder, I've got to get out of here," Tom mumbled
before opening the wooden door that led outside. He dropped to one knee and
closed his eyes. He could see speckles of light even with his eyes clamped
shut.
The next thing Tom realized was that he was laying on his side
in front of the bodega with a worried Elder Robertson looking down at him. A
few Peruvians walking down the street cast amused glances his way. One sweating
fat man with huge jowls and dressed in baggy pants, sandals and a tent-like
white shirt clenched his right hand together, extended his thumb upwards and
brought it to his lips to simulate drinking.
"How long have I been out, man?"
"Just for a moment, here take this Pepto Bismol,"
Robertson dropped the two wafer-like squares into a glass of 7-Up where both fizzed
for a few moments. Tom drank the solution in short gulps. After a few moments
he began to feel better.
"Listen, here's some GNs," Robertson produced three
cookies. "We'll get you to the pension and they can make something, Fast
Sunday or not. Tonight we have a charla at 6 p.m. Do you think you can make
it?"
"Yeah. I think I can," Tom replied.
The pair began walking back to the storefront church. Elder
Robertson filled Harris in with the good news: Four of the six "charla
I" investigators had shown up for Sunday services. It was a record!
Tomorrow was P-Day (Preparation Day) and the zone was planning a trip to a zoo
located out in the Amazon Jungle about an hour from Iquitos. A truck had
already been produced with a driver to take the missionaries. There were the
four charlas set for Tuesday and the other two for the investigators who hadn't
shown up today at church. Plus Juan and another investigator, a dental student, were set for
appointments. Things were looking pretty good.
---about 5950 words---
