No Water, a Strike, and the WPC Team

Two Monday's ago, after a long, hot day, I could already feel the warm water running over me as I prepared to take a shower. It was a feeling that was not to be, however, because when I turned the faucet there was no hot water; in fact, there was no cold water either. We were waterless. I grabbed my cell phone, called Villa and told him to get over here ASAP, which he did, but the news was not good once he arrived. It was 5:30 in the afternoon and there would be no more water at El Jardin until around 7:00 the following morning. It's not unusual to have water problems here from time to time - thankfully it was a week that Nathan and I were the only people living in the house; our guests were staying at the Hotel Maranon. Being the resourceful person that I am (as well as disgustingly dirty), I decided bottled water would have to do in this crisis. One bottle for soaping up, another for rinsing, and all the important places were clean until I could take a real shower on Tuesday.

(Photo - me, Todd, and Margarita)

That Wednesday the entire city shut down - no motokars were running, no businesses were open, the whole city was frozen - we were in the midst of a strike. The Saxe-Gotha ladies, Nathan, and I had hoped to continue working in the Iquitos church in spite of the strike, but as it turned out the morning was rainy, and when it is raining, there might as well be a strike, because most Peruvians aren't going anywhere. So the group spent the morning relaxing in their hotel until lunch time when Nathan and I walked to the hotel to get them. The streets were littered with shattered glass and other debris used for road blocks to keep any renegade motokar and motorcycle drivers from being able to get through; bonfires were also built in the middle of some of the streets as the people of Peru used the strike to air their grievances against the Peruvian federal government. Being the honorable people that they are, Ina, Maria, and Villa walked great distances to and from their homes that day to make sure we gringos were taken care of; I wonder how many of us would do the same…

Saturday, July 12 brought my Westminster mission team to town. What a treat to see those familiar faces emerge from the airport. Thus began a very busy week. Daily trips to Santa Clara included some incredible team devotion time, lead by Paul each morning, helping paint the church's exterior and windows, beginning an addition to the pastor's home which will house a screened-in kitchen and dining room for feeding the congregation, Bible school, playing with the children, nature walks, classes on being Presbyterian, and another round of spiritually stirring evening devotions. It was a perfect week - until Friday. At 7:15 a.m. I was standing at the hotel desk paying the final bill of the mission season, preparing to take my home team to the airport. This has been the year for flight problems, and today would be no different. I stepped out of my motokar only to be told that the 1:30 p.m. flight had been cancelled. Alice and I stood in line for what seemed like an eternity to get the group rebooked on the 6:10 p.m. flight to Lima so they could still make their connection to the U.S. at midnight. With a stack of passports and newly issued boarding passes in my hand, I lead my crew back to El Jardin for a luggage deposit and walk back to the Plaza de Armas for some lunch at the Antica Pizzeria. Shortly after 5 p.m. I kissed, hugged, and waved good-bye to my WPC team. Exhausted, I threw myself into one more motokar, nearly falling asleep on the ride home.

The weight of five consecutive weeks of mission teams descended on me; I was beyond thankful to go to bed that night without first setting my alarm for 6 a.m. I woke up just before 9 a.m. Saturday morning with the incredible feeling of being rested - a feeling I haven't had since I left home on June 9. After a bowl of the Peruvian version of Cocoa Puffs for breakfast, I sat down at my computer to catch up on the accounting that had piled up on my desk over the course of the past week. Ina and Maria arrived and began the unenviable chore of degreasing the kitchen and the gas grill after more than a month of continuous use. What happened next caught me completely off-guard

With my spread sheets as complete as they could be for the moment, I decided to get ahead in the packing process so the coming week wouldn't be so hectic, but as I pulled the suitcase out of storage, the flood gates opened and I collapsed onto my bedroom floor sobbing inconsolably. When I could breathe enough to talk, I called my mom, but by the time she answered I was crying so hard again that she couldn't understand a word I was saying. I blabbered to her for a few minutes and thought I had gotten myself together, but when I walked outside to pay Ina and Maria for the final time this summer I fell apart again. Being the true, considerate women that they are, they cried with me, assuring me that as long as they were alive I would always have someone to take care of me here, that they would count the days until I got back in November, and that they would be praying for the day when I didn't have to leave anymore.

Now, don't get me wrong, I knew leaving was going to be emotional; however, I did not expect the emotion to kick in until closer to my departure time. I think it is probably best if I bring this blog post to an end for now, because I really need to sleep tonight without being a congested, snotty mess, which will be the case sooner than later if I continue talking about this right now. (Photo - Tammy, or Tamicita as I call her, my Peruvian pup, napping outside the kitchen door)