Soy Milk, Interpretive Dance and The Hill of Death

It’s a rainy day in Huanuco, and I have secretly smuggled a very wet Oso into the living room with me so he can dry off for a bit—don’t tell! Whenever the dogs are doing something naughty they immediately run to me for shelter and it makes it very obvious that I reinforce their bad habits (going inside the house, eating dinner scraps, jumping up, etc.)

Anyway, last week was a bit of a blur because I still had to spend nearly the whole week in bed. While my fever subsided, my stomach issues seemed to intensify. It was a struggle to eat, an even greater struggle to keep anything in my body for more than 10 minutes and the stomach cramping was fairly constant. By the end of the week, a small fever began showing its face again, so yesterday we went back to the clinic.

No sick week pics--here´s one from the concert last week

By this point, I had already called World Service Corps’ insurance to ask about my problems and they informed me I had “travelers’ diarrhea” and didn’t need to action until I had symptoms for over 10 days. I was less than thrilled with the diagnosis (since I was well aware I was both a traveler AND had diarrhea—and also prefer to call the sickness Montezuma’s Revenge.) Anyway, with this weariness in mine, Orlando and I trekked off to a new clinic. We waited for hours, only for the doctor to look at me for two minutes and diagnose travelers’ diarrhea once more. Needless to say, I was frustrated. Regardless, the doctor asked for a stool sample, so I once again got to play the charming game of “What can I eat that will very quickly give me horrible diarrhea?” The answer, in case you’re wondering, was soy milk. 

So after waiting in the clinic from 7:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., we finally got back in with the doctor, he looked at the results of the stool sample and said I was “abundant” with bacteria and had a strong infection. I got new meds and I’ve already started the regiment, and I pray that this time does the trick. Living in Huancachupa and being sick simply don’t go well together. 

An example: Huancachupa is on top of a hill. To get anywhere, you have to go down the hill and take a bus or moto taxi into town. You can follow the road down the hill and it will take you 25 minutes, then the bus takes 35 minutes—so it’s an hour to get anywhere. Then there’s the short cut. If you brave it, the short cut gets you down the hill in 15 minutes—thus you have the chance of getting somewhere in under an hour. The issue? The shortcut begins with a corn field where angry dogs try to bite you—don’t’ worry, if you pretend you’re going to throw rocks at them, they back off. After the angry dogs begins a rock trail straight downwards, that Katrina and I have fallen down multiple times. Generally, I walk down it slower than everyone else and like a newborn calf, but it’s about the only way to keep myself from falling. The only thing more glorious than going down the rock trail is going up it on the way home— scaling the rocky death trail. Did I mention sometimes we do this after dark? By the time I get to the top, I always feel like I need to work out more and go on a diet. Getting back to the point—this trail while you’re sick and weak—not my cup of tea. Lately, I’ve just told people, “I’ll meet you at the house—it’s going to take me a while.” 

No sick week pics--here´s us during our first week at the mall!

Moving on to happier things, most of the family is well now. Antonio, Orlando, and Eynor are in perfect health. Katrina is at about 95%. Carolina and I seem to be the only ones lagging behind, but I’m hoping the medicine will give me the edge I need now. In our ragged state, we didn’t get to have any bible studies last week and we only managed one English class, but this week we’re getting back on track. 

Sunday we had the service intended for the Sunday before. I presided and Orlando preached. We even had a very unique Communion—animal crackers and water—but you make do with what you have. Another “unique” part of the service came from Eynor. I asked Eynor to share something a few weeks ago and he told me he’d be sharing an “interpretive dance.” Welp—when the service rolled around, it turned out his interpretive dance was to a song about a father asking God to protect his son. The interpretive dance? It was Eynor pretending to be the father, and spending three full minuets physically abusing Fabrizio (the son). After three full minuets of child abuse, Fabrizio delivered the moral of the story: “Never leave the house without your parents permission.” It didn’t’ really apply to the theme of “Respond to Grace” (at least I hope not…) but it did wake everyone up. I might use more caution next time I ask an 11 year old boy to share something for church. 

Looking ahead, Katrina and I are just trying to get back on track. Being sick for a week hurt us—when you only get eight weeks here, it stinks to lose one. But little by little, we’ll get back to where we need to be. Until then!