Erika’s Own Bed

Yesterday Luci,the thirty year old Bora woman who looks after the four homeless girls who live in my house, advised me that Erika was ready for her own bed. She had been sleeping in the same bed with Juanita since her mother died of t.b. two months ago, and some neighbors had asked me to take the girl in. The loss of her mother had devastated her, and she had refused to discuss it whenever we thought it would be therapeutic to get her feelings out in the open. She and her mother had been living in a dilapidated house with a thatched roof and dirt floor in the town’s poorest neighborhood. As it is the case in most communities, several families live in the same house and none of the eight children had his or her own bed. Juanita, Iveli and Keli were loving to Erika and tried as best they could to make her feel welcome. So when Erika told us she was ready for her own bed, all of us went to a small store nearby that sold beds. We let Erika pick out the bed she wanted. Back home, as Luci and I put the bed together, something happened that had not happened since we invited Erika into our house two months ago. She smiled. Some things just take time — and lots of love.

Don’t Mess With Little Iveli

Iveli is the smallest of the four girls who live in my house. Though there’s only a year’s difference between she and the other girl’s ages, Iveli looks three years younger. She is tiny. That said, she is by far the spunkiest one. She doesn’t fear many things. Yesterday  I took the girls to one  of the attractive recreational sites in Iquitos.

Lake Quistacocha is located several miles outside of town. It is a natural oval-shaped lake surrounded with mamey and mango trees … and has a nice sandy beach. The area is inhabited by a family of spider monkeys. People will buy bananas from one of the local markets and feed them to the monkeys. And so they have become used to being around people. After the girls  swam for an hour or so in the clear shallow water near a small wooden dock, Luci served them chicha  (a purplish soft drink similar to kool-aid made from corn) and ham sandwiches. We were chowing down under the shade of a mamey tree near the dock when the monkey family approached us.

Iveli … with a banana in one hand and a sandwich in the other … offered the alpha monkey a banana. But he didn’t want the banana. He grabbed the sandwich from her hand and scampered up a nearby mamey tree. Outraged over the monkey’s bad manners Iveli tore off after him. She was scaling the tree in pursuit of the thief when I ordered her to come back down. She hadn’t thought about what might have happened if she had cornered the alpha monkey. But I had. Iveli gave the thieving monkey a piece of her mind for a minute or two. When this  little girl came to live in my house three your ago I was concerned that bigger kids would bully her. It didn’t take me long to realize that this feisty little girl is capable of taking care of herself.

Senor Bandito And The Columbian Drug Cartel

“A beautiful view, no, Senor?” the owner asked as we stood on the second floor balcony.

I glanced back inside the apartment. Though it had obviously been a poor man’s version of one of the many mansions built here in Iquitos during the heyday of the “rubber baron” period over a century ago, the tiles were so filthy I could only guess their original color.  Furthermore,  there was no water in the bathroom or kitchen and the walls begged for a fresh coat of paint.

“Well, Senor?” he asked.

I turned my attention back to the owner. He was a short, rotund man with a head full of thick black hair that glistened in the sunlight peeping through the limbs of an ancient mango tree across the street. I stifled a chuckle. His chubby brown face and thick black mustache drooping over thin lips reminded me of a Mexican bad guy  I’d seen in a John Wayne movie decades earlier.

“Indeed, it is, Senor,” I replied, resisting the urge to call him Senor Bandito.

I liked the view from the balcony so much I agreed to rent the apartment for six months. Based on the owner’s promise to fix the place up, of course. Our contract stated that the apartment would be ready for me to move in no later than three days. When I returned to the apartment three days later, though, absolutely nothing had been done. Senor Bandito promised that he would definitely have it ready for occupancy in three days. But when I returned three days later only the walls had been painted.

No longer trusting the landlord, I went to see my friend, Mike Collis. I’d only known Mike for a week. But I had liked the huge Brit from the first day I’d met him. Mike agreed to accompany me to the apartment and talk to Senor Bandito. He took the man aside. Though I couldn’t make out what they were saying, their body language told me that Mike was reading the riot act to him. Five minutes after arriving, Mike and I had left the apartment and were heading back to his place.

“You won’t have any more trouble with that bloke,’ Mike assured me. “The apartment will be ready in two days.”

I didn’t know what to expect when I took the bus  to the apartment two days later. To my shock the place was spotless. Not only that, when I stepped out on the balcony I noticed that a spanking new sky blue canopy hung out over the railing. As I was leaving, Senor Bandito called out to me in a friendly voice, “If you need anything else, Senor, just let me know.”

I went straight to Mike’s place. He didn’t seem surprised when I told him about Senor Bandito’s change of heart. When I asked him how he convinced the landlord to do the right thing, he replied matter-of-factly, “I told him that you work for a Columbian drug cartel. And if you have any more problems with him, you’re going to report him to your boss in Bogota.”

P.S. I’ve known Mike Collis for more than eleven years. And my respect and admiration for this gentle giant grows with each passing year.

Missionary Phil And The Iquitos Street Preacher

“He’s a nut case.” Missionary Phil and I were sipping coffee at the Dawn On The Amazon Café in Iquitos when he made the statement. He was referring to the thirtyish looking Peruvian man preaching the gospel in the boulevard in front of us to anybody who would listen to him. A dark-skin string bean of a man, he had a huge frayed black Bible in one hand  and a six inch wooden crucifix in the other. Spittle flew from his mouth as he bellowed, “Get right with God or burn in Hell!”

I shot a glance over to the street preacher — then back to Missionary Phil. He had been bringing church groups to Iquitos and other parts of South America for years. He had always been cordial to me, but I’ve never liked the way he criticized local street preachers. A fifty-five year old corpulent man with a  receding hairline and a fleshy face, he reminded me of Boss Hoag from the old television program, The Dukes Of Hazard. He had just polished off two cheeseburgers and fries and was about to devour his desert of chocolate cake topped with a heaping portion of vanilla ice cream. ”I love the Lord,” he said, “but this man is  going about spreading the Good News the wrong way.”

I bite my tongue. As I watched him take a huge bite of  the cake I said, “I take it you disapprove of this man.”

He whipped a snow white handkerchief from the pocket of his silk shirt and wiped at some vanilla ice cream trickling down his chin. He chuckled. “I realize that he means well. That said, he’s sending the wrong impression. He should …”

I thought about the last time I went to church in Atlanta. Unlike the small church I attended on the south side of town when I was growing up where the congregation belted out  hymns with feeling, the congregation  in this magnificent structure sang as if they were afraid someone might hear them. I felt as if I were in a country club.

Missionary Phil hadn’t missed a beat. “… and that’s why this unfortunate fellow is …”

I couldn’t take  any more of Missionary Phil’s babble. So I excused myself and left. As I approached the street preacher I whipped out my wallet, took out a bill and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “Gracias, Senor,” he said, smiling. As I headed home I thought: I’ll take a man passionate about his faith any day over some pompous blowhard whose only passion is feeding his face.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Saturday morning I took the girls to a lake a few miles outside of town. Though the lake isn’t much by American and European standards, it is the pride and joy of the local people. Millie … a twenty-three year old woman I’ve known since she played on my teenage girl’s volleyball team nine years ago … went with us. I’ve always known that she is very intelligent But because she lives in a dilapidated house with a thatched roof and a dirt floor in one of the town’s poorest communities, her family is unable to send her to the small local college. A year and a half ago my sisters and their friend, Kay, decided to pay for Millie’s tuition at the best nursing school in town. Millie is in the top ten percent of her class. And she is virtually guaranteed of a job offer when she graduates a year  from now.

While Luci, Millie and the four girls swam in the lake, I wandered over and sat under the shade of an ancient mamey tree with a knotted limb hanging out over the water. There was no wind. And the water was so still I could see my reflection in it. To pass the time,  I tossed some pebbles into the lake, thoughtfully observing the ripples spreading across the lake. They reminded me of what Millie will do when she finishes her studies and works as a nurse. She plans to send her younger sister, Joanna, to the same nursing school she now attends. Millie told me the other day that when Joanna finishes nursing school and has a job, she will sponsor a friend of hers to attend the nursing school. Thinking about this brought a smile to my lips. I was reminded that when we invest in people — we give  a  gift that keeps on giving.

The Cell Phone And The Unwritten Social Contract

“Are you speaking to me?” I asked the middle-age man standing next to me as we waited for the traffic light to turn green.

He whirled and shot me a look that said, “Why are you speaking to me?” In his left hand he held a tiny cell phone. When the light changed, he began striding across the street. As he neared the curb he glanced back at me. For a brief moment I thought he might apology. But he didn’t.

This scene took place yesterday in the plaza de Armas, here in Iquitos. The man who was so busy chatting with someone on the cell phone was not an American tourist. Instead, he was a local Peruvian I’d  encountered from time to time during the eleven years I’ve lived here. We’d never had a lengthy conversation. But we’d always greeted each other with a friendly “buenas dias” — or a nod of the head.

The incident reminded me of something that took place when I visited my sister in Atlanta last year. I was “doctoring” my coffee at a Starbuck’s near her house when I thought the young woman standing in a bright blue business suit next to me had asked me a question.  When I inquired  if she was speaking to me, she shoved the cell phone into my face. Then replied curtly, “Can’t you see I’m on the damn phone?”

This has been happening all too often in Atlanta lately. And this  bothers me. For centuries there has existed an “unwritten social contract” between people — regardless if they live in an industrialized or third world country — that a person recognize the presence of someone he encounters. This tradition has been one of the glues that has held societies together. I’ve noticed the deterioration of this contract in the states the past few years. But I never expected to see what took place in the plaza de armas the other day to happen here. It is my hope that it was just an aberration.

Peruvian Version Of The Beverly Hillbillies

I was surfing channels on my television the other day, searching for a ballgame, when I stumbled across a program popular many years ago — The Beverly Hillbillies. Watching Granny and the rest of her kin entering Beverly Hills in their beat up truck with their meager belongs reminded me of an incident that took place here in Iquitos ten years ago.

After a week of frog-choking rain, the roof of my free daycare center began leaking. I appealed to my landlord to fix the roof. A tall, light skin Peruvian who looked the spitting image of a young Charleston Heston, he refused to even consider it. “Look, gringo,” he said, his blue eyes mocking me, “that is your responsibility.” I paid to have the roof fixed. But when the next month’s rent came due I refused to pay it. When I hadn’t paid the rent two weeks later, he threatened to evict me. Not knowing what else to do, I appealed to the police for help in the matter. The police captain’s decision shocked me. I didn’t have to pay the rent. But I would have to move. In three days.

After the initial shock wore off, I realized that I’d learned an important lesson about justice in Peru. Here, if you’re involved in a dispute you can file a civil action and wait for the court to decide on the matter. Or you can take the matter to the police. If you choose the latter, as I’d done, then you’re compelled to abide by the police’s decision.

It took me two days to find a house suitable to house the twenty-five children who attended the daycare center (losninosdeleo.com). A dozen or so neighbors volunteered to help us move. But Pati, the twenty year old coach of my girl’s volleyball team, brought the team to do the job. It had been drizzling off and on all day, but the sun began peeping through the clouds as I parked the rented flatbed truck in front of the house. The truck was so dilapidated it reminded me of the ones I’d seen in the movie The Grapes Of Wrath year ago.

The move … which the girls turned into a festive event, singing as they loaded the truck … took three trips. When I wheeled the truck in front of the house for the last trip, Senor Charleston Heston had arrived to make sure that we actually vacated the house. A  frown frozen on his face. The girls hung off the sides of the truck –  banging pots and pans as they shouted insults at our  ex-landlord –  as the truck spit and sputtered then coughed its way up the street. Despite my bad mood, I chuckled. We were the Peruvian version of The Beverly Hillbillies. The only thing missing was Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs plucking the strings of their banjos.

First Woman Coach In The Iquitos Volleyball League

I bumped into an old friend the other day. I was strolling past the town’s largest open market here in Iquitos, the pungent aroma of the market filling my nostrils, when I  bumped into an attractive thirtyish-looking woman. She was  carrying a squawking chicken by its feet. I was about to apologize when she blurted out, “Hello, Senor Leo.” As soon as the words passed her lips I remembered who she was. She was Pati, the first volleyball coach of my teenage girl’s volleyball team. I hadn’t seen her in years. Much to the chagrin of the noisy chicken, we discussed that day ten years ago when she became a pioneer in local volleyball — the first woman coach in the Iquitos Volleyball League.

Back then she was a soft spoken twenty year old  with a model’s figure and a pageboy haircut,  the spitting image of a young Audrey Hepburn with a heavy tan. With her easy going demeanor, it didn’t take her long to win over most of the men coaches. One man, however, was determined to run her off. A short, stocky man with a Napoleonic Complex, he was a bully who usually got his way. One day during the weekly League meetings he shot to his feet. “Fellow coaches,” he announced, making eye contact with every man in the room, “I insist that only men should coach a volleyball team in this league.” Then, to drive home his point, he thundered, “I mean REAL MEN!”

Silence filled the room. Everyone waited for Pati’s response. For a month, she had tried every diplomatic approach she could think of to win this man over. Sighing, she shot me a look that said she’d have to try a different approach. Gazing  thoughtfully at Senor Macho, she asked,  “Are you a real man, senor?” Hooking his thumbs in the front of his jeans, he  stuck out his chest like a banty rooster. “I’m as real as they come!” he crowed. Pati smiled sweetly. Responding in a voice just above a whisper, she said, “Then drop your pants — and let us be the judge.” A pregnant pause. Then the room exploded in derisive laughter. Pati never had another problem with Senor Macho.

The  squawking  chicken was desperately trying to escape from Pati’s firm grasp. So we embraced and promised to stay in touch. Its good to bump into old friends now and then. Especially one as special as Pati — the first woman coach in the Iquitos Volleyball League.

P.S. Since I have a special relationship with my three sisters living in Atlanta and respect their opinions, I sometimes let them read my blogs before I post them. A friend of my nephew somehow managed to read the above blog. To my surprise, he emailed me, complaining about how Pati had dealt with Senor Macho. He insisted that she was “… way too harsh with him. She should have been more diplomatic.” I don’t agree with my nephew’s friend. But I’d like to know what you, dear reader, think about the way Pati dealt with her rude antagonist.

Iveli’s Bicycle

“Would you help me fix my bicycle, Senor Leo?“

I looked down at the bike lying upside down in our backyard. Both wheels, the chain and the handbrakes had been disassembled. Iveli sat cross-legged on the ground, the chain in one hand and a small wrench in the other, nuts and bolts scattered haphazardly around her. Both hands and the left side of her face were streaked with grease. I sighed. This was the second time in six months she’d taken her bicycle apart … piece by piece … and was unable to put it back together again.

Noticing the frown on my face, she gave me a sheepish grin. “I was sure I could put it back together this time,” she said in a tiny voice.

I sucked in a huge gulp of air and let it out slowly … then silently counted to ten. Months ago when I asked her why she’d taken the bike apart , she’d replied, “I  was just curious to see to how all the parts fit together.” I knew the first time I met this unusual child three years ago when her mother brought her to my house  that she was different. (her mother was unable to feed and clothe her and the town’s orphanage was seriously overcrowded) And Iveli has turned out to be exactly that — different. She just marches to the beat of a different drummer. When my sister, Ann, visited us last year she brought roller skates and jump ropes for the girls. The first thing Iveli did was put on the skates and try to jump rope –  which is almost impossible. But she kept trying. Iveli doesn’t believe anything is impossible.

Being different is okay with me. And I’ve tried to be patient with this adventurous child. But now … looking down at the disassembled bike … my patience was running thin. What can I do to teach her there are limits? I thought. Restrict her to her room the rest of the day? Or maybe take away her weekly allowance? I was about to order her to her room when I suddenly recalled that I didn’t exactly fit  the “cookie cutter” mold when I was Iveli’s age.  But I was fortunate to have a mother, though she had little formal education, possessed the patience of Job.

Iveli sat gazing  thoughtfully up at me, …fear showing in her eyes. Grinning, I kneeled down and gently took the wrench from her hand. “Come on,” I said, “lets see if we can put your bike back together.”

A smile flashed across her face. “Well,” she said in a confident voice as she  picked up the chain. “I think we should  we start with  the …”

Justice Indian Style In Iquitos, Peru

“He hit me in the stomach,” she said. The thirty-eight year old indian mother began crying softly. As I handed her a napkin to wipe away the tears, she continued in a voice just above a whisper, “I’m … afraid … he … hurt … my … unborn … baby.” This incident took place several nights ago.

I’ve known Nieve for more than ten years. She used to work as a cook at my free daycare center for children in Iquitos (losninosdeleo.com). She lives six blocks from my house in a large room with her alcoholic husband and three children. Five months pregnant, she was bleeding from a busted lip and a cut under her left eye. Immediately, I took her to the emergency room at the local hospital. As I waited while the young doctor tended to her wounds, I thought about her husband. This wasn’t the first time he’d come home drunk and beat up his wife. I paid the doctor (it turned out that the unborn baby was not hurt) then accompanied Nieve to her place.

A dozen neighborhood women were waiting for us in front of the house. And they were clearly upset about what had happened to Nieve. I went inside to give the man a good “talking to.” As I strode down the narrow dimly lit hallway, a half dozen women rushed past me. Nieve’s husband, a tall string bean of a man, was passed out on the floor. I watched as the women grabbed his heels and dragged him outside. The other women — frowns frozen on their brown faces — were gathered in a tight group in front of the house. A few had sticks and broom handles  gripped in their hands. I started to advise them that maybe they should call the Iquitos Police. I thought better of it when one of the women, a stocky, broad-shouldered middle-aged housewife,  gave me a look that said,  “Forget  it!” I stood back and watched these women kick, hit, and stomp him. He was dead sober now. And was screaming bloody murder. As I headed back to my house … the man’s painful cries echoing in my ears … I concluded: Nieve’s husband will think long and hard before he abuses his wife again.

When I told what had happened last night  to a gringo ex-pat this morning, he had some harsh comments about the women who’d defended Nieve. He insisted that “… if the backward people here in Iquitos are to ever behave like civilized people, they must not take justice into their own hands.” To drive home his point, he declared, “Those women should have called the Iquitos Police!”

During the motorcar drive downtown this morning I thought about how this problem would have been dealt with in the states. The women and Nieve would have had to file a complaint with the police. Then Nieve’s husband would be taken to court, where he would be provided with free counsel. At taxpayer’s expense. He might be found guilty. If the lawyer didn’t discover some loophole in the law that would set his client free.

The question is: which of the two scenarios — the one that would have taken place in the states or what Nieve’s women neighbors did last night — best serves justice?