THE RIVER, PERU PART 2

Dusk wraps us in a cooling embrace as we trudge along the river together, singing, and the crickets chirp louder as an orange moon begins its rise into the star-studded night sky. Leaving behind familiarity for adventure has quickly fused into a vibrant family these seven indigenous youths from the jungle village of Juancito and we seven visitors from the States.

We meet in a lush retreat outside Galilea, a riverside spiritual lighthouse our host-family calls home.

For seven days, we wake up to to children’s chatter during morning chores and fall asleep to their laughter in our joint open-air bunk house. In between, we share every hour, every meal, and every experience of the newness which drew each group from their respective comfort-zone.

An Asheninka-Indian village, bilingual Juancito is unique in the vast Ucayali region. Whatever the actual introduction of Spanish to this shy people was, it coincided with the vivid fear that outsiders would steal their faces and their organs (“Pela Caras”), a dread all too visible in the children’s expression when we first arrive.

For that alone, I am amazed; to be part of a healing peace process that is linking hands with different peoples and uniting our hearts in a purpose much grander than we yet grasp. I wonder how much this happens, un-observed, in day-to-day life…

Though Juancito boasts some formal education, the younger children do not know the alphabet, providing us the honor of introducing them to that marvelous mystery. My Spanish is limited to memorized songs, so I grow along with them, just as I learn from them how to cook and clean in the jungle, to their great amusement.

Again and again, it is our weakness that thaws their reservation. Acutely aware that we have nothing to give, except the deep desire to know them, we bond in touches, in songs, in eye contacts. One day, stumbling upon their eagerness to draw, we, wide-eyed, discover life through their lenses.

Most of them sketch the river diagonally, from top to bottom. Central to their world, in many pictures this life source appears to flow straight from Heaven to their spirit.
“And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding from the throne of God and of the Lamb.” (Revelation 22:1)

At first, we are in complete awe of them. When nine-year old Kariela expertly kills the chicken that will be lunch, when twelve-year-old Junior wields the machete with unmatched precision, when we wake up to their humming before sunrise as they boil bananas for the pigs over open fire, we marvel. The parents among us wish we had raised our children in this paradise, and the rest vow to bring theirs here one day.

Still, once they are comfortable enough to let their guard down, it is a relief to discover that these are flesh-and-blood children after all. They, too, fidget and tune us out during school; they, too, keep tricks up their sleeve – people are human everywhere.

Then very early one morning, with smitten hearts weighing us down, we all hike down to the little boat that will ferry them the six hours up-river to their home. Home, where the houses
lack the walls that surround the many liquor-numbed, broken souls. It is not paradise; it’s as flawed as any other society.

Singing the songs that melt their Father’s heart – and ours, they disappear into their village. We hear them still, in our sleep, in our pulse.

Gradually, our thoughts turn homeward. Along with our loved ones await endless emails and a pace, poised to strike, none of us spared. Savoring warm showers and indoor plumbing, each of us breathes deeply and faces this now less familiar world.

More like shifting colors on the horizon than actual thoughts, the aching to hold on to the jungle’s peace and laughter gives way to deepened gratitude for my people here, shadowed again by little Frey’s lonely eyes and my haunting worry for Neyda, who bore obvious marks of abuse when we met her. I long to know how they are doing. I hear them singing.

But I am here. This is my call. This is my place. The rich, new textures of my soul are not intended for the dusty memories of an encapsulated past. Rather, He calls me to fresh splashes of passionate living here. People are human everywhere, and Galilea’s sweetness doesn’t spring from the Ucayali River, but from the Heart of her Creator. He is here.

“He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” (John 7:38)

“There is a river whose streams shall make glad the city of God, The holy place of the tabernacle of the Most High.
God is in the midst of her, she shall not be moved;
God shall help her, just at the break of dawn.”
(Psalms 46:4-5)

A team will return to Galilea in January 2015, primarily to offer physical labor in order to free the locals to teach a youth retreat. If interested, contact calvarymiamibeach.org

Photos by Kirah Zoellner