“Madeline. You’re getting your shoes all wet!” chides an accented voice from the front of the canoe.
“Cecelia,” I grumble. “How am I supposed to get out of the canoe and onto the beach without getting my shoes wet?” I throw my hands in the air.
Like this maybe, she seems to say, jumping from the boat to the shore of the river, almost floating over the water. Like Pocahantas, like it isn’t hard at all to jump that far without face planting in the dirt.
I am… the opposite. I’m sloshing water everywhere, trying to balance on the slippery rocks at the bottom of the river. I can’t see where I’m stepping, I’m slipping, then I’m shrieking, and a nearby Kichwa tries to steady me by grabbing my arm with his iron-like grip. He says something in Kichwa, then tells me “be careful,” in Spanish. Maybe “learn how to swim” should have accompanied that piece of advice. It’s a big river and a catfish would probably eat me anyhow.
“Okay! Follow me!” orders Ramiro from the shore. And there we are. Staring into the jungle. I don’t see any path leading in, but, apparently, the indigenous people do. It’s a ten-minute trek through vines, thorns, spiders, and lots of mud. Lots of mud.
“We are here!” announces Cecelia. But… where are we? A wooden house on stilts, a couple of chickens, a giant fire pit, and a wall-less shelter with a palm frond roof.
Setting up under the palm fronds, we wonder if anyone is going to show up. Then Saul, the elder of the Alfa y Omega church, starts imitating bird calls and monkey noises, letting the village know we’re here. I can’t believe it. But they’re coming.
People of all ages walk (and run) down the paths though the woods – grandmothers, parents, teenagers, babies. There have to be thirty people, already!
We sit down on the wooden benches and start out with some games for the children. Then games for everyone. Then a rapid sermon in Spanish and Kichwa I do not understand much of. I think the basic idea is that you can’t make it to heaven on your own.
After that, some of the women start passing out bowls of broth and meat. I take a sip – there aren’t any spoons – and pass it down the line of people.
Then comes the other bowl, the bowl of chicha.
Chicha is just about the worst thing I’ve put into my mouth in every community I’ve visited. It’s murky, yellow, and chunky, with fermented fruit and yucca bits floating around. It smells like yogurt that went bad, like, three months ago!
It’s just nasty, and there’s no way to refuse it.
(I have the feeling that maybe missionaries who won’t drink it get blow-darted or something.) I had that old familiar feeling from https://soallmayknow.org/guinea-pig/. The feeling I had when I had to eat a guinea pig.
I hold my breath as the bowl comes towards me… and I continue to hold my breath as I lift it towards my mouth. It’s not like people are watching you, I tell myself, except, they are!
I sip it, gag, and pass it to my mother. Then I try to smile.
A few minutes later, Cecelia announces “Lollipops for the children!” and I keep myself from running to her with the others. I am not supposed to be a child. I am supposed to be a missionary. But what I am is hungry.
Still, Cecelia walks over and hands me a lollipop, with that funny little smile I haven’t figured out yet.
I thank her and stick it in my mouth.
So All May Know,
Madeline Studebaker