Begot

Last Sunday, I sat in church and listened to Matthew 1:1-16. If you can't recall those verses, then I can remind you with one word: "begot." That was the word used when I was a girl. To quote a little: "Jeconiah begot Shealtiel, and Shealtiel begot Zerubbabel." It's the genealogy of Jesus Christ going back to Abraham - lots of generations, endless names.

As I watched my children squirm in the pew, I wondered who on earth chooses these readings. We are supposed to be preparing for Christmas, but how does this help? I had to sympathize with the children. I remember trying to listen to those readings as a child - a long list of names neither the reader nor I could pronounce - names that meant nothing to me. And what did "begot" mean anyway?

But as I listened to the list of names as an adult, it was different. First, the pastor read, "Jeconiah was the father of Shealtiel, Shealtiel the father of Zerubbabel." "Father" I can understand - much better than "begot!" And then four years of teaching Sunday School and taking Old Testament classes kicked in. The names weren't just words on a page anymore. I could associate a person with many of the names.

Abraham, Isaac, Jacob - well those are given. Their stories are well documented.
Judah and Tamar - now there's a quirky little episode. Judah, one of the great forefathers, popped into a roadside shrine (to some other god) on a whim to have sex with an unknown prostitute. Fortunately, God bends even whims and sins to His will. The prostitute was really Tamar, long-suffering widow of Judah's son, Perez. After waiting years for Judah to provide her with another husband from among his other sons, as he had promised, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She waited at a place where Judah would pass and pretended to be a prostitute. It worked and she had his son. That was the great-great (and several more greats) grandfather of Jesus Christ.

Salmon and Rahab? I don't know if that was an arranged marriage or they fell in love. But I can imagine their story was quite something either way. Here was Rahab (another prostitute), her and her family the only survivors of Jericho amongst an invading force of fierce Israelites. Yet God protected and rewarded her trust: she not only kept her life during the invasion, but received a husband and at least one child, becoming one of the great...grandmothers of her Saviour.

Boaz and Ruth - that's a great love story. True, their dating customs were a bit different from what we are used to - uncovering feet, covering with cloaks, removing a sandal... (you can read all about it in the book of Ruth), but what an example of care and compassion! And we have another outsider - Ruth the Moabitess - join the ranks of Jesus' grand-mammies.
I don't need to tell you about King David - how many books tell about David, a man after God's own heart (despite his sins), Bathsheba, the wife he stole from a poor private in his army, and Solomon, his sometime-wise son?

Then there's a list of kings - Rehoboam, the proud idiot who caused the permanent rift in Solomon's great kingdom; Abijah, rotten, but not surprising considering his Dad; Asa and Jehoshaphat who did right in the eyes of the Lord; Ahaz, rotten - even sacrificing his son in the fire; Hezekiah, for whom God swept back time; Manasseh, who "filled Jerusalem from end to end" with innocent blood; Josiah, the eight-year old king whose servants uncovered the Book of the Law in some dusty Temple storage room where it had lain for some 70 years; and Zerubbabel, grandson of the last king of Judah, who led exiles back from Babylon to rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem.

The other names I still didn't recognize. But then, I don't know how many people can trace their ancestors back more than 39 generations and know each one. I think I can trace my family back 3 or 4 generations without doing any research. And beyond my grand parents, I don't know anything about each person other than a name - their stories are lost and no one remembers their lives anymore. So it's pretty amazing that Mary and Joseph could not only list their genealogy back to Abraham but reference a written history about so many of Jesus' human ancestors.

By the end of the reading, I had reviewed the path of Jesus' ancestry through slavery, wars, kings, exile, the return. With each name and each story recalled, I saw God's hand forming, guiding--so everything would be just so for when He sent the Messiah. This he chose to do in a little country village, to a carpenter and his wife, before an audience of animals and shepherd.
In the end, the reading did help me prepare for Christmas. Now I just have to pass all this understanding to my children.

English or English?

I came out of my room to chaos. Boo was walking towards the kitchen with peed-in pajamas in hand. Her brother made some wise comment and she threw the soiled garments at him. He was eating breakfast, ducked and somehow managed to splatter apple sauce all over.

This was all in the first 30 seconds while I looked on in stupefied incredulity.

Taking control, I grumbled that I would clean the kitchen and told Boo to go throw her pajamas in the toilet - she usually throws them on the floor in that room until I can wash them out in the bathtub later. I didn't think anything else of it.

Kneeling on the floor wiping at globs of apple sauce, I hear Scooter shout, "What are you doing with your pajamas in the toilet?"

I ran into the bathroom to see Boo standing with her pajama bottoms dripping over the toilet seat and onto the floor.

"What are you doing?" I yelled.

Boo looked at me, shrugged and said, "I don't know." She seemed surprised that I was angry.

I was incensed. What was she thinking? I really couldn't imagine why she put her pajamas in the toilet - she had never done that before and she had not seen anyone else do it either. I couldn't figure it out. It wasn't until I dropped her off at school that I had time to think about the whole scene.

Then it hit me. Toilet - bathroom. It was really a matter of semantics - language if you will. I learned British English first and it is my default dialect. When stressed or excited, I use 'toilet' instead of 'bathroom' or 'rubber' instead of 'eraser.' When I'm not under pressure, I know the differences between the two dialects and I can pick and choose which words I use.

This wasn't always the case. When I first moved to the USA, I had no idea which of my vocabulary was British, African, or American. And it didn't seem to matter too much. If I said 'khondi' and drew a blank look, I tried 'veranda' or 'porch.' If I said, "It's your go," they understood I meant, "It's your turn." Even if they did chuckle a little at my expense, people usually understood what I meant. When they didn't...one ended up with confused waitresses or college roommates in hysterics.

After my first year in the USA, I was preparing to fly back to Malawi. Having been away for a while, I thought I better buy some anti-malarial medicine. I asked my college roommate how I should go about finding some, and she suggested calling various local pharmacies. I called the first and asked if they sold prophylaxis. That is what my mother had always called them - "Girls, come and take your prophylaxis now."

The pharmacist said, "Of course we sell prophylactics."
"Oh good. Do I need a prescription?"
"No. Most of them are 'over the counter.'"

What good luck! This was going to be easier than I thought.

"Really? Do you have Chloroquine or Quinine then?"
"What? No."
"Mefloquine?"
"No."
"What do you have then?"
The pharmacist hung up.

I was so confused. I turned to my roommate, only to see her silently rolling on the floor, unable to breath for laughing so hard. When she was finally able to explain without laughing, I was mortified to discover the pharmacist imagined I was playing a prank on him. Either that, or he thought I was a complete idiot. Who knew that Americans associate prophylaxis with condoms? Obviously I didn't.

Understanding Americans was very hard for me. For one thing, most of them did not enunciate their words like I was used to. For another, they spoke so fast - like they were in a race to spit their words out. I could listen to Robin Williams for a whole hour and not understand one single word. I would sit at the lunch table in the cafeteria, listen to people and try to figure out the subject of discussion. I didn't know their rock groups, their TV shows, their geography, their history, or their slang. I knew most of the words they used, but the way they put them together made no sense.

Finally, in my second year, I found a translator. We didn't have the same classes, but that was OK since I understood my professors. What mattered is that we were joined at the hip at all social functions from then on - lunch, dinner, parties, Star Trek study breaks, and what have you. I would smile and nod like I understood a person then lean over surreptitiously so Rachel could whisper an explanation in my ear. Then I could respond appropriately.

Occasionally, she had to translate the other way. One time, a waitress asked me what I wanted to drink. I asked for water. The waitress said,
"What?"
"Water."
What?"
Finally, Rachel said, "She wants wader."
"Oh."
I don't know which of us was more perturbed, the waitress or myself.

Today, I stubbornly hold to certain anglicisms like 'cockerel' rather than 'rooster' and 'football' rather than 'soccer.' I had to give up other words like 'rubber' because, well it seems a bit prepubescent to insist on asking for a rubber when I know Americans associate 'rubber' with condoms.

I also try to avoid asking a British person for the bathroom ("Why? Do you wish to take a bath?") and asking an American where's their toilet ("In the bathroom, of course!"). I told Boo to throw her pajamas in the toilet, imagining the room, not the porcelain fixture. Boo heard 'toilet' and wondered why her mother wanted her to put her pajamas in the dirty toilet water. Still, we must obey mother - so we have pajamas in the toilet. It is all very simple, really.

Gone but not forgotten

I read an email today telling me that Stella is dead. How sad! Sad, yes, that she is dead. I never even had the chance to introduce my daughter to her. But also sad that I had to learn about her death in an email from a stranger, forwarded to me by my father.

My earliest memory of Stella was watching my mother interviewing her for a job. I was bouncing on the edge of the couch watching her on the other end, sitting straight and respectfully answering the questions my mother asked – I have no idea what my mother asked or what Stella answered. I was supposed to be sitting quietly, but I couldn’t help the little bounces. Here she was finally!

I had listened all week to the talk about Stella when she worked for us – before, when my sisters were little. Everyone was excited about Stella coming back. I wanted to know her too. I wanted to touch her smooth face – so beautiful. I was bursting to tell her… who knows what exactly, but I had a lot to tell her. And I wanted to meet her daughter – mother told me that she was a little older than I was. A playmate living in the apartment behind the car port! I bounced a little higher and mother frowned at me.

She was hired! Mum told me I wasn’t to disturb them there in their home behind the wall, back by the banana trees, swing set and sand box. Even though I could see their area, or at least the free-standing wall in front of their living area, from my swing set, I wasn’t to go into their area uninvited. “It is their house and I am sure they want privacy. No little girls bugging them constantly!”

I don’t know if they invited me or not. Probably not. But I spent hours and hours back there. At first I hid in the banana trees, amongst the twisted roots, and peeked out at them. Then Mavis and I played on the swing set together while her mother cleaned my house. When Stella came back for lunch, I’d squat by the fire with them until Stella told me to go back to the house and eat my own lunch. I loved watching them roll their n'sima on their finger tips and talk with their mouths full. Mother never let me eat with my fingers or talk with my mouth full.

When Stella’s sister came to live with them, she brought her daughter, Lucy. Lucy was older than Mavis and me, and a bit bossy. We would call to her as we played, Mavis and I. “Come play with us. Push us on the swing!” She almost always had to work. She swept the dirt in front of their living area, made n'sima, scrubbed the smooth cement in their open-ended living area, tended the fire under the chimney there... Mavis looked up to her and followed her lead. So when Lucy laughed at me because I couldn’t spit my chewed sugarcane wad through the air and into the banana trees like a true Malawian, Mavis laughed too. Being a ham, I took extra effort to splutter ineffectively and messily, the more to make Esther, Lucy and Mavis laugh. When Esther left, Lucy stayed on to help Stella with Mavis and to clean their house.

I don’t know how they managed in one small room with the three, sometimes four of them: I did not go into their room except once. That was the time it had been storming. The thunder and lightening had been particularly fierce. We couldn’t find Stella anywhere, so we looked in her room. I vaguely remember a single bed, some mats rolled to one side and clothes hung on pegs. There was Stella under the bed with at least one of our dogs! I didn’t understand how an adult could be afraid of thunder or lightening. Afraid enough to hide under the bed? I knew the dogs were afraid because they always cowered when it thundered. I imagined they were very thankful to cower in a dry area with a human.

I know the dogs loved Stella. She made sure to give them scrapings from her fire-blackened pots, to pet them and talk nicely to them. They waggled their long sausage bodies for her just as much as for Mum or Dad. One time, when Rudolph, a particularly runt-like specimen of the dachshund breed, had been missing on one of his wanderings for over 2 weeks, Stella came back to the house triumphant, a very sorry-looking Rudolph in her arms. She said he had almost given her friends, with whom she had been walking, heart attacks. Here they were, chatting and laughing, when a filthy rat of a dog came streaking out from under the bridge and flung himself at Stella. They thought he had rabies for sure and, screaming, grabbed sticks to beat him off of Stella. She told them no, it was her master’s dog. She knew him and she would take him home. I think I cried because I was so happy to have Rudolph back.

Stella always called Mum, “Madam” and Dad, “Master.” I don’t think they required it; she just did it. She called me Lisa. I hated that! But I don’t know that I ever told her. I thought she did it to annoy me and I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of showing how much it annoyed me. I remember sitting in my room one time when I was home alone. I heard Stella outside calling, “Lisa, Lisa!” I didn’t answer because I did not like her calling me that. My middle name was LiZa, not Lisa. I liked everyone to call me Alex. Stella had to call me Lisa. Now that I think of it, maybe it was her pet name for me – a special name she could call me that no-one else used.

I spent a lot of time with Stella in those early years. After Mavis started school, I followed Stella around as she cleaned. How annoying that must have been! But she listened to me prattle on and answered my questions. She taught me how to make a bed and wipe a table properly and how to fold a shirt before packing it in a suitcase. These were tasks she learned in school, when preparing to become a maid. She was the head girl of her secondary school in Zimbabwe. I could believe it. She did everything well. She not only kept the house spotless, but she could always find Mum’s contact lens when she lost it – in fact, it came to the point that, when mother lost her lens while trying to put it in her eye, we all had to wait for Stella to come in at 7:00 because only she had eyes sharp enough to find that lens. Stella also read me stories and could help me with my homework if I asked. She spoke English perfectly and knew how to speak Shona, Chewa and a smattering of Sena.

Just as well. She somehow met a man from Mozambique and he only spoke Sena. Even though he lived in Mozambique, which was in the middle of a civil war at the time, and Stella lived in Malawi, they married. To visit her, he had to cross hundreds of miles, many riddled with Mozambique’s infamous land mines. He walked through the bush to cross the border. One time, Stella told Mum, “He was walking though the bush, and yes, he even met a guerrilla!” Mother mistook her and said in awe, “Oh my. He must have been so frightened. Still, to see a gorilla!” Stella answered, “Yes. And the guerrilla was carrying a gun.” Thankfully, Louis was able to talk his way past the guerrilla, but to this day, Mum tells the story of her imagining Louis Gimo confronting a gorilla with a gun in the middle of the bush.

Stella and Louis were married for years, but they rarely saw one another. He eventually found another wife in Tête and Stella divorced him. Stella stayed with us – she still cleaned our house and looked after me when I wasn’t in school. I don’t know why she was a maid. I think she could have done anything she put her mind to, if she wanted. Maybe it had something to do with her Uncle. When her father died, he left his land – maybe cattle too, I don’t remember – to Stella and Esther. They never saw any of it. Because of the inheritance laws, or maybe just cultural tradition in their area of Chikwawa, their Uncle had custody of their inheritance for them. But Stella said he never gave them anything. Maybe she became a maid to earn money or until she found a better job.

When she left us – much later, when I was a preteen – she worked in an office in town. I think she was a secretary, but she also did sales and accounts. She would show up at church on occasion. She was a member there. She would ask, “How is the master?” Dad was never in the Blantyre church because he had two or three other churches he had to visit in the villages on Sunday. Then Mum would ask how Mavis was. Mavis had a baby when she was still in school. I don’t know that she finished secondary school. She joined the police band and that was her job. I didn’t even think she could play an instrument. Eventually, she married a police man she met in the band. Stella was so proud to have a daughter in the police and to have grandchildren. Stella was also proud that she worked in an office, but she didn’t enjoy it. When I came back to visit with my son, she asked if I would move back so she could work for me and look after my son. Oh, such temptation – to move back home and raise my son like I was raised. But circumstances change and life moves on.

Stella did leave the office job and go back to being a maid – not for us, though – someone else. Mum would give me updates periodically when she saw her in church or in town. When I next visited Malawi in 2004, Stella did not come to church and, though we sent word to her, we never managed to meet. Soon after, my parents retired and left Malawi. We all live in the USA now, and that is a world apart from Malawi. Hearing of her death brings that other world back into focus.

This email…the man writing it didn’t even know Stella.

“The deceased was your erstwhile house maid, Stella, whose surname was either Jim or Gite or both.

She belonged to Epiphany, served by Rev. Frackson Chinyama.

Some months ago I happened to be at Epiphany at a worship service and I saw Stella at that time. She was up before the congregation to repent.

Heaven knows what her offense was. I seem to remember that it was that she hadn’t been coming to church regularly and she wanted to repent of that.

Well, now she is gone.

This morning Revs. Chinyama and Pembeleka went to a village in Chikwawa for Stella’s funeral. She died two days ago, which would be November 22.”

That is all he could write about Stella. That is all he remembered. But I remember Stella. I pray she is enjoying her reward in heaven. There is still hope she can meet my daughter one day.

Home for the Dogs

We did find homes for our dogs.

Ironically, one went to the School Secretary and the other two went to the Church Secretary. Was that a conspiracy on their part - "I feel sorry for this former employee, so you take one and I'll take the others..."? Either which way, Ranger can now hunt to her heart's content in an endless sea of overgrown spare lots and Wei Ming and Pepper have long daily walks with their new master. I am told they love them, though it is hard to picture our large, I-am-just-going-to-sit-here-and-not-move Wei Ming taking a walk on a lead.

Of course, their new masters had to come collect them right as the movers were packing our shipment. E.J. took Ranger to the vet with her new owner to change her microchip details, I was standing in our open gate with a clip board, checking off boxes as men carried them past, and Melinda drives up with Raymond. As the movers were discussing the packing strategy anyway, I laid aside my clipboard and went over to Pepper and Wei Ming, who were tied up beside the house. Just then, E.J. arrived home with the children and Ranger. He left them in the car to help untie the other two dogs. Raymond took Pepper and tried to load him in their car. Not knowing our sneaky little pup, he let go of Pepper's collar to lift him into the back and... Yup! There went Pepper. "What a fun game!" Pepper is thinking. "I'll let them come as close as possible, and then dodge away at the last minute. Then I will lead these 2 adults and 2 children a merry little chase through the alleys and spare lots of the neighbourhood."

Meanwhile, the movers are calling for me and it is time for E.J. to take Ranger to her new home. In the end, Melinda and Raymond left for an hour or two and we left Pepper to return on his own. He came trotting in, all smug-like, while I was talking to our neighbour, who happens to be Pepper's old vet. He couldn't resist the opportunity to come over and bark over the fence one last time.

Poor boy. I snagged him, put him on his lead and gave him to Raymond when he returned a few minutes later.

I can't help remembering when Boo discovered we weren't taking our dogs with us. She went over to where the three of them were tied, sobbing the whole while. She petted each on the head and said,
"Bye, Pepper.
Sob.
Bye, Wei Ming.
Sob.
Bye, Ranger."

What about the Dogs?

My husband just lost his job and I am worried about my dogs. I suppose this only makes sense to dog-lovers, and maybe not even then...

We live on an island where dogs run free on the streets, in the fields, on the beaches - basically wherever they can find food. They are mangy, malnourished, mistreated and seriously in-bred. And there are at least a hundred new ones each day it seems. You just have to look at our neighbour's dogs for a perfect example. They have one female who has a litter of puppies every time she goes in heat. She doggedly walks the neighbourhood with her head hanging and her two shoulder blades forming sharp peaks in her fur, which hangs off of her bones like an dirty white sack. She is desperate for food for herself and for her endless series of puppies.

Four years ago, when we first moved here, she and her pack of male offspring owned the neighbourhood. They lay in wait for unsuspecting pedestrians, who they would race out and attack to the sound of much screaming and barking. They would strut up the road past all the fenced-in dogs, making the latter attack their fences in a frenzy of territorial fervour. Pepper and Wei Ming would race up and down our wall, leaping up, sticking their heads through the holes in the decorative blocks and tearing at the chicken wire with their teeth. Then the street pack would come right up to the wall and leap up to meet the heads emerging from inside. If a barking war could kill, at least one of them would be dead.

Now we only see the female. Every street dog around gathers around her when she is in season. Fights break out constantly. Each dog wants his turn and will attack as soon as the current dog is at a disadvantage. She just droops there, waiting until she can move on. She is hurt more often than not because she cannot leave when two males start fighting on top of her. The resulting puppies die within a few weeks - hit by passing cars, starved, killed in dog fights, perhaps eaten? As the mother searches for food, neighbourhood dogs chase her in their mission to guard their territory. She runs just far enough and then drags herself off to the next place to search.

From this life, we rescued two of our dogs - Pepper and Ranger; a friend gave us Wei Ming. As soon as we could, we neutered them. They have regular shots, worm medicine, baths, oh - and food. We take them to the vet when they are sick and we treat Ranger's hereditary mange (she is very in-bred) whenever it patches her fur. My husband plays fetch with them, our son wrestles with them, they wrestle with our toddler (much to her disgust), and they roll over under my feet whenever I go outside so I can pet them. They take their guard duties very seriously, barking at anything that moves day or night. The only time you will not see or hear them is when they must flop down and pant in the heat of the day (or when it is bath day). Ranger is a hunter and faithfully brings a dead rat to my kitchen door at least once a week. Pepper greets us each time we come home by bringing us one of his toys and dropping it at our feet as a welcome-home gift. Wei Ming is faithful only to us and will not go near anyone else.

Now there is a good possibility we must leave the island and we cannot take them with us. The options are to try to find good homes for them, take them to one of the two humane societies, or put them down. Good homes are hard to come by. Those people who treat their dogs well either already have too many dogs or only take pure-bred dogs. One of the humane societies is full and not accepting any more dogs. The other may have room, but then the dogs must stay in cages until and if someone comes to adopt them. And what assurance do I have that those someones will be good to them? Then there is the killing option. Is it right to kill three dogs in perfect health because they might suffer later? Is it possible to purposefully end the lives of three faithful, trusting hounds?

Amazonia- Day 7

The morning that we had to catch a plane to the Amazon, we almost missed our flight, despite having requested a taxi the night before. The hotel receptionist had to call 3 more times before a taxi finally came 45 minutes after we had requested it. At the airport, E.J. pointed out that security would not allow the bottles we had so carefully filled with tap water and treated the night before. So after we collected our tickets and repacked our checked bag to include 2 full water bottles, our sun block, & mosquito repellent (all of which we had foolishly packed in our day pack ready for our hike through the jungle), we sadly went and dumped the precious water in our other 2 water bottles. Then we watched incredulously as everyone walked through security with their full water bottles. Aaaag!

The flight was less than an hour, the scenery below changing from the crinkled tissue paper of mountain terrain to dense green jungle. Climbing down the stairs to the tarmac, a wall of wet heat hit us – it felt like we were back in Antigua. We walked 20 to 30 metres across the tarmac to a warehouse-like airport terminal. We grabbed our pack off the baggage claim and walked out the opposite door – no security, no checks, nothing. Manuel met us outside and helped us to the Sandoval Lake Lodge bus. Two other couples and a family with a teenage boy joined us on the bus and we drove less than 5 minutes to a snake farm. The snake farm had a dual purpose – to rescue injured animals and snakes, and to do educational programs with local children and farmers. We saw 2 junior anacondas, a young boa constrictor, a water snake, a piranha (whose size and un-presuming appearance fascinated Scooter), a tiny viper (deadly), 2 eel, turtles, a blind ocelot (it looked like a spotted civet cat), and several other snakes and fish. There was a white duck in the cage with the boa constrictor. The children must have sat next to that cage for 15-20 minutes, just waiting for the boa to strangle & swallow the duck. The duck was completely unaware of its danger – it even tucked its head under its wing for a snooze. I guess the boa had stage fright or something. Its eyes kept darting to the bright red spot squatting outside its cage. Or maybe it wasn’t hungry enough yet – they usually eat once a week.

Having a 3-year old along, of course we had to make use of the outhouse. That was a new experience for Boo (she hasn’t been to Malawi yet). She was a bit reluctant to piddle while suspended in my arms over a hole in the ground, mainly because of the several huge spider webs that surrounded us in the small space, but she did manage eventually, thankfully before my arms gave out. Scooter, having used a number of chimbudzis during his 2 visits to Malawi, was less excited to use the facilities. There were a number of citrus fruit trees in that area and the fruit were huge – lemons the size of oranges.

Back on the bus, we drove another 10-15 minutes to the company office in Puerto Maldonado. This was a very dusty town (it looked a bit like Mzuzu), where the main form of transportation was motorbikes or motorbike taxis – a 3-wheel contraption carting a 2-person carriage behind. Women & men, often with 1-3 passengers even on a regular moto, would putt around in the hundreds.

The 5 couples/families in our party changed into shorts, applied bug spray liberally, and transferred our belongings into duffle bags provided by the lodge. The staff divided us into groups – the 3 couples in one group, the family with the teenager into another, and our family in a third – and assigned each group a guide. Our guide, Miligras, helped us choose wellington boots to wear and made sure we had everything we needed. We drove the 5 minutes down to the pier where I quickly bought 2 bottles of water to replenish our depleted supply before we embarked on a long, thin boat with a little engine on the back. We all donned life jackets and set off on the silty brown waters of the Tambopata River.

After a while, we turned off onto the Madre de Dios River. Little river taxis plied the wide river, putting from far-reaching homes to Puerto Maldonado or back for 5-20 soles. The thatched mud brick houses scattered along the shores became more and more sparsely spaced as we progressed into the more remote jungle. As the houses became less frequent, the jungle became thicker and the trees higher. While we watched the scenery around us, we each ate a delicious rice pilaf wrapped in a banana leaf. I don’t know about everyone else, but E.J., Scooter & I inhaled ours, not having eaten that much for breakfast. After about an hour, we climbed off the boat and up the steep, mud bank on make-shift wooden stairs. At the top, there was a clearing with a small, shed-like house, some low benches and wooden railings. We all sat down, took off our hiking shoes and slipped into our wellies. Our guides found us each an appropriately sized hiking stick and then we set off on a 3 km slog through ankle- to mid-calf-deep mud. Mili told us that they had been experiencing unpredictable weather, the latest of which was a huge rainfall 4 days before. It left the path deep in mud.

Our typical 9-year-old boy was in seventh heaven. He squelched down the middle of the path, finding the deepest puddles. He left one wellie behind in a particularly deep hole one time, and Mili told him he had to be more careful from then on. His wellies were full of mud, his jeans were covered up to the crotch, his water bottle had been dropped in the mud, making his shirt, where the water bottle swung, also streaked with mud. The rest of us took a circuitous route, meandering from one side of the 4-metre wide path to the other, sometimes going a little ways into the forest in our quest for the least muddy avenue. Boo looked like one big mud and pink streaked blob holding a stick. E.J. was not much better because he would pick her up every time the path became impassable (otherwise, it would have taken us all night). His shirt, where her big, mud-caked boots rested, was one mass of mud. I was the only one not covered – the mud splatters I did have were from Scooter leaping into a mud puddle and splashing it all over me.

Mili helped pass the time for us by telling us about the butterflies and insects, or pointing out trails of army ants. She told us how the local tribesmen once had to prove their manhood before marriage by hugging a Tangarana tree for 12 hours while naked. This in itself wouldn’t be so uncomfortable, except that this tree forms a symbiosis with fire ants. The ants make their home in the tree and eat the fungus that grows there; the tree is constantly cleaned of various fungi and parasites while the ants receive food and a home. In other words, the trees are crawling with fire ants. Now, anyone who has been bitten by a fire ant remembers the fire that simmers in the spot for the next 15 minutes. Can you imagine having your whole body, including your more sensitive private parts, burning for 12 (and more – I imagine those stings don’t last only 15 minutes!) hours? Scooter was suitably horrified.

We saw many termite mounds on the trees. Mili said that these blind insects don’t eat the trees, but only use them as a home. They eat dead wood. I always thought they were voracious eaters that would eat all wood, simply because we are always fighting them for our ceiling and garden. We saw 2 huge butterflies – the Blue Morph and the Swallow Tail. Incredible! All in all, the flat walk was exhausting and seemed interminable, just because of the sucking, endless mud. For the most part, we didn’t feel the heat because the path was in deep shade. Large trees with lianas rose up all around us (there was also thick undergrowth, so it wasn’t primary forest). There was the constant sound of birds calling to one another and the flutter of wings, though we didn’t see any birds clearly.

We reached the end of the path unexpectedly – suddenly there was a bench with a man sitting on it in front of a wall of trees and undergrowth. I remember thinking,

“Wow! His boots are white!”

Tiredly, we stripped off our mud-plastered boots and socks, dipping the first into the canal to one side to rinse off some of the worst of the mud. Scooter’s socks were a brown, sodden mass and we ended up throwing them out. Mili directed us into the waiting canoe, where we collapsed gratefully and sat a bit listlessly while the man with white boots paddled us through a narrow canal of water cutting through the tall growth all around. Here in the canal, Mili said there were anacondas, water snakes, electric eels, and vegetarian piranhas: not somewhere that you want to take a dip. She related the story of a local man who had survived an anaconda attack the month before. One family lives in the protected area – they were there long before the government protected the area, so they have permission to live and hunt there. One of their men was paddling towards the canal with his dog on the prow of the canoe when an anaconda circled the boat and rose out of the water to snatch the dog. The man hit it with a paddle and it retreated into the water. Then it rose up again and grasped the man by his arm, trying to pull him into the water. He was screaming for help, and thankfully, there was a tourist boat nearby. The men paddling that boat hit the snake repeatedly with their paddles until it let go of the first man. The family went out the next day to hunt and kill the snake. I guess the snakes are territorial and it would have continued to prey on people coming in and out of the canal. Mili said she saw the skin and it was metres long. After that story, we looked a bit more nervously at the canal and the large, calm lake into which it fed.

After about 200 metres, we emerged onto Sandoval Lake. There were hundreds of birds flying overhead and calling to one another. Mili pointed out the red-bellied Macaw (green except for one spot of red on their bellies) and the cobalt-winged parakeets that flew in family groups of 3 or 4. We saw 10 or so yellow-headed vultures floating on the thermals or settling into some tall, dead-looking branches on one side of the lake. Among the macaws and parakeets, we also saw tropical cormorants, white-winged swallows, and a few scarlet macaws. In amongst the tree roots sticking out of the lake, there were striated herons, capped herons, green Ibis, social flycatchers, and various king fishers. Up in the branches we saw red-capped cardinals and a red headed woodpecker. After about 20-30 minutes in the canoe (paddling along one side of the lake, almost to the opposite side), we arrived at the quay for the lodge. We docked, the last among our busload of people to arrive, and trooped up the stairs (groan – more stairs – these wooden and covered in steel mesh) to the lodge. Our first view of the place was wonderful – rustic, yet comfortable and cool in appearance. It had long galleries and screened in porches lining the front. There were wooden benches overlooking the lake and paving stones making little paths through gardens of labeled plants. We walked into the lodge in the late afternoon to be greeted with a cold glass of lemonade each. At that point, I didn’t care if it did make me itchy - I was going to down every last drop of that sweet, icy drink!

In front of the bar were low tables surrounded by over stuffed chairs – inviting but sadly off-limits for mud-caked patrons such as ourselves. We went as fast as we could to our rooms at the end of one long gallery, where we found our bags already safely ensconced, carried on the backs of the much-faster porters. It was wonderful to shower off all the mud and pull on clean clothes. We had an hour or two until Mili met us again for a night walk, so we walked down the gallery to the main part of the lodge. We delightedly sank into the 4 well-placed hammocks inside the screened-in porch, where we could read, write, talk with other members of our larger party, or watch the gardens outside. Scooter and Boo played endlessly in the hammocks the entire 2 days we were there. E .J. enjoyed this part of our holiday the most – we could sit and relax without worrying about having to hurry anywhere, and stairs were not a major component of any of our treks.

After a while, I wandered down by the lake to watch the sunset – very peaceful with lots of reds and oranges. As I was standing out there, I heard a great flapping and rustling. Big birds started flying into the tree to the right and then hopping across to the tree above me. One of the other women in our party was with me and she identified them as stinky turkeys. There were a good dozen of them, but it was too dark for me to take a picture or see their markings clearly. The night-time groans and echoes reminded me of Liwonde National Park in Malawi – the grunting of the hippos replaced by the chain-sawing of the red monkeys.

At 6, just about the time we all were ready for dinner, we set off on our night walk. E.J., decided from the beginning that he would just carry Boo rather than deal with her crying every time he put her down. Mili took us into the grounds of the lodge first and we saw a pink-toed tarantula sitting at the base of its cocoon-like web. And we thought our horse spiders were big in Antigua! She took us from tree to tree and spotted different insects and spiders for us with her bright flash light. My torch was very pathetic in comparison – we had to have pitch black for anyone to even notice that it was on (rather frustrating when trying to spot anything further than a foot away). Sean was thrilled with each new discovery – tailless whip scorpions, leeches, wolf spiders, praying mantis, chicken spider, orb weaver spider, wandering spider, golden silk spider… As you can see, ‘spider’ was predominant on the list of sightings. But Mili assured us that there could be snakes hanging down from the trees too. By the end of the walk, I was a bit paranoid – brushing my hand over my hair anytime something touched it from above, and surreptitiously running my hands over my clothes every time I broke yet another web over the path. Though what I could have done if one of those poisonous spiders had invaded my space, I do not know. I felt some sympathy (but not much) with the arachnophobic tourist in Mili’s previous group – she jumped into the anaconda- and cayman-infested water to escape a spider she saw in the canoe. The rest of the time, she stayed in her room. I am not sure how much safer that made her - E.J. took a very nice picture of a golden silk spider on its web above his bed… All in all, I was rather relieved to end that hour-long walk and enter the well-lit lodge. Besides, dinner was ready and we were all very hungry by this time. I am not sure we even identified what we ate before it was gone.

Cusco: Sacsayhuaman - Day 6

On the morning we were to leave Aguas Calientes, we woke at 4 am (what was that about a holiday?) to catch the 5:30 am train back to Ollantaytamo. The train station should have been obvious, but there was construction (in a town that has probably doubled in size in the last 2 years). The concierge at our hotel told us,

“You can’t miss it. Go along the train tracks then turn left.”

At 4:45 am, after a hurried breakfast, we trailed through the darkness along the train tracks. It started to rain, so we had to haul out our rain jackets and cover our 2 (very big) packs. We kept following the tracks and soon left the town behind. Eventually, we could see that we were not coming to the train station, so we asked the one early-morning worker we found for the station. He looked at us as though we were crazy and told us to go back to town and climb up the stairs to the left of the tracks just as one leaves town. Groan. By this time, it was after 5, so E.J. picked up Boo and I her bag, and we raced back to the stairs. When we climbed the stairs (yes – more stairs), we were met by a maze of market stalls. A few vendors were just starting to set up for the day. We ran through the dimly-lit stalls, panting, “Estacion?” every minute. Surprised Peruvians would point in the direction we had to go. Left, right, straight, left, right – what a nightmare! Finally, we were directed through a dark alleyway that opened up onto the well-lit station. What a relief to see that the train was still there! They took our tickets, pushed us on the train and it left as we were finding our seats. The journey was dark, rainy and overcast, obscuring the marvelous scenery we remembered from our trip in, so we grabbed the opportunity to sleep.

Arriving in Ollantaytambo, we walked the 2 minutes to the bus station and jumped on the first bus to leave for Cusco. We were in Cusco by 9:30 am. On the way, we noticed more of the scenery. The houses were made of stone and mud, or more commonly mud bricks and mud mortar covered by plaster. Most houses were built around a courtyard, forming something like a complex. I also saw donkeys, sheep, and alpacas. We saw farmers plowing with oxen and a hand directed plow. Others went behind and sowed seeds (quite the Bible illustration). We learned that Peruvians boast of growing 200 varieties of corn and 400 varieties of potato.

In Cusco, we left the bus in a large square next to a church and we had to figure out where to go. Fortunately, the streets in the old town did have names. We made our way along the cobble-stoned streets to the Places des Armes, where the cathedral and church dominate. There were many Inca walls in this section of the town – huge blocks placed together so no mortar shows. The streets and squares were lined with tourism shops – tours, souvenirs, restaurants, hostals, etc. People constantly were hawking this service or that or trying to give one a card for this or that place. Artists came up as soon as we stopped so they could show us their work. We were constantly saying, “no, gracias.” Beggars were also in evidence.

We finally found our hotel buried in a courtyard set in from the street. There was no sign other than one advertising, “Fotos, etc.” There was a barred gate blocking the entrance to the hotel, with a speaker to communicate with the front desk. We had to explain who we were before they let us in. In the hotel, they sat us at a table in a formal drawing room (not the best idea with a 3-year old), served us tea and gave us registration forms to complete. Then we were led up stairs to the second floor where we once more had a room with squeaky, wooden floors. Our below-stairs neighbour had quite a thing or two to say to us after one morning of Boo doing her usual morning antics in our room. E.J. and I liked the room because there was a double bed for us and 2 singles for the children. Scooter liked it because there was a TV right by his bed.

We asked the receptionist where she would recommend we go to lunch. She told us of a popular place in the San Blas area. The restaurant was very American – it could have been anywhere in the Twin Cities area. We made Scooter drink a glass of milk. It was full cream milk and he could only drink half of it (complaining the entire time). E.J. and I tried some of the local dishes. They was good but pricey.

Afterward, we started going up towards Sacsayhuaman – the closest set of Inca ruins to Cusco. I knew the ruins were on top of one hill behind Cusco, so we found a flight of stairs and started climbing. I almost had a mutiny on my hands. As it was, it was only Boo who lay on the ground screaming her refusal to climb another stair. E.J. limited himself to dark mutterings about “Incas and their stairs.” Scooter constantly suggested turning back and watching TV in the hotel room. Needless to say, our climb was punctuated by many rests. The stairs went up and up without a break. They were in the direct sunlight and we had no sun block or trail mix (for bribery). We did tell the children that they could watch TV in the evening if they climbed without complaining – this bribe required constant repetition. The staircase cut straight through a poor section of town. There were houses all around, climbing up the hillside at steep angles. A sea of reddish tile roofs swept off into the distance as far as the eye could see. We passed one man sitting on the stairs and soaking his feet in a basin of water. We saw several dogs and 2 strange-looking chickens with feather on their legs and a punk hairdo on top. These sights kept the complaints at a minimum for at least 10 steps each.

When we arrived at the top, we were off by about 500m. We had to walk along a road and then through a field to find the ruins – truly the back way. The ruins were some of the most magnificent we saw in Peru. Machu Picchu was well-preserved but these ruins were more grand. The stones were huge – 3 or 4 times taller than a human at times. What was left of the once massive Inca city was mostly the fortress walls – zig zagging along the top of the hill. Looking at them from above gave you an idea of what they must have been like when whole – a mighty fortress and citadel rising up on a hill above Cusco. They say the ruins we see are only a quarter of what the city was. Many of the stones were taken down to Cusco by the Spanish when they destroyed the complex. They tried to destroy it as much as possible, I suppose, because it symbolized worship of a false god and unity and power for the Incas. It must have been demoralizing for the Incas to see this bastion of their religion and Imperial might torn to the ground. The battle to take it was certainly long and bloody.

On the other side of a green area next to the ruins rose curving volcanic rock. Climbing this was what gave us the great vantage of the fortress walls. On the other side of the volcanic rock was an almost complete circle of low stone wall circling a flat area. It looked like an arena. There were baths to one side with more examples of the Inca’s splendid water management. The children especially enjoyed sliding down the volcanic rock where it has been worn smooth and slippery by thousands of bottoms during centuries of festivals on this spot.

Just as we were leaving, we found a maze of tunnels dug into the dirt and rock. One was quite long and pitch black. Others led though neat cave systems. The children loved that area too. It was a bit hair-raising for E.J. and me through, because the children could fit through all these small spaces, leaving us behind. Then we wouldn’t know where they were, though we could hear their voices. I didn’t like the idea that we couldn't get to them quickly if they needed us.

Finally, after 5 pm, we found the usual, main way down the hill into Cusco. It was a wide boulevard of stairs descending at a gentle, gradual decline. Boy, did I receive dirty looks from my family for leading them up such a tortuous climb when this one was the alternative.

We walked around the Places des Armes and then found a McDonalds for Scooter. His wide-eyed shock upon realizing where we were to dine was a true indication of his joy at this great treat. Boo enjoyed (and still enjoys) the happy meal box and the toy (that speaks in Spanish). When we returned to the room, they watched their reward – Cartoon Network in Spanish. Boo wondered why she couldn’t understand Dora or Ben Ten. Scooter handed E.J. the remote so he could change the language. E.J. hooted and laughed at that one. In the end, though, it didn’t matter – all three of them were glued to the TV for the next 1 ½ hours!

I had to go down to the front desk and sort out our bus tickets we needed to go to Puno in 4 days. The tickets were supposed to be waiting for us when we arrived at the hotel, but they weren’t. When the front desk called the bus company, they explained that they were having problems with the route, but they were sure it would be sorted out in 4 days, so they would deliver our tickets to the hotel while we were in the Jungle.

Machu Picchu - Day 5

We were up by 4:30 am to try and catch one of the first buses from Aguas Calientes to Machu Picchu. At that time, we did wonder if this was indeed a holiday and if so, why it felt more like torture. The children weren’t impressed with our arguments about it being worthwhile either.

We ate the best breakfast of our trip in the next-door partner hotel – heaps of fresh fruit from mangoes to strawberries to papaya, fresh bread, cheese, meat, freshly-squeezed juice, and tea. Wouldn’t you know it, we had about 10 minutes to eat it all (if you can call that eating) before we had to leave for the bus station. We had read that about 5000 people visit Machu Picchu every day, and that if you want to see it without wall-to-wall tourists, you had to leave with the first bus at 5 or 5:30 am. Unfortunately, about 300 other people had also heard this. The line of people – dark silhouettes against the buildings - was 2 blocks up the road and then back down again. We arrived with the first bus and were finally able to leave with the 6th or 7th bus. So much for beating the crowd. However, the bus drivers were very practiced, and once one bus was full, it would leave and the next would pull up to the curb immediately. It only took us half an hour of waiting.

It was still dark as the bus wended its way up the escarpment and through the thick forest. I think it was just as well the first part was in darkness: it did feel like the bus swung out over sheer drops at each hair pin bend. After 10 or 15 minutes, the dark of the mountain side on our left alternated with a dim glow back lighting the peaks on our right. When our side of the bus was to the mountain, we could see nothing in the darkness, but then we would swing around another hair pin bend and see barely discernable tree-covered peaks rising out of the mist. Each time, it was a little lighter and we could see more. It reminded me of scenes from “Gorillas in the Mist.”

We disembarked by the lodge at the entrance to the park. It is the only lodge allowed up there and only because it existed before the area was protected. The line of people went from the bus, up through the door, and as far as the eye could see up the path. It was rather disappointing to get up so early and still be met by such a crowd. Two people (French Canadians) came up the trail from the bottom as we joined the queue. It took them an hour and 10 minutes to climb the stairs from Aguas Calientes. We had thought of doing that, but knowing the pace of our children, it would have been mid-morning by the time we arrived at the top! As we waited, we people-watched. All around us we could hear hushed voices talking in different languages – French, German, Japanese, English (all different accents), Russian and other languages I didn’t recognize. The only race I didn’t see represented was African. Well, I saw a couple African-Americans, but no Africans. E.J. joked that it was going to be like seeing the crown jewels in London - you are in a single-file queue with no option but to move forward a step as the person before and behind takes a step forward. We could already imagine it – “This is the Temple of the Sun. OK. Move forward. Thirty seconds per person please!” However, when we passed the check-in and had our tickets stamped, the crowd soon dispersed. We went up to our left to the guard house. We wanted to watch the sun rise over the mountains and light the ruins laid out below. There were llamas on the terraces so that tourists could pet them and take pictures. We had seen postcards of Machu Picchu with a llama head seemingly superimposed on the picture. We discovered that those pictures weren’t fixed – we even have several similar pictures and it still looks like someone stuck a llama head in the picture with Photoshop. Of course, petting the llamas was the highlight of the day for both children.

It takes the sun a long time to clear the peaks to the east, so we walked along the Inca Trail for a few metres. We met the first group of hikers coming off their 4-day hike – many Americans (from USA). They were very voluble in their relief to have finally arrived. Then we turned onto the terraces and walked back to the guard house along with a steady stream of hikers from the trail. We were above Machu Picchu by maybe 50-100 metres in elevation, and kiddy corner to the entrance of the Temple of the Moon. We could see a crowd of people in their colourful hiking gear on the other side of the ruins by the Sacred Rock. The park regulates how many people can climb to the Temple of the Moon each day. The first 1000 (something like that…) people are allowed to climb up. Some of the hikers were disgusted that, after 4 days hiking, they didn’t arrive in time to visit the Temple of the Moon. We could have easily made it, but I didn’t feel like pushing and crowding together with 999 other people. As it was, it took some manipulating to take pictures of the sun-lit ruins with no person walking in front of the camera.

We considered following the Inca Trail to the Sun Gate, which we could see on the nearest pass, but it was an hour and a half hike along the stone-paved path – didn’t sound too exciting. Scooter rather would see the cave on Machu Picchu Mountain. So we decided to climb that while it was still cool (it was then 7:30am). The Inca’s considered the mountain top sacred and went up there for religious ceremonies, so they had lovely granite stairs all the way up. That is, 2 ½ hours (for us) of stairs. After 1 ½ hours, E.J.’s comment was, “Inca’s sure loved stairs.” His tone of voice indicated that he was fed up with stairs. Still, it was incredible to climb stairs that literally jutted out over 100 or more feet drops. What they must have done to not only carry all those stones up there, but to build the stairways on the steep slopes! I must be growing old, because I kept thinking, “just one misstep and over I go.” I don’t remember ever having a problem with vertigo before. Maybe the difference was climbing with a 3-year old. She still can't control her walking that well and she would occasionally lose her balance and pull on my hand (or E.J.’s) as she tried to regain her feet. For those few seconds, my stomach would rise into my throat and my heart would hammer like crazy. E.J. didn’t have a problem with the drop offs. He couldn’t handle the endless stairs. Boo was falling asleep on her feet by the end of the climb, so E.J. had to carry her. Carrying her up hundreds of stairs was hard work. He kept asking me, “Please tell me you see the top?” Each time we would go around a corner and there would be another staircase with 30-50 stairs curving around the side of the mountain and out of sight. It was daunting. Scooter's litany was,

“Let’s just turn around and go back.”

It was a goad to ensure we kept going:

“We have gone this far; we are not going to turn back without seeing the top now!”

We only saw one other climber on the way up (she steadily walked up and past us). In that way, it was ideal – isolation from the crowds. At the top, we had spectacular, 360 degree views of Mt Veronica (snow capped) and all the other peaks around. It was good to sit in the little open hut at the top and inhale a granola bar as a reward for climbing all those stairs. After a short rest, we explored the top a little. There was a little cave so that Scooter could say he saw one, and a garden-like profusion of red, orange, yellow and blue flowers in and around an old, Inca-built wall.

If we thought going up was bad… Running down the stairs with a 3-year old in tow, sometimes going straight towards a drop off (until the stair case turned sharply to follow the curve of the mountain), with another drop off to one side, was even scarier. I think we did thousands of stairs that day. By the end of the hike down, my legs shook with fatigue. It didn’t help that I carried Boo on my back for a 1/3 of the way. We felt considerably better when several young, childless couples climbing up looked knackered and asked us how much further it was to the top. But the biggest relief was to reach the end of the stairs and make our way shakily over to the exit, where we could go out of the park and eat. The park rules had stated that no food was allowed in the park. So we hadn’t brought lunch. When we collapsed at a table in the one place that sold food, the prices were 3 or 4 times more expensive than in the village below. We could afford 2 waters and 1 sandwich, which I carefully divided 4 ways. I felt like Asterix in “The Great Crossing” when he slices up their last apple. The other three watched with grumbling stomachs and perhaps a bit of drool. The water was perhaps even more appreciated as we had all finished our water on the hike and the day was already hot.

After lunch, we made our way back into the park to explore the ruins. There were a lot more people, including day-tours from Cusco. But the ruins are quite extensive and we could be in most places and see only 2-3 other people. That was just as well, as Boo was not happy. She was tired, hungry, hot and sick of walking around. I could sympathize because I was hot, tired, hungry and wished I could find somewhere to sit that didn’t have a covering of clinging dirt. Boo looked and sounded like a horrible brat – runny nose from crying, covered in grey dirt from head to toe due to several bouts rolling on the ground, moaning and crying, and hair disarrayed like a mad woman. I began seriously wondering why on earth we were there.

Believe it or not, there were more stairs. E.J. almost rebelled, but we did get through all the complex, including hundreds of more steps. We stayed until 5 p.m. and Boo fell asleep 2 more times. One time, E.J. and I took turns sitting and holding her while the other went exploring with Scooter. I sat on a rock at the bottom of a wide, curving staircase up to Cajunta 15, overlooking Cajunta 12 and the lower agricultural terraces. In every direction, mountains and valley spread out, some covered with clouds. It was sunny, yet there was a cool wind. A small lizard crawled along the wall behind me and a bird fluttered around nearby. It was incredibly peaceful (especially with Boo sleeping!). I could see why the Inca chose this location for his royal palace and a temple complex. Exploring the ruins was fun when it was just Scooter and me. The walls and stairs formed a three-dimensional maze where you could wander for a long time. We took the guide book along and tried to find the various points of interest.

The Incas held many different rocks as sacred and would build temples around them. Usually, it seemed that if the rock looked like a near-by mountain, then it was sacred. Right before we left, we visited the Temple of the Condor. Inside was a rock that, when you looked at it from above, looked a bit like a condor in flight. There was a tunnel underneath this temple, and a staircase leading up so you could look at the lower floor from above. It was one of those neat places that a child loves to explore.

We had planned to hike down to Aguas Calientes, but the family rebelled in the end, and it did feel good to just relax on the bus going down. We treated ourselves to a big, 3-course meal that night!