Windows in Peru

We stand in front of the mission waiting for a colorful wooden bus to arrive. Through the dust and in the distance, we spot our creaking transportation. All thirteen of us Gringos plus about twenty Peruvians pack onto the bus. Peruvians call all white people “Gringos”. Apparently it’s a derogatory term, but they mean no offense. The seats are perfect for small Peruvians but tight for us Gringos. In a land of small tan people, we appear as pasty white giants. Our skin burns, hair curls and knees smash against the seats in front of us. They watch with curiosity and observe every thing we do.

            The bus rolls down the street releasing an inconsistent hum. It’s the type of hum that rocks babies to sleep within minutes. Wind invades the still hot air and dries the sweat beads on our necks. Looking out the window, I see litter cake the broken cement with several layers of wrappers and trash. Standing in clumps of three or four, children invade street corners sucking sweet sodas from plastic bags with straws.  Once their treat has satisfied their round bellies, they drop the bag and straw onto the ground and run along. Children smile shyly when we wave at them through the bus window. Inside the bus, Peruvian men spark Spanglish conversations with us Gringos. We try our best to conjure up help from our slim Spanish word bank. When we get to a standstill, we sadly say, “no entiendes” and search for a near by translator. The most popular question is about their city. They want to know if we like Iquitos. It’s their lifelong city. Most of them are born and will die in the same city, possibly just blocks away. There is only one paved road in Iquitos. It’s only accessible by plane or boat. Asking if we like their city is like asking if we like their family or home. We always accentuate our response in explaining how much we like Iquitos. They smile.

            The conversations consist mainly of laughter. It’s the one thing both Peruvians and Gringos understand. I sit next to a man that used to live in the streets. He was known for the drugs that had. People wanted his drugs and so they would come after him. He would get hustled and attacked. After some time, he began carrying a blade in his mouth. If he would get hustled, he could then use his tongue to slide the blade forward, grab it with his hand and slice his attackers. In this moment, he has his arm snug around me and I feel completely safe. He left the streets four months ago and now lives for Jesus, wearing a headband that proclaims Jesus as “Reyes a Reyes” or “King of Kings”. We pass the market and thick odors of grilled fish and plantains fill the air. Dust dances above the ground in a constant swirl of commotion. Little ninos run and laugh with rotted teeth and lice laced scalps. They leap into our arms and look into our eyes, trying to get a glimpse into our lives. The need for health is great. Their desire and hunger for God is even greater. We learn from them and they learn from us. The exchange is beautiful.