Writings By Phil

April 8, 1978

Matt Castagna and I had just finished eating our lunch when Tibaquite came to visit. He pulled the screen door open and entered our house without knocking. That was a surprise! We did not even have time to get up from the table. We greeted each other with smiles and “Holas,” Spanish for “Hello.” I wanted to say more to him like, “Please knock first!” and “Wait to be invited in!” However, I lacked the Spanish to communicate those thoughts, and even if I was fluent in the language, he lacked the Spanish to understand what I would have said. I knew his culture was different from ours so let him inside without rebuke. He slid onto the bench beside Matt.  I finished what I was saying before he interrupted us and then there was a long quiet pause.

When Tibaquite saw the potato chips, he broke the silence, pointed to them, and said something in his language we did not understand. Probably, he was asking to have some. I doubted that chips were part of the Yuqui diet, but because he knew we had been eating our lunch, he surmised that they were good to eat. We let him reach into the bag and grab a handful. Inwardly, I cringed at the thought of his unwashed hand touching our food. Cleanliness was not the norm for the former nomad. Even sitting across the table from him I could smell his body odor, a mixture of sweat, smoke, probably animal blood, and other ingredients that I do not wish to mention here.

Next, he saw an open can of pickles on the table and wanted to know what they were.  Matt told him in Spanish, “Pepinillos.” His expression told us that word was not part of his vocabulary. We did not offer him one, though.

I made pancakes for breakfast that morning and two were left over. I put them on the table at lunchtime as a substitute for bread. Matt did not eat his so I picked it up and used one of the Yuqui phrases I had learned saying, “I’ll give you something to eat.”  His face broke into a near toothless grin and he said, “Gracias.”  I did not know if he smiled because I used his language or because I gave him a cold pancake.  Probably the later!

Afterwards, there was another great lull in our conversation because we didn’t know enough words in his language to even talk about the weather. It was then that I spied the canning jar filled with tiny red peppers. He had not asked about them, yet! We couldn’t talk to him, but we could amuse ourselves, at his expense! It was a despicable prank, but Tibaquite was interested in our food and seemed happy to try different things. Why not a pepper!

Weeks before, when we were camped at the Pension, I found a volunteer pepper plant, probably from a seed dropped by the loggers. It was a beautiful bush-like plant covered with tiny peppers, both red and green. It made me think of Christmas, it was so pretty! I liked hot peppers so on the day we were leaving, I ran over and picked all the red ones and packed them in a jar filled with saltwater. I planed to put them in vinegar once we were back at the Hediondo.

As I picked them, I noticed that one had a bad spot in it, and not wanting to waste it, I pulled out my pocketknife to cut out the bad to save the good. In squeezing the flesh between the blade and my thumb, the pepper spit fiery juice into my eye. Immediately, I experienced agonizing burning and pain with no relief in sight, at least, not that I could see! That should have been ample warning that these peppers were too spicy for my palate. Sure enough, even after marinating them in vinegar, they were too hot for me to enjoy. So, except for the occasional drop or two of hot vinegar on my food, the jar sat on the table, more as a decoration than a spice.

Giving in to my vile impulse, I twisted the lid off the jar, fished out a pepper with a spoon and offered it to our unsuspecting guest. Tibaquite popped it in his mouth, slowly chewed it, and swallowed it. The whole time, Matt and I were laughing, completely focused on his face in anticipation of the antics that were sure to come. We expected him to spit it out, go into a fit of coughing, have tears running down his cheeks, or all of the above. Instead, his stoic face never changed expression. I guessed the joke was on us! I marveled that he could eat one of those peppers and not suffer agony of mouth and throat.

We had some fun, but still faced a conversational void. To fill it, Matt picked up an old News Week magazine and began thumbing through its pages. When he found an interesting picture he showed it to Tibaquite. Our guest seemed to enjoy looking at the pictures. People making funny faces made him laugh.  Matt found an advertisement for Dodge trucks amusing.  It showed a small town in which every vehicle was a Dodge.  “Dodge, the fastest growing truck company in America.”  Matt laughed at the ad’s caption and Tibaquite looking intently at the picture laughed with him. If he had ever gone out to the city, he had probably seen a truck before, but for all he knew, Dodge could have been the name of the cow that burned Chicago down. Of course, he didn’t know that story, either!

Fin

This story was from the category Tales From Green Hell. If you would like to read more of my experiences in the jungles of Bolivia, please click on that link below.

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• Uncategorized (1)