Writings By Phil

Thoughts On This And That

Perils of the Night

October 27, 1978

I slept away a good part of the afternoon. I moved further under the truck every time the sun stole my shade. I did not fear being run over while I slept because the vehicle I lay under was still on the flatcar that carried our swamp tractor and trailer!

When I got up from my long nap, I tried to talk to one of the men who arrived with me from Puerto Yapacani. Like me, he was left to watch over whatever cargo he, or his employer, had on the train. I so wished I could speak Spanish! As best I could, we talked about wild Indians, and our work to befriend them. My vocabulary was so limited I just hoped he understood some of what I said. I guessed that putting up with my broken Spanish was a diversion from a long day of boredom. He seemed more than willing to talk to me.

Later, we were joined by two men who were on their way back to Yapacani. Again, we talked over the same stuff, but broadened it to include religion. They wanted to know what Evangelicals believe. I felt so inadequate in my Spanish, especially in explaining theology. If they realized how few of their words were penetrating my dome of understanding, it did not slow them down any. All three of them seemed to hold an opinion on everything theological. Even if I could not debate them because I lacked the Spanish to convey my thoughts, there was seemingly an endless palaver between them. It was a lively discussion.

Next, they asked me about American eating habits. I did not know where they got their ideas on how often we ate. I told them we usually had three meals a day. Of course, talking about food made them hungry, and it was almost time for the evening meal. They motioned me to follow them. We crossed the railroad tracks and the parallel dirt road and entered the Pension. We each ordered a meal and one of the men insisted on paying for mine. Because I was an American he made sure they put two fried eggs on top of my rice. I wondered where he got the idea that a Gringo needed two! Until I went to Bolivia I had never eaten an egg over rice.

He also ordered a cup of coffee for me because, as he said, “Americans love their caffeine!” For me, it was a large cup of brew, but they all ordered small cups of cafecito. I surprised them all by not adding sugar to mine. They all shoveled at least two big scoops into theirs.

I did not want to shatter his stereotype of Americans, but this Gringo hated coffee. I drank it anyway because I was enjoying the comradery of others stuck in a similar situation. Like me, they were waiting for a train to take them to where they wanted to go. Also, it was nice to have someone with patience to ask me questions, to draw me out, to correct me when I couldn’t say the right word, and all without condemnation.

That cup of coffee made a total of two that I had consumed during my almost one year in Bolivia. Like tonight’s, I drank that first one so as not to offend and to show that I was grateful for their hospitality.

We finished eating, talked a while more, then I stood up to leave saying I needed to check on the puppies. While still inside the Pension saying goodnights, a young woman walked by outside. Their eyes followed her until she was out or sight. The subject quickly changed from goodbyes to women or sex. I was not sure which. With a glint in his eye, the man who paid for my dinner asked me a question. I did not completely understand it, but I knew the words mujer and noche. He seemed to make it very personal towards me. My guess was he was asking me, “Do you want a girl for the night?” The men’s faces were all grins, their black eyes shinning in the light of the single light bulb hanging from the rafters. Their faces in unmasked anticipation waited for my answer.

“I don’t understand,” I said. My answer was at least a half truth!

The speaker crossed his wrists in front of his chest. His hands were cupped in a manner that suggested a woman trying to hide her nakedness from prying eyes. “Mu. . .jer,” he said slowly, shaking his imaginary breasts with his empty hands. His antics left me with no doubt of his meaning.

I did not like the trajectory of this conversation. “No entiendo,” I repeated.

Finally, he gave up, saying I did not understand. Perhaps the men were just checking my convictions, testing me to see if Evangelicals practiced what they preached. Earlier in the evening, they also had asked me about coca. Even before that, our discussion on Evangelicals started when I turned down a cigarette.

A bell began to ring. I asked if it was a church bell, and if so, was it a Catholic church. The answer was yes. Then the youngest man of the three asked me what I thought about it; was Catholicism good or bad? I did my best to explain that a church could not save us. The important thing was to know Jesus Christ, and put our faith in Him.

Most likely, the men were brought up under the teaching of the Catholic church. Though the priests talked about faith in Christ, faith alone was not enough to save a sinner. Salvation came by doing stuff: good works, penance, Hail Marys, and the like. Even time in Purgatory was necessary to cleanse one of sin. I knew all of that was false doctrine.

I was afraid that what they had gleaned from my broken Spanish was not the truth, either! They probably thought that the Evangelical’s way to be saved was don’t do this and that: Don’t smoke cigarettes, don’t chew coca, don’t mess with girls that do! That was not what I wanted to share with them.

I knew my Spanish was so deficient, that any conviction of sin, or nudging of their hearts towards God and faith in the finished work of Christ could only happen if the Holy Spirit took my bumbling words and turned them into God’s words. That was the only way they would hear and understand that they were sinners and needed a Savior, and that God’s gift of eternal life was a free gift!

Rumor had it that the train would come by later in the night on its way to Puerto Yapacani. In the morning it would return to collect us and haul us to Santa Cruz. I was so ready for that! I did not want to spend another night like last night. When we arrived in the wee hours of the morning, I did not bother to set up my tent and spent what was left of the dark hours in the open. The mosquitoes could have been worse, but the few that did buzz around my head still made sleeping difficult.

Wanting to avoid a repeat, I pulled out my tent and set it up in the dark. I pushed my sleeping bag though the door and crawled after it. I hoped my supper companions would not send a woman my way, even as a joke. They had paid for my dinner, and out here the price of a girl would probably be about the same as a plate of rice, two eggs and a steak! I prayed that such a peril of the night would not become a reality!

A woman did not come to my tent, for which I was thankful. What did come was a column of ants, a small black variety. I was rudely awakened, hours later, by a burning sensation on my wrist. I turned on my flashlight and found the skin of my carpus was covered with the biting insects. There was a trail of them coming in one side of my tent, marching across the zipper, then exiting out the other side. My head and arms were intruding into their pathway and they showed their displeasure by biting me. I decided the only thing to do was move back and let them pass. A while later I awoke again to find them biting me elsewhere. I thought the latter were probably the rear of the column or some I had disturbed earlier that had gotten lost.

I did not like to be bitten by ants. However, that was a peril of the night I could live with.

More Tales from Green Hell

Something Different

Phil Burns

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