Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Page 3 of 26

Run-cation, part 2: connecting and running

August 4, 2022 / / 0 Comments
Notre-Dame cathedral looking down on the Seine River. Notice the walkway next to the river. Seth and I would run many miles on walkways like this one.

Travel Journal, 123

In August of 2021, me and a friend traveled to Paris to go for a run. Follow along with this map of our run. We ran 75 km over a day-and-a-half. Here’s how we did it:

The train stopped at Orly station and I hopped off. And after a few minutes of waiting, Seth and I spotted each other near the arrivals entrance. I don’t really know what I was thinking was going to happen. Maybe we were going to catch up over dinner? Perhaps we would grab a train and do a little sight-seeing? Nay. We set up our running watches and looked at google maps. We came here to run, and that’s what we were going to do.

We laughed and joked and talked about jet lag as we began running, literally from the airport parking lot. The Seine River snakes through Paris and acts as kind of a guide to all of the Parisian sites. Yes, some of the sites do not lie right adjacent to the river. But a landmark like the Seine helps any traveler with finding their way. We followed our phone map through parking lots, industrial complexes, and car rental locales until finally the business section gave way to the river cutting through it all.

Paris is, of course, a romantic and classical city full of museums and architecture and cuisine. And if you want to see the touristy sites, you can certainly do that. Pay for a hop-on-hop-off bus. Go to the Eiffel tower. (And you should definitely go to the Eiffel tower.) But Seth and I had deeper plans. As we hit the river, we ran on the paved walkway that lines it shores for the entire length of the city. The only major site we saw that evening was Notre Dame. Of course, when I now visit the famous cathedral, my heart tends to ache. The fire in April of 2019 left the ancient structure hollow and in desperate need of repair. The ongoing restorations have no end date in site. Visitors will not be allowed until at least Spring of 2024.

That first day of running took us about 16 miles or 25km, all leading to our hostel, the St Christopher’s Inn, Gare du Nord, located in the Saint Vincent de Paul sector of the city. After finding a bed and showering off the scum of many hours of travel, no sleep, and 16 miles of city running, it was time to find some food.

Most people know Paris as a place of croissant (and it is—you must have croissant), and espresso (again, drink the coffee). But what Americans certainly don’t think about is how international a city Paris is. Travelers are remiss if they don’t check out the shawarma or, in our case, curry.

We settled on a vegetarian Indian place and promptly asked the manager to surprise us. We were not disappointed. Eating a bunch of curry before running 30 miles the next day may seem like folly. I don’t recommend it for the faint of heart. I am pleased to announce that we suffered no gastrointestinal upset. No runners were harmed in the eating of this curry.

We walked back to the hostel, played a couple of games of chess, I read a few more pages of my book, and it was lights out. We both slept as well as to be expected.

Since we were still on the heels of a pandemic, our hostel-provided breakfast came in a bag and consisted of an orange juice, chocolate croissant, and a token for an extremely disappointing coffee. We’d have to track down a descent coffee later in the day. We had also figured out that we would be able to stay at the same hostel and store our clothes in a locker until we returned. This proved to be very helpful. No need to carry all our gear all over the City of Lights like we did the day before. Our full day of running was setting up for success. The site-seeing would truly begin today.

 

anthony forrest

Part 1: getting there and getting started

Follow along each week for the rest of our run along the Seine River in Paris.

summer storm

August 1, 2022 / / 0 Comments

A heavy fall of rain dots my hearing

Awake to the tiny dashes against the night

My sleep-sodden mind fights with all might

But these tired eyes open to the dark-sky storm

Born of heat

Summer rain

Like pent up pain released upon the Earth

 

anthony forrest

Run-cation, part 1: getting there and getting started

July 28, 2022 / / 0 Comments
My bag in the left and Seth's on the right. This is all we brought to France.

Travel Journal, 122

In August of 2021, me and a friend traveled to Paris to go for a run. Follow along with this map of our run. We ran 75 km over a day-and-a-half. Here’s how we did it:

“I just need to get away and go for a long run,” Seth confessed on the WhatsApp call. The both of us enjoy running long distances and, frankly, needed it. My life as a paramedic comes with baggage. Night after night I stressfully work with patients in need. It’s fulfilling and satisfying work. But the sleepless nights, high-stress situations, and high-acuity medical and trauma cases weigh on me—as they do all other paramedics, EMTs, firefighters, and police officers.

I can’t really speak to Seth’s life. But life as an expat in the north of Spain comes with its own difficulties. Life, for both of us, had gotten to a boiling point. And we both knew it.

“I have some time later this month,” I said, my mind racing. It was true. I had a couple of days off coming up in August (back in ’21). But it was only a couple of days.

“Let’s meet someplace”

“Let’s meet in Paris. We’ll run around the city!”

This was both good news and bad news. You see, we both wanted to run and we both wanted to run around Paris. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we’ve been arguing about the French Revolution for the past three years. Don’t ask me why; I can’t remember. All I know is that every time we get together, Seth’s opinion regarding the French crops up and I have to correct him. He says the same thing about me. I don’t even know what the argument is about. But when he and I start talking about the late 1700’s, it gets heated.

We would just have to risk it.

In less than a day, we made the decision to fly to Paris, France from our respective homes in Spain and Minnesota.

The plan was simple.

We would pack light.

Very light.

I was scheduled to land in the mid-morning and Seth would get in a few hours later. The only goal was to run as much as we could in a couple of days.

Back in Minnesota I stared down at my Nathan Hydration pack wondering if it would do the trick. The problem with flying to another country just to run was that I had to run with all of my luggage on my back. That just wouldn’t do. So, I pulled the water bladder out of the bag and packed the following:

  • A single pair of running shorts
  • One pair of socks
  • One tech shirt
  • A travel toothbrush and toothpaste
  • Anti-chafe cream
  • Phone charger
  • Plug adapter
  • Ultralight rain jacket
  • Second hand sci-fi novel (call me a barbarian, but as I read the pages, I would tear them out and throw them away to save the weight)

I wore a long-sleeved running shirt, zip-off pants, and a hat—cell phone and wallet in my pocket. If it’s not on that list, I didn’t bring it. No deodorant. No soap. No second pair of underwear in case of…emergencies. Just a single pair of running gear.

The idea was that we would land in Paris and run around the city, seeing the sites. Later we’d hit a cheap hostel, clean up, and rest. Seth’s bag looked much the same as mine. However, he had a piece of equipment I did not have—sleep. He lives in Spain. The time change was going to kill me. I would try to sleep on the flight over from Minneapolis and he would get a full night of sleep.

Turns out, neither of us slept. Seth fell victim to a major problem that many runners face: the jitters. He tossed and turned and barely slept a wink. His flight left in the morning, and mine the night before. As it was, we both landed in Paris feeling jet lagged and worn.

My first goal upon landed was to get out of the airport. While this doesn’t sound too crazy, it was a legitimate concern. I flew with no luggage, just a tiny backpack. I had little cash on me. And my planned stay was two nights. To any border security agent, I was ripe for the plucking.

I stepped to the counter and gave a smile, offering my best, “bonjour.” The agent took my passport and flipped through the pages. I have a lot of short stays stamped on those sheets. He gazed up at me with squinty eyes. I then had to try and explain that I was literally there in Paris to run around the city. It was going poorly until I finally landed on the word “tour” and he stamped my passport, much to my relief.

Seth wouldn’t arrive for a few hours. And he would be arriving elsewhere. My flight landed at Charles Du Galle, that’s where most international (or at least most extra-European) flights land. So I grabbed the free bus to city center and found the hostel. Way too early to check in, but no matter. I found a bite to eat and started the journey to Orly Airport, the smaller international airport a few miles south of where I was.

I felt like I was cheating a little bit, being there before Seth. Actually, I’d been to Paris before, so it hardly mattered. But I felt like I was getting a head start on the exam.

anthony forrest

 

Follow along each week for the rest of our run along the Seine River in Paris.

The Lord’s Work

June 8, 2022 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 121

“They’re doing the Lord’s work here.”

I have said this often. And I mean it.

Now, it may sound like I’m being facetious when sitting at a small table in the hills of Connecticut having a classic American breakfast of sausage and eggs, but believe me, I am in earnest. In fact, that’s exactly what happened last weekend in a small café in the town of East Granby, CT. We walked into questionable-looking strip-mall storefront expecting to be disappointed by overpriced greasy food. But  we were met with the warmest of smiles, bottomless coffee, perfect eggs, and some of the best home fries I’ve ever had. They’re doing the Lord’s work here.

A month ago, my wife, and parents, and I needed a cup of fine coffee. We were having a stroll through the Centennial Park in Nashville, TN (no, I don’t know why they have an exact replica of the Ancient Greek Parthenon of Athens). To our delight we found a spot, just off the park. Walk into Three Brothers Coffee and you will find the staples of the makeup of a quality coffee house: neo-hippie 20-somethings, donning trendy glasses, swaggering behind a triple-group-head espresso machine, gleaming in the light of a neon sign that blasts, “Make Coffee, Not War.” The machine gives a hushed blast, steaming milk. Click, click, click goes the coffee dispenser.

“Anthony!” My ears perk and turn like a deer’s.

I walk to the counter to find a heart-shaped design on the top of my latte. It’s a drinkable work or art. And what’s more, it’s delicious. The caramelly musk of coffee fills the air of the shop. We sat on a well-worn pleather couch that looks like it should be in a college dorm and sipped our drinks.

I think it again: they’re doing the Lord’s work here.

The first time this thought came into my mind was a couple of years ago, in Hawaii. I’ve had the sentiment for decades, but couldn’t really place it until then. Perhaps I was too naïve, young, to put into words how I feel and think about food, drink, art, music, and the like.

One of my favorite restaurants is a tiny Thai place on Ali’i drive in Kailua, Hawaii on the Big Island. Climb the stairs, if you would. Walk into the open-air seating and sit by a window looking down on the sidewalk below you. This unassuming place attracts few tourists (as is the norm with the Big Island). On a hot day in the tropics, I sat just there with my wife and friends. Order, as I did, the Som Tum. And you will not be disappointed when a plate of gently shredded cold green papaya, cabbage, carrots, Thai chilis, and an array of spices tossed in a light sauce arrives in front of you. This was far from my first Som Tum encounter. And it certainly wouldn’t be my last. The cool-fresh spiciness of the salad and bright palate of colors begs to be eaten on a hot day on the Kona coast of the Big Island.

Then it hit me, and I said it allowed.

“They’re doing the Lord’s work here.”

It got a few giggles and comments, but it was true, all the same.

What sat before me was something good—a good thing that was made by hands of a person created by God.

He has created us as creators. We are sub-creative beings. The capacity for mankind to create and craft is seemingly endless. Why is that? I think it’s because we take after our Father. You know, the One in whose image we are made.

He created everything and declared it good. And now, “every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights.”1 Wait a minute. The good things of this world. The things that are beautiful, delightful, true, and lovely, those things are from God?

Emerging from the Reformation, Martin Luther breathed new light into an old idea of the Doctrine of Vocation.2 The Catholic Church at the time said that a religious vocation was only one of lifelong service to the Church. We’re talking priests and other church leaders here.

But the reformed idea of vocation is much different. I like the simplicity of what the Anglicans say—you are called by God “to be and to do.”3

Every thing that we do is for the glory of God. This world needs bakers, and Ramen house cooks, and coffee baristas, and mechanics, and fabric upholsterers, and everything else. And the world is a much better place when Christians who love God and others do those things for Him.

But may I go farther?

What if those people who create and craft and cook and brew know nothing of their Creator? What if those people simply exist and go about their lives, serving up their goods without a thought to God?

Their belief or non-belief in God, their praise or non-praise of Him, does not make what they have created less good or beautiful. Francis Schaeffer taught this for years. He recognized that art displayed the beauty of Christ, sometimes in spite of the artist.4

Just so, a cup of coffee in Malaysia is a gift, coming down from God himself.

So I invite you to lean in.

Can you smell the drifting coffee aromas mixing with the spicy hints of your bowl of noodles? That’s goodness, my friend. Don’t left a moment like this pass you by. Don’t waste the good gifts that come from God. Whatever you do, if you’re eating or drinking, do it to the glory of God and recognize it as a good thing.

The waiter serving you, the barista crafting that special cup, they are doing the Lord’s work, whether they know it or not. For God is their Creator and they are a sub-creative being displaying the beauty of Christ, knowingly or unknowingly.

I like my little saying. It’s a reminder to me of the delights that God gives us and the beauty all around us, pointing us to Christ.

They are doing the Lord’s work here.

 

anthony forrest

 

  1. https://biblehub.com/niv/james/1.htm
  2. https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/essay/the-doctrine-of-vocation/
  3. https://www.churchofengland.org/life-events/vocations
  4. Read Art and the Bible by Francis Schaeffer

Epilogue to a Pandemic

June 2, 2022 / / 0 Comments

'22 Peru, chapter five

Travel Journal, 120

I recently spent some time in the Peruvian jungle. I worked with a medical team, bringing healthcare and the Gospel to a people who need both. Here’s a few tales.

Think back over the last two years and try to pin down the biggest frustration of the pandemic. I’m not talking about anything serious, like illness or death. What I’m talking about is the minor inconveniences that threw a wrench into everyday living—I give you the Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 2020 as an example. Or how about giving your name, phone number, age, social security, underwear size, mother’s maiden name, childhood fears, and last tarot card reading just to get a table at one of the few open restaurants—that is, of course, after the waiter (yes, the non-medically-trained-18-year-old-waiter) checked your temperature and asked you about your past medical history.

*sigh*

Good times…

But we all know the biggest frustration with the pandemic was (is?) wearing a mask.

This line of thinking pumped through my brain-space as I sat on a plane in the jungle town of Puerto Maldonado. I peered out the small plastic window of the 737 to see old and new growth jungle—a monotonous spread of never-ending green. When I flew here, the jungle below me lay like a carpeted room from the ‘70s. The shag rug of trees and vines and plants could hide anything, like a plane or a community of needy people. A plane goes down here and the jungle simply lifts its branches, and accepts the offering. Nobody’s the wiser. Gone forever. So much of the world is like this, we just don’t see it often, or go there. The jungle begs you to try. “Come on,” it sneers, “come inside and see what’s in here.” But the only thing in there is more jungle.

Tree, plant, vine, bush, plant, vine, tree, twig, river, flies, mosquitoes, tree, plant, and on it goes for farther than you can go.

But we did go. Our boat took us up the river to bring the gospel and healthcare to a people in need. We held multiple clinics in multiple villages. Our jungle boat took us to the vast nothingness that holds communities of Peruvians who live there without a second thought. They harvest Brazil nuts and log the jungle. We went there and we will go again. All for the love of God and the care of man. These things stewed in my mind on the runway at Padre Aldamiz International Airport in Puerto Maldonado, Peru.

But I was interrupted in my reverie by screaming passengers and flight attendants. That most annoying thing about a pandemic reared its ugly head. Just before the pilot hit the juice to lift us off the ground, he backed off and brought us to a stop. A passenger on the plane refused to wear her mask appropriately. At the time, in Peru, all travelers were required to wear two masks over their mouth and nose. After repeated requests, this passenger refused to wear her mask over her nose. That’s when it all went downhill.

Other passengers yelled at her.

“I’m going to miss my next flight in Lima!”

“Why can’t you just follow the rules!?”

And others…

“Just leave her alone!”

“We’re going back to the gate for this?!”

“Who cares about her nose?!”

It was clear that the other passengers were furious, not only about the lady refusing to comply with airline policy, but because we were now rolling back to the gate to kick this lady off the flight. Nearly everybody on the plane was going to miss their connection, all because of one nose.

Jump ahead two months.

My wife and I stood at the gate flying from Detroit to Minneapolis. After a short visit with family, we were on our way home. There did seem to be a bustle of activity around the gate. One agent whispered to another. Then she picked up the phone. They ran off; came back. And then—the announcement.

“Lady’s and gentlemen, Delta airlines has just been informed that a judge has overruled all federal mask requirements for travel. Delta airlines is now no longer requiring passengers wear a mask on their flights. Feel free to remove your mask should you wish to do so. Also, Detroit airport no longer mandates masks in the airport.”

I looked at my wife. We hesitated for a moment. But all around us, masks started falling away from faces, like leave off a tree. Most people laughed and cheered. A few kept their masks on their face.

I took off my mask, but it felt strange—like I had decided to take off my pants in the airport. Was this right? Am I going to get in trouble? It felt like I was revealing a secret or accidently showed my cards. Just two months ago, I sat on a plane and watched as a hoard of angry people shouted at a lady for not covering her nose. I counted over 20 passengers filming her with their cell phones (if I knew how to get on TikTok I could probably find the video). But in 60 days, we went from frightened rage over one uncovered nose, to elation and herds of free faces, ready to roam wildly once more.

And perhaps that was the frustration with mask usage. Policies and requirements varied country to country, state to state, company to company, person to person. We longed for consistency. We longed for light in a jungle of unknowns. The trees and vines had grown over what we considered normal, and there were no answers to the questions we didn’t even know to ask.

Looking back in a (hopefully) post-pandemic world, I still don’t know what it was we went though. The last two years are a jungle to me. But we’ve since taken off and that dark and unknown jungle is behind us, fading into the distance.

And I am so happy that I don’t have to wear a mask on a plane.

-anthony forrest-

Check out the other stories in this series:

15 hours, part 2

15 Hours, part 1

Shaving in the Jungle

Boring Adventure Stories

15 Hours, part 2

May 5, 2022 / / 0 Comments

Peru '22, chapter four

Travel Journal, 119

I recently spent some time in the Peruvian jungle. I worked with a medical team, bringing healthcare and the Gospel to a people who need both. Here’s a few tales.

The weeklong medical campaign along the Las Piedras River near Puerto Maldonado did not begin with clinic setups or patient registrations. Before any other that could happen, the team had to get where it was going. The medical team, along with support staff, loaded onto a long, long boat and traveled many hours up the river. The first day consisted of about six hours on the boat. We landed at a small village, hosted our first clinic (40 patients), and stayed the night.

But further up the river lay the settlement of Monte Salvado. Getting to this place is not easy or quick. The second day of our journey would require us to log some major boat time. The boat crew thought it might take 12 hours. My handwritten journal for that day simply says, “Long boat trip, 14.75 hours.” It might sound boring—and it was sometimes. But I’d like to fill in those gaps. So, to give you an idea of what it’s like to sit on a wooden bench on a long boat on a river in the jungle for a really long time, I give you:

Fifteen Hours…the finally.

Hour 9: Dark clouds threaten. Rain can build and pour at the drop of a sombrero. A couple of us struggle and wrestle the enormous tarp to cover the gear not protected by the canopy. But with the wind blowing and the movement of the boat, it feels like we’re on an episode of Candid Camera. At one point I had to jump onto the tarp. We just can’t get it to cover the gear without trying to fly away. It’s just so unwieldly. Like the raft on the Dick Van Dyke Show.2 We finally get it right before a rain.

Hour 10: We can’t make it. It is decided that we have to stop along a sandbank to use the, uh, facilities. The Hoop of Hope isn’t going to cut it. The driver brings the boat to the shore. While some are in the trees, I strip to the waist and kick off the sandals for a dip. This water has fish of all sorts (including piranha), snakes, and caiman (a small gator). But those things rarely bother anybody. The water may be muddy, but it’s cool and refreshing. Our stop lasts for less then 15 minutes. We roll down the river once more.

Hour 11: There’s some discussion by the boat crew. It seems that the river is running too fast for us to make it to Monte Salvado in 12 hours. Should we stop early? Go on? It will be getting dark soon. No fear, it’s decided that we shall carry on and drive through the darkness should we need. I’m puzzled. I don’t see a rack of floodlights anywhere. How is the boat driver to see?

Hour 12: I try to nap. The sun makes the day hot. I throw myself onto some backpacks and doze for twenty minutes or so. This day is getting long.

Hour 13: When we first started the day the sighting of a Macaw turned every head and drew every camera. Now, not so much. “Oh, look, a parrot. Oh, look another one. Oh, there’s two. There’s a dozen or more.” You can hear them before you see them—bright, beautiful, red, and loud.

Hour 14: The sun has set. And above all the animals and noises of the jungle, the darkness is the loudest thing our here. And since Peru sits so close to the equator, when the sun goes down it gets dark quickly. Two Peruvian lads wander to the front of the boat with flashlights. They light the way for the boat. Everybody is quiet. This seems dangerous, and it is, but “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear though the earth gives way…though its waters roar and foam.”3

Hour 15: Operating this kind of boat, under these conditions, with this many people, in the deep jungle-dark, is, we are told, not very safe but not unheard of. But as the hour passes, we see lights along the shore ahead of us. Every person rumbles with excitement. The last outpost of Monte Salvado lay before us. No person is permitted to go beyond this settlement. For this is the boundary of a National Reserve, protecting isolated and yet uncontacted people. The boat lands and we begin the unloading process. It feels like coming home. I haven’t been in this place for two years. We throw up the tents quickly. One of the residents of Monte has asked that we hold a service. It’s hot, wet, late, and we’ve been up forever. But Buddy (missionary unhindered by such things) grabs his Bible. A few of us agree to go to the service. The others crash onto their sleeping mat. The service begins in song of three languages: Yine, Spanish, and English. Buddy brings the Word. Three quarters of the way through, I nod off. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, except I’m sitting on a treacherously narrow bench. One of the guys I’m with throws their hand behind my back, catching me. “Antonio! Esta bien?!” or “Bro, you okay?!”

What more to tell? Other than sleep came quickly that night. And we rose the next day, for yet another clinic along the Las Peidras River.

 

anthony forrest

  1. Proud Mary by Creedence Clearwater Revival, John Fogerty 1969
  2. The Dick Van Dyke Show, Season 1 episode 16, 1962
  3. Psalm 46, ESV

 

Check out the other stories in this series:

15 Hours, part 1

Shaving in the Jungle

Boring Adventure Stories

15 Hours, part 1

April 14, 2022 / / 0 Comments

'22 Peru, chapter 3

Travel Journal, 118

I recently spent some time in the Peruvian jungle. I worked with a medical team, bringing healthcare and the Gospel to a people who need both. Here’s a few tales.

The weeklong medical campaign along the Las Piedras River near Puerto Maldonado did not begin with clinic setups or patient registrations. Before any other that could happen, the team had to get where it was going. The medical team, along with support staff, loaded onto a long, long boat and traveled many hours up the river. The first day consisted of about six hours on the boat. We landed at a small village, hosted our first clinic (40 patients), and stayed the night.

But further up the river lay the settlement of Monte Salvado. Getting to this place is not easy or quick. The second day of our journey would require us to log some major boat time. The boat crew thought it might take 12 hours. My handwritten journal for that day simply says, “Long boat trip, 14.75 hours.” It might sound boring—and it was sometimes. But I’d like to fill in those gaps. So, to give you an idea of what it’s like to sit on a wooden bench on a long boat on a river in the jungle for a really long time, I give you:

Fifteen Hours…

Hour 1: The day started early. Tough to recall what time. But the run rose around 6:15 and we were loading the boat in the dark. I slept well, albeit not enough. The fog hung around like a humid ghost haunting our morning. Armed with fog-fighting cups of coffee, we struck our tents and began the process of loading the boat. Our sturdy vessel rested against the muddy banks. The boat driver laid a board from the shore to the boat. And on this we carried plastic cases, backpacks, and camping gear. Already the temp rose. And with all the effort of loading the boat, it was all to easy to break a sweat. There’s a trick to loading up. All the clinic gear should be loaded together, separated from the personal gear. But it all comes together in the end. We load our boat and find our seats in less than half-an-hour. The sun still hasn’t shown itself.

Hour 2: The buzz of the 75 horse boat motor lulls the mind. I’m reminded of ultrarunning athlete Scott Jurek’s description of the Appalachian Trail. He calls it the Green Tunnel. We’re in a green tunnel on the brown river highway. The jungle is beautiful—but monotonous. Everybody’s a bit drowsy. I feel the same. But it’s a kind of excited drowsy that won’t let you sleep. We’ll sleep off and on all day.

Hour 3: A discussion starts. One of the guys on this boat is a music teacher back in the States. Music is a hot topic in evangelical Christian circles. I argue about jazz. I love it. Jazz speaks to nuance and creativity of life. It rarely resolves the way you think it will. Jazz is life. The music teacher takes my side.

Hour 4: Snacks get passed around. The amount of work that goes into this trip boggles the mind. Simply loading the clinic gear onto the boat takes all the muscle we have. We have made, and will continue to make dozens of trips back and forth to the boat. We’re burning calories. When the bundle of chip packets gets to me; I rifle through it. I’m looking for the plain chips with a packet of mayonnaise inside. You heard me right. For some reason, Peruvians like mayo on their chips. And this brand has a packet of mayo inside the bang. Extra calories.

Hour 5: Ah, lunch. Since we’re traveling by boat all the food we require for the week must be brought along. No refrigeration here. The kitchen crew made rice before we got on the boat. We’re supping on rice, canned mackerel, fried plantains, and some cookies for dessert.

Hour 6: The river becomes the center of discussion. Peru is in the rainy season. And the river is higher and faster than usual. It’s higher than the last time I was here. We talk about the water. Somebody suggests that the muddy water weighs more than clean water. Some disagree. The sediment adds to the weight. No, it displaces the water. Who knows? We’re clearly bored.

Hour 7: Now might be a good time to mention the bathroom situation. No, we have not stopped. And we are trying not to. Today will be a full day on the boat. For the guys, the solution lay before them in the river. Simply go to the back of the boat, and let ‘er fly. For the lasses, I give you the Hoop of Hope. It is of original design: a chemical camp toilet with a shower curtain hanging around a hula hoop. Most of the problem is solved. Here’s to hoping nobody has any…er…solid needs.

Hour 8: Lo, someone has brought a guitar. I play the only song that I can think of right now.

“I cleaned a lot of plates in Memphis, pumped a lot of ‘pane down in New Orleans, But I never saw the good side of the city, ’til I hitched a ride on a river boat queen.

 

Big wheel keep on turnin’,
Proud Mary keep on burnin’,
Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on the river.” 1

…part 2 next week

anthony forrest

Check out the other stories in this series:

Shaving in the Jungle

Boring Adventure Stories

Meeting Him in the Wild

April 4, 2022 / / 0 Comments

Whether desert or jungle or lost upon

a range of mountains,

where there is no clean water or fountain

(or anything at all),

those places most forgotten or barren

and filled with the wild things of this life,

rife with beauty

and trees

and seas

all lonely and wonderful;

here, in the quietness, is found the works of the maker

(every bit savored).

And if you hold very still,

He will come to you like a breeze—

and meet you in that jungle of trees.

 

anthony forrest

Boring Adventure Stories

March 31, 2022 / / 0 Comments

'22 Peru, part two

Travel Journal, 117

I recently spent some time in the Peruvian jungle. I worked with a medical team, bringing healthcare and the Gospel to a people who need both. Here’s a few tales.

A detriment to foreign missions is the romance of it all.

I grew up with tales of the intrepid missionary selling all, gathering his or her things into a small leather case, kissing loved ones goodbye, and stepping out into the void, never to be heard from again. Their ship sails to a foreign land, where they disappear into the jungle, or the depths of the Chinese interior. Thousands hear the Good News of Jesus. And wiz! bang! the rest is church history. And some of it is fairly recent history. The story of Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, Ed McCully, and Roger Youderian gripped me as a child. They left the States (with their wives who would later finish their work) and ventured into the darkness of Ecuador with the goal of reaching an uncontacted people group. The same group of men landed a plane on a beach and were later speared to death by the same tribe they sought to reach. That was 1956.

More recently, missionary John Chau attempted to reach the Sentinelese people on an island in the middle of the Bay of Bengal. Though his attempt to make contact and spread the Good News to this people is disputed and highly controversial, the fact remains that people like the Sentinelese do exist.

One of these groups is found in Peru, the Mashco Piro. These people live very close to where we held our second clinic during my recent trip to Peru. According to some of the local folks, this tribe of yet-uncontacted people occasionally attack their homes, raiding food stores and even killing residents. In the past couple of years, I have had the chance to stand on the shore of the Las Piedras River and gaze into the jungle, imagining what it would be like to see one of these people.

It’s all so romantic, isn’t it?

The far-off places, jungles, boats, planes, tribal people, high-risk situations, it all scratches the itch of romantic adventure and Indiana Jones-esque longing that we all have.

Have you ever heard of a boring adventure story? They don’t exist. It’s hard to write a boring account of someone risking it all and going to a land far away.

But maybe that’s what we need.

Maybe we need to read about the boring missionary stuff.

A missionary couple go to language class for 6 hours a day, four days a week. But the train ride there is an hour-and-a-half. So they have to get up at 4:00 a.m. to make it to class. Finding a baby sitter that can come that early is murder.

Another missionary spends 10 hours a week prepping for an upcoming class he’s teaching on a book of the Bible.

Yet another goes to the city to finish some visa paperwork for his wife and kids. He stands in line for three hours only to find out that he doesn’t have the right form. There’s a new one that he didn’t know about. That’s another trip to this dingy office he wasn’t counting on.

A knock on the door comes during dinner. It’s a man from church. He’s crying. His wife is about to leave him. He’s invited in and stays until 10.

Nightly Bible studies, weekly counseling sessions, trips to nearby towns to meet with people interested in the Bible, and stopping for diapers along the way makes up their time.

It’s not all spears and canoes. Nor should it be.

Because the adventure and romance of it all pales in the light of the real reason a missionary goes to a foreign field. People need to hear about a loving Savior who came to this earth to die for you and me. Missionaries are real people who have real needs. They go to the places we can’t go to reach the people who don’t live where we live.

The romance wears off fast in the immigration office. But the Good News of Jesus lasts forever, and it’s  certainly a far better adventure story than anything I can write.

 

anthony forrest

 

Check out the other stories in this series:

Shaving in the Jungle

A Narnia Reference

March 28, 2022 / / 0 Comments

“Further up and further in!” Lewis instructed—

              So we begin:

Steadily and readily

We go

And bring hope

Of God

To a people who know nothing of Lewis…

 

anthony forrest

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