It's been almost two years since I got back from a great year and a half in Peru. I've noticed on Facebook that quite a few of my friends (both from mission and high school) have recently taken trips to that beloved country. Looking at their pictures and talking to people from South America at work have brought back some dear and funny memories.
I was sick with stomach/intestinal sickness far more than any missionary should be. In my first area when I had the first major parasite attack, I was told to drink an electrolite drink. There were two choices: Gatorade, which cost three soles, and Spor-ade, which cost one sol. My frugal self was wanting to buy the cheaper Peruvian alternative, but no matter what I did to try and persuade myself, I could not bring myself to drink a liquid called Spor-ade, especially during times when my insides were already in disarray. I'm sure some one thought it was a great name since it was the Peruvianized form of "sport," and English is cool. Despite the cool word, there was no way I could drink a yellow liquid named after spores.
In my favorite area, we had an investigator that we loved. We always taught her outside where she was watching her sheep graze. We liked teaching her and we became friends with the sheep (as much as possible.) One day we stopped by, and she sadly told us that one of the sheep had died. There was nothing visibly wrong with the animal, so they blamed it on some soul-sucking-spirit type thing that killed sheep inexplicably. Then she said they were butchering the sheep right then. She disappeared inside and came back out with a (still warm!) hunk of meat and said, "We have a lot right now, so I thought you would like some of the meat." We graciously accepted it, and walked away, knowing there was no way we would be able to eat that poor sheep, still warm in my hands. We took it to our pensionista, who had a hard time understanding why we didn't want it. She cooked it up, ate it, and said it was good.
In that same area, we always went to Relief Society. This was a change from other areas because usually we had multiple branches/wards and couldn't go to all the meetings for all units. But here we always went to Relief Society. The first Sunday in this ward, they had a woman come up. She told everyone to stand and raise their right hand to the square. I was wondering what in the world they were doing, and I just stood there, my eyes fixed on everyone else. Suddenly everyone started saying, "La caridad nunca deja de ser," which is "Charity Never Faileth." They all repeated it three times with their hands to the square, and sat back down.
In an area in Lima, one evening we saw a guy dressed up in a mariachi costume singing in the street. We walked by, and he started shouting English words at me. He then gave me his business card and told me he sang religious songs too. I gave him an invitation to church while my companion laughed behind him, and he dedicated a song to me as we escaped. We saw him later, sans costume, and he told us he would go to church if the bishop gave him time to sing to everyone. We told him sorry, yet he showed up at church! He didn't sing, but he left disappointed. A few weeks later, we saw him again all decked out, and he told us he would walk with us. We tried to say no, but he insisted. I don't remember where we were going, but that was a long walk. The whole time he sang and played his mariachi guitar. He might have been drunk. I can just imagine what someone watching us thought.
