A blink of an eye: My short stint in the Amazon

Piled on the living room floor were several photo albums filled with exciting and mysterious memories. My mom had painstakingly taken the pictures, storing them forever in burgundy and dark blue albums for her kids to rifle through. I wonder if she ever became curious about the way we would remember our time in Brazil. Dad and Mom took all seven of us kids (and a teacher) with them to Santo Antonio do Ica in 1993 for a two month long trip. Dad’s medical skills were needed in the local hospital, and his heart felt the tug to bring his family on a missions trip. Well, a long missions trip. A couple years later in 1996-1997, six of us kids went back to the same area for six months.

1993 Trip- Left to Right: Kim, Jennifer, Mom, Dad holding Jeff, Shawn, Dan

Joe, David, Philip 

As an 7 year old, my blonde hair was stringy, my personality wild, and my mind open. Between the plane rides, overnight boat rides, and a plank we had to walk across to arrive on land, the voyage to South America was long and tiring. As soon as we settled in a house near the jungle by the Amazon River, my dad got right to work in the local hospital. We threw ourselves into the local church with the help of missionaries already on-site. Mom homeschooled us kids during the mornings, and we eagerly explored our temporary home.

I soon realized that Brazil was nothing like America. The people were dark skinned and gorgeous. The tiny houses were mostly on stilts, and had tin roofs that seemed to ROAR when the heavy rains came. Soccer ruled the country, and the people worshipped the game. The juicy Jambo (similar to an apple) soon became a favorite fruit. We watched in amazement as locals climbed the trees to gather food for their families. A huge grilled fish graced our table for dinner—with the head still on it. It was Tambaki, and our Brazilian maid had worked hard all afternoon perfecting the fish. Piranhas lurked in the brown Amazon river, and we heard stories of vicious injuries about my Dad’s hospital patients. (That didn’t stop my brother Philip and me from swimming in the water one afternoon). How do you get used to living in a place where the natives cut grass with a hand machete? Or where we only had powdered milk for cooking and drinking? Or where having a pet parrot is normal? (Ours was named Yoda, and we kept it in a sunroom connected to our house.)

Adventures are a little different in a foreign country. We walked a beaten path in the jungle to a nearby swimming hole that was a clean water source. We spent hours with other Brazilians, having the time of our lives and enjoying a short relief from the relentless heat and humidity. My brothers thoroughly enjoyed the daily run-in with the beasts of the field. Frogs croaked loudly as we ventured into the jungle. Various types of poisonous and non-poisonous nakes slithered in and out of our yard, and they often lay dead on the road. We adopted puppies and affectionately named them “Little Guy” and “Little Girl.” Skinny cows and chickens lined the streets. Animals wandered in and around the natives’ homes and left their mark everywhere you tried to step. Mice at one point made their home in our attic, but few survived. Spiders, tarantulas, and even a rhinoceros beetle were objects of wonder. The fact that we all made it back home safely is a miracle in itself, considering the curiosity and fearlessness of my brothers.

Rook became a favorite card game in our new home. Even at a young age, I learned to play and enjoy the strategy and comradery with my family. Once my little brother Jeff and I were teammates in a tournament held in our packed out house. We played, we fought hard, and we achieved dead last place. The variety of prizes that night was outstanding, but Jeff and I came out with a win. We got our favorite suckers and we were the happiest ones at the party!

The language barrier didn’t stop me from making as many friends as I possibly could. Their names were strange and our friendship just as unique. Nazima, Nazilane, Marivalda, and my “boyfriend”- Ronaldo. I had a massive crush on that boy, and everybody knew it. We played Red Rover in the street, and ran around incessantly in our backyard, laughing and tagging each other. They invited me to their houses to meet their families, and I was shocked at the size of each tiny room we walked through. I learned words in Portuguese, and we played like best friends. I grew to love them and saying goodbye was heart-wrenching.

Our next door neighbors were a missionary family that had served in Brazil long before we arrived. Tom and Beth Peace were dedicated, old school and so immersed in Brazil they could have fooled me if they told me they were actually Brazilian. They raised their four kids in the Amazon, and we enjoyed working with them and two of their grown kids: Lloyd and Philip. Phillip married a Brazilian native named Gecilia. She was beautiful, and my little brother Jeff frequently left our house early in the morning to go next door and play Go-fish with her. It was nothing less than adorable, and Gecilia cherished those precious moments with him. Since Gecilia’s family was nearby, my older brothers got to know her brothers, Alfredo and Francisco. They all frequently played soccer together. And this wasn’t just any backyard kick around. The boys were dead serious, competitive, and clad in spikey cleats. Phillip Peace’s body was built like a truck, and the grown man sweat like a pig. I consciously avoided the massive force of nature as he sprinted down the field, his muscular thighs gleaming and the lethal look of determination on his face. I loved playing soccer and running the field with everyone else, but he scared me to death. Some games were best left alone to the big boys.

Occasionally my mind jogs back to the moments I spent in Brazil. When I smell fresh bread, sometimes my memory plays tricks on me, and it smells like the bakery where we bought the most heavenly tasting bread daily. I see a green and yellow Brazil flag, and my heart skips a beat. I see colorful hammocks and smile at the three that hung in our basement for years after we returned home. The creak of the metal hooks as I sway back and forth rings in my ears. I spent hours in those hammocks. For some reason, when I smell a fire or gas burning, I feel like we are back in the jungle. The moment passes, but the emotions are still there. The Amazon is a treacherous and dangerous place to live, but as a family, we were able to enjoy our time there. I take great pride in the special memories that we all have and am deeply grateful for the twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity we had to live in the Amazon!  

Related Post: MIA: Missionaries In Action