NTM - New Tribes Mission | Planting Tribal Churches

My Bucket Shower

I was just chuckling to my-self while taking a bucket and dipper shower to cool off a few moments ago. I felt like a little kid again, playing in a kiddy pool on a hot summer day, except that this time it was for real. How things can change so fast! Just the other day I was in the comfort of my own home taking a luxuriously hot shower in a tiled bathroom with a granite divider; not once thinking about economizing on the water or electric bill (most of our showers here in Brazil are heated with electric coils).

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On my last cross country trip I joined a few leaders on a visit to our Brazilian Missions Institute. We were surprised by a rather interesting event. We left the a rural central state and traveled south west to an even more rural state the name of which means “Thick Woods.” That is literally what it was at one point, but now it is mostly covered in huge expanses of lonely pasture speckled with white Brahma cows and crisscrossed with red dirt roads and rickety barbed wire fences.
Just in case you were wondering how a trip like that compares with traveling in the States let me just say, “It depends!” If you are traveling in South Eastern Brazil you might even have the luxury of traveling on a well kept four lane toll road but if you’re as lucky as we were and you are traveling anywhere else the roads are often precarious at best. The excitement (some would call it the deterrent) is that you never know what your going to find and this time we were in for a surprise.
After a few dirt road detours that could qualify for the Paris Dakar Rally we came upon a washed out bridge and had to take another detour. This time we were rerouted through a pasture to a spot upstream where a barge was waiting to ferry us across. The river was more the size of what we would call a creek back in Pennsylvania but much deeper and swifter. The barge barely fit in the river and had to travel only about half of its length to touch the other shore. Guided by steal cables the barge safely ferried us across. Up to that point not too much unusual had happened but it was on our trip back that we all felt a bit like fish out of water culturally speaking.
It was about 12:30 A.M when we came upon the barge on our return trip and we were the second car in line. To our dismay the operator shut the gates and announced that it was lunch time and then we noticed a little hand painted sign off to the side. It read, “Lunch hours: 12:00 – 1:30.” “Great,” we thought, “we’re going to have to wait a whole hour just to get across a 50 foot span of water.” Other cars had pulled in right behind us and wanted to know what was going on so they called the operator over. As we were discussing the situation the operator surprised us as he walked up to our car and leaning over to look into the car window, announced, “The gentle man behind you contributed with a coke so I’m going to take you across.” “Great!” we thought, but wait a second, he’s not caring a coke. Come to think of it I don’t know of very many people who travel with an extra 2 liter coke for special occasions like this.
Our driver turned around in his seat and asked us, “What should I do?” What would you do? There’s got to be more behind that than just a coke? I mean, I know a nice cold coke is pretty good, but its not worth that much and besides, we never saw this coke. We did what most people do in a situation they don’t understand. We just went with the flow. As we continued our trip we concluded that the man behind us had bribed the operator with some money. The operator had simply found a nice polite way of asking us for some more money by informing us of the “kindness” the the gentleman behind us! I guess next time we should travel with a spare coke!

“Did they warn you that the ‘Carapunun’ are terrible there? You’ll want to put on mosquito repellant. Did you bring some?” I’m leaning over the back railing of our triple decker boat called the “Semeador II” (the Planter II) staring at the dark black water of the Rio Negro churning as the huge diesel engine interrupts its smooth nightly ritual. One of my team mates (a thin Brazilian girl from Manaus) is practically yelling at me in order to be heard over the roar of the engine. It’s quieter on the second deck but the girls are getting there things together up there so for now I’m banished to the first level.
She’s giving me the scoop as our boat pushes off. My heart is racing, but there is nothing for my eyes to feast on as I try to satisfy my curious, anxious mind. It’s pitch black out, about 10:30 PM and the boat is busy with the hustle and bustle of people sorting through coolers and equipment, while others hang their hammocks quickly to guarantee a nice spot. Kids are already fast asleep on mattresses and everywhere you look people are smiling and greeting each other with hugs, kisses, and exchanges of stories of trips gone by. Only amongst the body of Christ can you step into such chaotic situation and feel right at home.
It isn’t long before I’m settled down in my own hammock trying to get a few hours of sleep before it is our turn to hop a rid in the outboard motor boat being towed behind us. Somewhere around six o’clock the captain of the boat walks around yelling a wake up call. I haven’t slept much over the noise and between the strange surroundings and awkward sleeping position in my hammock but I’m pumped with adrenaline and ready to go.
“Crushhhh,” the sand grinds the bottom of the steel canoe and out we step onto the shores of “Buraju.” You’d think there was nothing there but empty wooden houses on stilts and everything is quiet except for the blaring music coming from one brightly painted house. As we gather our stuff and make our way past the short row of houses facing the river signs of life begin to appear. Little kids dart behind trees and houses and grim faces with broken smiles appear in the dark frames of open windows. We settled down in an old (looking) school house and set up shop while the curious children begin to surround the place.
Shortly after having a meager breakfast of crackers and cheese we begin our rounds about the community. This will be our job for the next few days, visiting, encouraging, listening, admonishing, and teaching. We go from an old couples house who gives us a few “cupuacu” fruit that smell like rotting bananas to a house where the men have gathered in a roar of laughter to play “snooker” or pool. The kids are always following us, but every time you look at them they dart away giggling to themselves.
One kid in particular seems to be a bold little tike and takes a liking to me. His name is Denilson and he calls me Uncle or for those of you who know Portuguese “Titio.” One afternoon as he is sitting in my lap stroking the stubble on my unshaven face he blurts out, “You need to trim your beard, its ugly! And you missed a spot under your lip!” Little does he know that back home it is what we call a “soul patch” and that despite the fact that it may be ugly I intentionally left it there.
Sunday roles around all to quickly and our last meeting with the community of Bujaru is over before you know it. By now I’ve realized that I have been “detonated” (as you would say in Portuguese) by a tiny red mite called “Mucuim.” They might be tiny but they sure do wreck havoc and I look like I have contracted a bad case of chicken pox around my waste!
Our outboard motor ride back to the Semeador II is a quite and sad one as none of us are ready to leave the people of “Bujaru” just yet. But we are greeted by other groups on the boat and soon the jovial happy-go-lucky spirit of the Brazilians replaces the grim atmosphere. Night fall envelopes the boat as I watch a migration of swallows skim their way up river huge river from the open third deck. Somehow I feel like I’m coming away more blessed then I have blessed those riverside communities.

Yesterday we had to catch a ride on the bus back to the house – not an uncommon thing. In Brazil public transportation is a given and people really do use it. For a dollar you can cross town and get within two blocks of your house. But things are just a “little” different than you might be imagining.
At the bus stop, which might be as simple as a colored stripe on a telephone pole or as elegant as a glass walled, well protected cubical, people from all walks of life gather. Mostly the simple take the busses but occasionally even a business man or two will catch a ride. Every body stands anxiously waiting the bus and some even form a circle of friends right in the middle of the road with no regard to on coming traffic. The assumption is that if you are a driver it is your responsibility to be alert and aware.
As the bus comes swooping over to the curb and to a screeching halt everyone scrambles to guess where the door will come to a stop and then the pushing and prying begins. If there aren’t too many people wanting that particular bus then the boarding process is fairly peaceful, but if there is a throng of people wanting on, you had better know how to stand your ground!
Once on the bus you had better grab hold of something because the bus driver doesn’t hesitate to throw it back into gear and barrel on down the road shifting as fast as he can. Right in the front of the bus you have to pay a seated clerk wearing the same uniform as the driver who then activates the spinning gate that lets you back to the seating area. However, that doesn’t mean you will get a seat. If the bus is full you’ll just have to stand.
In my case the cashier didn’t have enough change so he had me wait near by. A few stops later, after picking up another ten people or so he handed me my change and I found a place to sit. In no time we were home.

I woke up early this morning with the loud pounding of hammers and the high pitch sound of ceramic skill saws next door and as I sit I can hear the singing of the workers just over the dividing property wall which is topped with shards of broken glass. After a cold shower- a nice shock to the system- and some fresh bread with cheese and a piece of juicy papaya I moved my computer outside to talk to the maid. Yep that’s right. The pastor’s wife has a maid, but mind you it is not what you are thinking.
I was surprised in fact to find that the “Mesquito” family has a maid. To any american their household would seem humble at best, the only redeeming quality being the assorted variety of fruit trees and exotic tropical plants in the back yard. As I sat eating my breakfast the maid started up a conversation with me from the back porch. So I moved outside and discovered a nice breeze that took the edge off the oppressively sticky heat. I’m sitting here talking to her now, trying to keep the tiny ants from crawling into my computer. I think I succeed in diverting them by leaving them a little treat in the form of my empty coffee cup.
As we chat about the birds, and the fruit in the back yard she is busy ironing the clothes. Now this is quite the site for various reasons. For starters, have you ever ironed your clothes on the back porch? And she uses the table outside as her ironing board as she irons almost every article of clothing down to the t-shirts. She’s quite good at it and is chatting away about the fact that this particular gas iron is very economical! Thats right a gas iron. I had never seen one either. but it is pretty nifty. It works much like a gas stove and hooks up to a portable propane tank. Instead of swinging an electrical cord around she fusses with a small flexible gas line and does so with easy.
She’s quite a chatter box and apologizes explaining that she doesn’t make a habit of chatting (interrupting) the “Mesquito” family.