Oh, Pucallpa. Steamy, sweaty Sunday mornings full of unspeakable joy. Dusty, noisy bus rides where we breathe through hankies and squinch our eyes shut between worship songs. Late dinners in little restaurants, laughing and talking with the help of interpreters. The most beautiful children you can imagine... brokenhearted and abandoned, leaning on us for an hour of God's love. Bubbles floating through the dense jungle, accompanied by the laughter of Shipibo children and their young mothers.
In the midst of it all stands a
gringa. Back home, she hurts. She's not known. But here... here, she stands with a smile that could light up the night. Here, she speaks for hours in broken Spanglish, often pausing to laugh from the deepest place in her heart. Here, she's greeted with hugs and kisses every morning. The tears are more ready here, they stand at the forefront. Her heart is softer. The sweat pours and the dust rolls, but she doesn't mind. Here, she's home.
The best writing generally happens when the author simply spills his or her guts in complete honesty. Good stuff, mate.
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