Rain that thunders down
03.09.2009
Fr John Boles accompanies his seminary students to the Peruvian Amazon.
There is rain, heavy rain…and mendoza rain.” That was the warning we received from Fr Antonio, the pastor of Rodriguez de Mendoza, before we left Lima for our visit to his parish.
Every year, during the summer holidays, I accompany our Peruvian and Chilean Columban seminarians on a month-long mission experience to a different part of the Peruvian hinterland. This particular year, Fr Antonio had invited us to his area, a region of great beauty but with one great problem: the rain.
Mendoza nestles in the Northern Andes of Peru, close to the border with Ecuador. It’s on the eastern side of the great mountain chain, overlooking the Amazon jungle. This means it is covered in lush forest and ideal for the cultivation of coffee, one of the country’s main cash crops. But its location also makes it susceptible to annual drenchings.
Westerly winds sweep across the Atlantic and grow heavy with moisture. They pick up yet more humidity as they journey over the vast Amazon Basin. As they smash into the natural wall of the Andes, they let drop all this stored water vapour in the form of torrential summer downpours. The worst month is February, this was when we were travelling.
We had a dozen students. Fr Antonio split them into pairs and sent them to live in six remote villages.
These are communities which rarely benefit from visits by the priest or parish workers, particularly during the wet season. The seminarians soon busied themselves by visiting the campesinos in their homes, organizing liturgies and preparing people for Baptism and First Holy Communion. My role was to “circulate,” passing by each village on a rota basis and celebrating the sacraments.
Easier said than done. No sooner had the seminarians established themselves in their respective settlements than the heavens opened. The jeep we had borrowed got me only a few miles along the way, before getting bogged down in a dirt track now transformed into a muddy stream.
We turned to “Plan B.” Antonio managed to get me a horse. It was named, imaginatively, ‘Horse’ (caballo in Spanish). Horse was strong but apparently bad-tempered. Consequently, instead of mounting my less-than trusty steed, I stowed my rucksack and Mass kit on his back, donned my Wellington boots, and away we went, guided by a couple of local catechists.
Taking our time, we successfully slopped our way from village to village. We slept in the houses of campesinos and met together in their humble chapels for the sacramental celebrations.
The visit to Nueva Luz (New Light) was particularly memorable. We arrived a little late, ‘Horse’ having baulked at a series of swollen river crossings. It was twilight by the time we were able to join the congregation in the chapel, where we all huddled beneath the single light-bulb. (New Light turned out to be a rather optimistic name, given the general lack of illumination in the community).
Mass had barely started when the deluge began. We had to suspend operations almost immediately. The rain was beating on the tin roof with such intensity that you could barely hear yourself think. Moreover, the waters of a flash flood began to seep into the building, and presently were up to our ankles. Everyone had to rush out and help unblock the storm-drains of accumulated leaves. Then, all hands turned to swishing the water off the sodden floor.
The storm passed as quickly as it had come. With calm restored, we resumed the ceremony, only to face a new challenge. Encouraged by the dank night air, clouds of mosquitoes and moths began to assail us. Or, more precisely, began to assail ME, who as the priest, had been given the favoured position directly under the lone bulb. I continued with the Eucharist, maintaining as much dignity as I could whilst every few seconds slapping at little blood-suckers feasting on my exposed parts.
However, the biggest threat to decorum was posed by the moths. Some of them seemed to be as big as Vulcan bombers. One particular flying fortress, with wings the size of soup-spoons, decided to plunge into the chalice. We were at the Consecration, and so the cup was uncovered. Flapping desperately in its attempts to escape, our winged friend momentarily had the sacred vessel wobbling on the altar. For a time I think some of the faithful believed a miracle was taking place, until I unceremoniously scooped the bedraggled (but, presumably by now, holy) insect out of the wine.
All these adventures made me aware of the enormity of the task that faces the Church as it seeks to reach out to communities it had formerly overlooked, especially at a time when the Latin American bishops are launching what they term a “Continental Mission.” I felt proud to have participated in this movement, albeit only briefly. It was humbling to witness the extraordinary hospitality which the Peruvian peasantry extended to the seminarians and me.
Most of all, I was heartened by the effect all this had on the seminarians themselves. It had been a major step in their formation as future Columban Missionary priests, capable of taking the Word to even more isolated parts of the world - with or without the help of a horse called “Horse.”
Fr John Boles is Rector of Columban Student Formation in Chile/Peru.
Read more stories from the September, The Far East
