Of Ants…

Rules ants should observe. 

1.       Stay outside. 

2.       Be small.

3.       Stay outside. 

4.       Be shiny. 

5.       Work hard.

6.       Did I mention stay outside?

7.       Never bite.

8.       I mean, never, ever, ever bite.

The ants in Brazil do not conform to these rules.  I suppose the ants elsewhere might not either, but up until moving to Brazil I had spent all my meager ant-observing time in Oregon. 

Although Brazil is full of ants, three made the biggest impact.

Ant number one (pictured above) conformed to a few of the ant rules.  It was shiny, never bit me, and, I’m assuming, worked hard.  Unfortunately, it failed to observe rule number two.  I don’t suppose I can really blame the ant for being at least two inches long.  To be honest, I found the ants to be kind of sweet.  I could observe them and contemplate the verses in the Bible about ants, without regretting standing still long enough to do so.

And without straining my eyes since they were large enough to be seen from a helicopter.

The second ant, which made a biting impression, was the fire ant.  These nasty little things were small, shiny and did for the most part stay outside.  They broke rules number seven and eight.  Yes, I do realize rules number seven and eight are basically the same, but eight rules are far more impressive than seven.

If you accidentally stepped into the midst of a swarm of fire ants, you very quickly became aware of your mistake.  This happened quite often since fire ants were everywhere, doing who knows what while they waited for unsuspecting humans to fall into their trap.   I often imagined the little ant general insanely yelling for his troops to attack and bring down the giant.  They followed his lead with gusto and the ensuing pain sent us running for the nearest water faucet to wash them off and cool the burning bites. 

I have never been the type to kill a bug with my finger, but in the absence of a faucet I would grab the nasty insects off me and roll them into tiny squished balls.  Take that you nasty ant general!

The last ant to make my top three is the invader ant.

 Invader ants did not conform to the most basic of the rules laid down for ants.  So basic, it made my list of rules three times.  Three times, ants, and you still didn’t follow it.  In other words, they did not stay outside.

For reasons known only to their tiny insectoid minds, these ants would take it upon themselves to invade our porch, or a corner of our house, or our whole house.  Friends told us to welcome the invasion because the ants would carry away any other unwanted guests with them such as spiders, or centipedes. 

We weren’t too keen on having our house invaded, even if their tiny antish brains thought they were doing us a favor.  I’m sorry, but there is something about the thought of ants cutting a swath through my bed while I’m in it that cures me of seeing anything altruistic in their invasion.

No, I prefer my ants, biteless and outside.

Definitely, outside.

Of Cashews…

Cashews are one of my favorite nuts.  Like most people I knew they grew on trees but had no clue about the work that went into harvesting them, until the year my family decided to send them out as Christmas gifts.

Cashews grow as part of the Caju fruit.  The fruit can be used to make the juice, and although I like the nuts, I hate the juice.   

The nuts are covered with a thick, impenetrable shell.  The first step is to set the nuts on fire.  I do mean that literally.  Using a jury rigged metal pan, we placed the nuts over the fire and allowed them to catch on fire to burn off some of the acidic oil contained in the skins. 

We removed the now blackened nuts from the fire and set about breaking through the shells.  Since the shells have the impenetrability of a Kevlar vest lined with crocodile skin, this step was miserable.  Adding to the fun was the fact that the shells were full of an acid that would eat through your skin.

We pulled on gloves to protect our hands but found that the acid wasn’t picky and soon the gloves had holes eaten in them.  Hunched over make shift tables made of bricks, around a fire entirely too warm in the afternoon heat, we used hammers and brute strength to get the nuts out.  More often than not the nuts came out in pieces, and a whole nut was cause for celebration.

We had intended to make the nuts into Christmas present but there is nothing very festive about crumbs of nuts in a pretty bag tied with ribbon.

We improvised by deciding to make the nuts into brittle.  Other than the acid-burned hands, making cashews the old-fashioned way was an experience not to be looked down on.  It gave us a better appreciation of the work that goes into the things we take for granted.

And gratitude is worth the price of acid-burned fingers.

Of Pizza…

My family loves pizza.  At one time my parents owned several pizza restaurants and we had pizza for dinner at least once a week.   

We generally like Barbequed Chicken or black olive pizza. 

In Brazil, those two flavors weren’t on the menu.  Instead they had pizza with chicken, a thick creamy cheese sort of like cream cheese, and quail eggs.  Hard boiled quail eggs.  On a pizza.

As you can probably tell, I thought hard boiled eggs on my pizza was a little odd, but I did eventually get used to them and didn’t even mind them.

Brazilian pizza also has very little sauce.  And by little I mean it barely colors the crust.  They make up for the lack of sauce by serving it with ketchup and mayonnaise.  Yes, you did read that right.  Mayo on pizza. 

I did not become accustomed to mayo, although I did put ketchup on my pizza.  It really isn’t bad.

During trips to Belem we would have a choice between two American restaurants.  McDonald’s or Pizza Hut.  One time we chose Pizza Hut and got the all-you-can-eat lunch where waiter continually brought pizzas around to the tables.

We loaded up on the pepperoni pizza, barely sparing a glace for any of the other flavors.  The waiter told us that we had eaten more pepperoni pizza in one meal than they usually sold.  So apparently, Brazilians think as little of America’s number one flavor of pizza as we thought of mayonnaise on our pizza.

In the end, pizza is a universal food, and almost no matter what the toppings, my family enjoys it.

All except the mayo, that is. 

In July, several of the people to whom we ministered were driving home late at night.  It was too dark to see the hole in the bridge, and the sticks the locals had put in to warn people of the danger had fallen.  The van flipped and the mother of two of the little girls I taught as well as one of the children I taught were killed.  Others to whom we ministered were seriously injured, including one lady left in a coma.  I have found it difficult to write my blog since then since I have always tried to write with humor.
Today, I would like to share an excerpt from a devotional I am writing.  I hope it encourages you to remember the providence of God, and hope you will bear with me in both my delay in writing and not having a humorous article this week.

Romans 8:28

A fallen tree was nothing to be thankful for. 

While living in Brazil, it was a forty-five minute trip to the nearest town over bumpy roads, interspersed with gates that had to be open and shut.  If it had rained, the trip took a lot longer and each gate added additional weight of mud to the bottom of my shoes.

And then there was the frustration of finding fallen trees across the road.  Although, we carried a machete in the car, sometimes the tree was big enough around that it required a chainsaw.  Oftentimes, the tree was covered in thorns, vines, and or fire ants.  I can honestly say I never came across a fallen tree and shouted praises to the Lord.

Until the day it saved a life.

We had gotten up early and needed to take a trip to town in spite of the fact that the roads were still muddy from the night before.  After a long trip slogging through the mud we came to a tree that had fallen across the road.  Too thick to get through with a machete it meant a long trip back to the house to get the chainsaw we’d forgotten.

By the time we got home it was close to twelve and we decided to eat lunch before we set out again.  While we were eating two boys from one of our meetings showed up and asked for a ride to the doctor.  Their sister had a bad pain in her side.  They, like most of the people to whom we ministered, had no car and we were their only ride.

Concerned we rushed out and with their help managed to clear the road and pick up their sister.  She’d been carried between two family members to the top of a hill too dangerous to descend while wet. 

We rushed into town and took her to the hospital where she was taken immediately in for an emergency appendectomy.  We were told that she was within minutes of it bursting and taking her life.

If that tree hadn’t been in the road and delayed our departure into town in our only vehicle, Raine would have died.

It’s always easier to see the hand of God in the big changes in life.  It’s harder when it’s lost keys, a bad cold, or a flat tire.

I try to remember the lesson of the fallen tree and wonder if my lost keys might mean I avoid a wreck, or that bad cold might mean a worse health problem is discovered in time.

The Providence of God is not only in the big things, but the insignificant, the mundane.

Things as small as fallen trees.

 

Of Futebol…

I’m not a big fan of soccer (or Futebol as Brazilians call it, or really any country other than America).  I mean is it really enjoyable to watch men in helmets dribbling a ball around bases?

 Okay, so I’m not that bad at soccer.  There are no helmets or bases involved. I do understand the rudimentary rules.  Spend an hour and a half running around trying to kick a ball into a goal.   

Shortly after we arrived in Brazil, the World Cup rolled around.  We were invited over to a pastor’s house to watch the game with a group of people from the church.  Pretty much my only memory of the games was the way that the announcers were able carry out, “GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL A BRASIL.”

I was pretty sure they carried out the word longer for a Brazilian goal as opposed to goals scored by the opposing team. 

A win was celebrated with fireworks.  I mean a lot of fireworks shot off all over the city.  People would walk down the street dressed in full Brazilian colors, and draped in flags.

After one loss a group in full regalia marched down the street and stomped on their national flag in disgust.  I was horrified.

Watching it was nothing to trying to play it.  After my family went over to some friends’ house for lunch we were informed that nobody left without playing them in soccer.  The weather was blistering hot, and they divided us into teams of us against them, which was a bit like the Dodgers playing a local softball team. 

Completely overmatched, we came very close to almost scoring a goal—once. 

In spite of years in Brazil, I never did grow to love soccer.  During this World Cup, I’ve paid attention to very little, although I did feel horrible when Brazil suffered its 7-1 loss. 

I can only hope nobody stomped on the flag.

Of Ma Bell…

In a world of telephones, we often take for granted the ability to pick up a phone and get ahold of someone anytime and anywhere. 

In the Southern part of Brazil we were able to have a phone in our house, but after our move north, that was no longer an option.  Telephone wires, you see, did not generally run through the middle of the jungle.

We were able to drive into town to access the internet and communicate that way.  At one time we got a GlobalStar which was supposed to be able to use satellites and make it possible to call from anywhere in the world.  Except, apparently, the exact spot where we lived.  Add on the astronomical price per minute and it would be cheaper to send word via courier.

After a while with no phone at all, we got a regular cell phone and an antenna.  We put the antenna at the top of a pole on a hill near our house.  Making a phone call wasn’t to be taken lightly.

After hiking for five minutes or more, you reached the pole.  Since there were cows around and they thought the cable that ran down from the antenna was good for snacking, we had to hide the cable in a bag and hang it out of reach.  We had a stick at the bottom with a fork and would reach up with it to hook the bag and bring down the cable.

Even after the cable was hooked into the side of the phone, there was no guarantee that you would get a signal.  If you did, no matter what odd position your neck might be in, you didn’t move.  To move was to risk losing the signal and having the call fall.

There was no comfortable place to sit either.  My sister during conversations with her fiancé would perch on top of a fence pole.  Other times, we stood in the back of a pickup.  At all times there was the heat and the bugs to add some spice to an already interesting situation.

In the end, though, the ability to talk to loved ones made it more than worthwhile.

I remember jaca...

Of all the fruits I tried in Brazil, there is a special place reserved for jaca or jackfruit.  Covered with spikes, you dig your fingers into the skin to break it open, and reveal the slime covered seeds.  I wish I could say it was worth the effort, but, unfortunately, I cannot.

I like to describe jaca as rotten-banana-flavored-slime-covered-seeds.  If that makes you anxious to try the fruit, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

We had a deacon and a pastor come down to visit, and had been given a jaca as a gift.  We opened it up so our guests could try it.  The deacon was adventurous and tried a bite, although, admittedly, the sight of the fruit on the plate was almost enough to make him lose his courage.

The pastor refused to let the smallest particle cross his lips.

I had made a special chocolate cookie torte I reserved for special occasions, since it required hours of work.  It was then my sisters and I hit upon a fun idea.  Everyone else would be served chocolate cookie torte, but for the pastor we carefully arranged some rotten-banana-flavored-slime-covered-seeds on his plate.

I carried out the plates and set his before him.  After a promised bribe of torte if he managed to try some jaca, he did manage to force what could only be described as the essence of jaca past his lips, since I don’t believe there was any really substance to the “bite” he took.

In a book, it might be expected, he jumped to his feet an ardent convert to the love of jaca.  Real life wasn’t nearly so dramatic since he remained an ardent opponent of all things jaca.

Not, of course, that I blamed him.