The Dust Turns to Mud

Its January, the middle of summer, and supposed to be steaming hot. But strange weather has been availing this year. Is it El Nino or just global climate change. The locals are unsure. Either way, the pervasive dust has turned to mud in the overnight rain.

I'm visiting my sister who works for Oxfam-Quebec in one of Lima's barrios as the Gender Adviser for Peru. She's been called many things: Mother Rhoda, Rhodita, La Doctora... I think I'll stick with Rhodita.

I stroll with her from the Women's Center back to her house. As we walk down the road, flip flops reassuringly slapping my heels, a woman comes towards us, her furrowed brow brightens at the sight of Rhodita. She looks close to fifty but in reality is no more than 35. Greeting each other with the mandatory besito, a kiss on the cheek. I am introduced as the visiting sister.

Como has estado? How have you been? Rhodita looks at her with genuine concern.

Bueno, las cosas siguen...como sabes. Well, things are going... you know.

They talk of the lawyer that visit The Center on Saturdays to help people, and Jose, the psychologist, who is available for counseling.

No se si va a ayudar. I don't know if it will help. She shakes her head, every inch of her body announcing defeat.

Rhodita smiles gently, and with complete reassuring confidence says: Cosas van a mejorar, estoy completamente segura. Things will get better, I'm sure of it.

Espero que si. I hope so.

We kiss goodbye and she hurries down the road and up the hill back to her kids. She has five of them, the youngest has cerebral palsy, and a violently abusive husband. I naively ask who's taking care of the kids...uh, its the 12 year-old of course.

"You seem pretty sure things will get better, that's cool." I pipe-up.

Well, if you don't have hope you might as well just curl up and die. I don't know if things will change or not, but she needs hope.

If nothing else, Rhodita says it like it is.

As we continue walking down the street, a young girl sees us and throwing her arms open wide, cries "Rhoda!" and runs for a big hug with a twirl. Her older sister Melanie come for her hug as well, they are on their way back from the market. They've just started their summer vacation and Rhoda ask what they are up to, then pauses.

Hey, how's your foot?

Getting better, but it still hurts a bit. Melanie replies.

Show me. Rhodita hits my arm to get my attention, Look at it. What do you think?

And before I know it, I'm doing a consult on the street.


Moving on, Rhodita says, its just they couldn't afford to go to a doctor, so I thought, since I had a doctor I'd let you see it. She grins at me. Melanie had got a bad cut on her foot from a smashed beer bottle, as her father threw it against the wall. Also violent. There are six kids, one developmentally delayed and the oldest, Jonathan, was badly burned last year in a fire at work. He's still healing, but all extra cash goes to creams for his skin grafts.

Rhodita works until 7pm most nights as well as the majority of Saturdays. Despite her usual levels of fatigue she manages to take me out salsa dancing after the open-air rock concert we went to and crinkles her brow at me when I yawn at 2am. But reluctantly agrees to take me home anyway.

She lives simply but fully and intentionally. To me she seems happier and healthier than I've ever seen her. Her way of life and the knowledge of the huge challenges she has faced overwhelm me and inspire me to reassess how I live my everyday.

I've stolen her away for a few days, we're in Iquitos, only accessible by river and air. Only a few buildings stand between us and the Amazon river. As I write this the motocarros buzz past outside, cicadas occasionally chirp and the fan moves the humid air across the room. I can't help but be both grateful and humbled.


P.S. The next morning I was DEEPLY humbled... by having slept with about 200 of my closest ant friends in my bed... they tickle.