8
Chapter Eight
A letter from Woodrow Rogers announced the forthcoming annual conference of missionary organizations working in Ecuador, to be held in Guayaquil in three weeks. It would be well, he suggested, if I would prepare a brief report for my fellow missionaries on the effort that had been started in Indi Urcu. To establish an evangelical work among a million highland Quichuas was our object as a mission board, but to date only three couples were working in widely scattered stations, and now I, a woman, had come. This did not constitute a very significant breakthrough. The Indian work of other missions had been concentrated in jungle tribes heretofore, but the men of vision who had conceived Indians for Christ, Incorporated, saw the immense potential of a harvest among those poor, degraded descendants of the once-powerful Incas and their subjects. Earnest efforts to recruit young men and women for the task had yielded dishearteningly small results so far.
When I read the letter I knew that I must hasten my visit to the Chimbu house. Had anyone accused me of going to visit Pedro and Rosa the next morning as much because of my need of something to report as because of my concern for their immortal souls, I would have been indignant. I rose earlier than usual that day in order to have time to prepare myself in prayer for the task ahead of me. I saw it as a serious task, one on which I had staked my life, and I must not botch it now. The mission also existed for this, and I was their representative. Beyond all this, I was also an ambassador of Christ. He could not fail. It was not simply my own success and reputation that were at stake—it was clearly the success of the Gospel message itself, the reputation of God and all that He had promised in His Word. “For the Lord God will help me; therefore shall I not be confounded: therefore have I set my face like a flint, and I know that I shall not be ashamed.” The words from Isaiah buoyed me.
The sun rose and I rose from my knees. After breakfast I put on my coat and picked up my Bible.
The road I lived on ran east and west, and I followed it west for about a half mile, past the last houses in the village and through some fields of corn and potatoes. Indians who hurried by on their way to market did not know that I was on my way to visit Indians. They kept their eyes on the crumbly earth of the road and passed me as though I might have been one of the magueys. You find me here on your road, I thought—a strange figure among your cornfields and potato plants—and you hurry by, resentful, I suppose, at the intrusion, anxious only to escape an encounter and be gone about your business. But when I meet you, I think, Here is one now. Can I catch him? as though I were a hunter. You do not know. You would laugh if someone said, “She has come only because of you.”
Jesus once met a woman at a well. She too found it hard to believe that He needed something from her, and even more incredible that He had something to offer her.
I stopped for a moment to watch an ox pulling a wooden plow through the arid crusty soil. It was hard to imagine that any tender plant could push its way through such earth—pale, buff-colored stuff which cracked into great rocklike clods as the oxen strained with lowered necks and scraping hoofs. “And some fell on dry ground.” Where would fell the seed I was about to sow? “Plow the ground, Lord,” I prayed as I walked on. “Their hearts will be hard, but You can soften them.”
Presently I came to the footpath which ran north from the road toward Pedro’s house. It was a dry gully between the rows of magueys, climbing gradually at first and then more sharply, dropping suddenly into a great eroded gash in the hillside and ascending once again the steep slope of the other side. The land was so dry that the dust rose in little puffs with each footstep, and my shoes were hill of it. I could feel the cold dry wind stiffening my nostrils and pinching my lips.
A woman passed me, her rigid braid, bound in red cloth, sticking out behind her head like the handle of a pitcher. Her dark blue shawl was caught in front with a long silver pin in the shape of a sword. She threw a dark glance at me and went on, barely pronouncing an s in response to my Buenos Mas.
Finally I reached a little mud house, huddled in the corner of a field of grain. It had a steeply pitched grass roof like untrimmed bangs over its one feature, an empty doorway. There was a skinny rooster clawing at the dirt in front of the door, and an old blue enamel washbasin with holes in it lay to one side. I called out a greeting and waited. No one appeared. I called again. Was anyone inside or were they all out in the field? I waited, and then went on, threading the edges of several more fields. In spite of the beauty of the valley and range upon range of mountains, I was conscious only of utter desolation—the sharp cold, the loneliness, the taste of dust, and the fear in my heart. There was no sound whatsoever for minutes at a time. Now and then I could hear the distant bleat of a sheep, and the wind came in choking gusts. I saw another hut, approached, called, and waited. There was a movement near the doorway in the shadows of the interior. I called again, “Buenos días,” and a head appeared. A boy with flashing black eyes scrutinized me for a moment, his lips tight, his chin thrust out.
“Can you tell me where Pedro Chimbu, son of Old Pedro, lives?”
“Buenos días,” he said. He kept studying me for a moment, then pointed to the northwest “Over there.”
“Shall I just follow this path?”
“Yes. Then when you see another one which goes that way”—he pointed with his chin—“follow it.”
“Thank you.” I went on, conscious of his continued gaze as I walked up the trail. I could feel his question, What wrong has Pedro done, to be thus pursued by a white woman?
Finally after several more inquiries I reached Pedro’s house. It was larger than the others and one section of the roof was tiled. Around it were fields of beans, peas, corn and potatoes, and there was a calf tied nearby and several chickens who squawked at my approach. I called a greeting and after a moment Rosa poked her head out the door. I had the feeling she had long since seen me coming but did not want to be caught watching, so had waited for my call. She came shyly toward me and I smiled, said good morning, and patted her left upper arm with my right hand as women in Ecuador do. Pedro had said she did not speak Spanish, but I spoke to her slowly, hoping that Pedro had exaggerated.
“I have come, Rosa, to your house—to visit you. I have come to see you.” I could hardly mistake the distrust in her face, but she said, “Bueno, señorita. Come,” and led me indoors.
I had to stoop low to enter. It was as dark as pitch inside, and the smell of smoke, dried grains, dust and humanity was over-powering. There was a tiny fire of wisps of grass smoldering feebly on the floor. Around it several small animals were moving which I at first feared were rats, remembering the loathsome creatures in Guayaquil. At length I saw that they were guinea pigs. Back in the corner lay piles of sacks and sheepskins, wool ponchos, shawls and blankets. This collection I took to be the bed. There was no furniture in the house at all, but bulging grain sacks were placed about as though they were meant to be sat on, so I looked at Rosa for permission. She waved her hand toward one of them and I sat down, while she squatted back on her heels by the fire and began banging a woven rush fan up and down on the floor to encourage the embers. She set a small black pot on some stones over the little flame. Then I realized we were not alone in the room. Three or perhaps four children—I could not be sure because they were huddled so closely in the dim light—were solemnly surveying me from behind some sacks in another corner.
Rosa was making some kind of drink. She had to keep adding tufts of grass to feed the fire, but she added them very sparingly, inserting them delicately in just the right spots. She said nothing more to me, but spoke in Quichua to the children. The words sounded angry, but the children did not move or reply. She took the pot from the fire, lifting the hot handle with a twig, and set it on the ground. Tipping it quickly with her bare hands she filled two small painted enamel bowls and pointed to one of them.
“Drink, señorita,” she said. It appeared to be some kind of gruel. There was so little flavor—not even any salt—that I could not identify it. Nevertheless the warm liquid was satisfying—for one thing, because I was hungry, it being close to noon, and for another, because it represented a welcome from a Quichua woman, the courtesy of an Indian home. I tried to say thank you. Rosa took my bowl and filled it again but offered it this time to the children in the corner. She filled her own empty bowl as well and gave it to them. Was this to be their lunch, I wondered?
When they had all finished drinking, I took out my pad and pencil and began asking the names of various objects, using the Spanish phrase for “What is this?” Rosa looked at me dumfounded. Did I not know a guinea pig or a spoon when I saw it? I repeated the question and she said a word. I wrote it down, using phonetic characters, and the children eased over toward me and peeked over my shoulder at the paper. One of them, a boy of perhaps eight, took the pencil from my hand and made a letter on the corner of the paper—he wanted me to know that he could write. I supposed he had been to school for a few days or weeks, though he looked too small and did not seem to speak any Spanish. At length the children began to answer my repeated question, and made a game out of pronouncing the words for me and laughing at my attempted imitations.
Then the boy who had written the letter said, “Imatai?” pointing to my watch. I hoped that he was asking the same question I had asked, “What is this?” in Quichua. I answered with the Spanish word for watch, and he grinned. He tried it again. Pointing to my shoe he said, “Imatai?” and I again gave the Spanish word. He was elated. He had taught me something.
“What is your name?” I asked in Spanish. His black eyes danced, but he did not reply. I felt sure he understood. ‘Your name?” I said. “What are you called?”
“Romero.”
I looked at the smaller boy, but before I had a chance to ask his name Romero said, “And this one—Jorge.” Jorge in turn pointed to his sister, a lovely child who looked to be about nine, but was perhaps older than that. Indians do not seem to show their age.
“This one is Pava,” he said in Quichua. I caught the name Pava, and assumed that the rest of the sentence meant. “This one is.” The word was caiga, I thought, so I wrote it down with the tentative translation.
“Pava?”
“Arí!” Jorge and Romero said the word in unison, then laughed delightedly. They must have given me the word for Yes. I was pleased with my score thus far.
Rosa went outdoors and the children began examining my coat, shoes, wristwatch, hair and skin. They had seen plenty of white people, but they had not been this close to one. They had learned from an early age to keep their distance from and pay to the white man the respect due a superior. But with the guilelessness of children they accepted my friendliness without suspicion. Life had not yet taught them much about treachery.
When their mother came back inside she placed some leaves on the ground where the guinea pigs could get them and made as if to sit down by the fire. Then she walked over to the bed in the corner and began fussing with the skins and clothing. I tried out my Quichua question on her.
“Imatai?” I said, pointing to the sheepskins. She mumbled the answer so that I did not hear. The children repeated it for me. Rosa was not enthralled by the game and was finding it difficult to entertain a visitor whose vocabulary was limited to a single interrogative. I tried a new tactic. I stood up and sat down, using the Spanish word for “I sit down.” It was clear, from Rosa’s expression, that she questioned my sanity. I laughed and tried it again. The children watched mystified and delighted, but offered no information. Rosa was at a loss. She said something to me which I did not understand. Several possibilities came to mind: “Are you crazy?” “What is the matter?” or “When are you leaving?” I thought it most likely that she was trying to tell me she did not understand. Well, enough of this, I decided, and resorted to drawing pictures in the ashes on the ground for the children. Still Rosa did not sit down but busied herself here and there doing nothing. Then she spoke sharply to one of the children and the child went outside, perhaps to get the cow, I thought, or fetch water. Their life must go on, and my intrusion was inhibiting the process. Rosa had done all she knew to make me welcome. Beyond that she was at a loss, and my presence confused her. I could not explain my mission and it would be a very long time before I would be able to. But this was a beginning. A visit to an Indian home, a bare beginning on the language—six or eight nouns and a question form; plus the word for “yes.” Well, some other day. This was, at any rate, a contact.
I rose from the sack on which I sat, extended my hand to Rosa. “Gracias, Rosa,” I said. “I will come again some other day.” I think she understood the phrase “other day.” She smiled.
“Bueno, señorita,” she said.
I shook hands with each of the children. It occurred to me that Pedro had said he had five children. Here there were three, plus the baby. Perhaps Pedro could not count.
“Until another day,” I said in Spanish.
“Until another day,” they parroted.
The trail down the mountainside was like broken concrete layered thickly with dust. It had been a mistake to wear thin-soled shoes and nylon stockings, but then I did not own anything else. I would have to see about getting something more rugged. “Sensible” shoes carried all the stigma of the missionary spinster image which I loathed, but I could unhappily foresee my own progressive conformity to this image. Even that, however, could be endured for Christ’s sake. “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings. . .” Absurdly this bit of Scripture popped into my mind, bringing a tiny wry comfort.
I stopped now and again to empty the dust and stones from my shoes, and to look at the enormous range of earth and sky spread before me. Never in my life had my eye held at once so much earth and so much sky. I am not very good at judging distances, but it seemed that at least sixty or seventy miles of valley lay before me, drawn up at the two sides like a huge blanket, stretched between invisible stakes where the peaks of the mountains made the horizon jagged. Far to the south the land faded into sky. The colors were muted, with no greens visible except close at hand. The fields were brown and purple and mauve and taupe and gray, spreading to the high country where nothing would grow, where there were only the black of rock, the gray of volcanic ash, and the gleaming white of snow. The lake lay like a silver ellipse far below, and the little village of Indi Urcu nestled, small and insignificant as a heap of pebbles. The sky was a luminous, burning blue, incredible in its clarity. Even the edges of the white clouds seemed sharply cut and superimposed on an infinity. The magueys outlined the fields faintly like strings of dark beads laid neatly and tautly in crisscross. At odd corners of the square patches huts stood, a few with blurs of smoke escaping through the thatch. The afternoon sun threw a mantle of peace on the whole, and I wondered if I had ever seen such marvelous beauty. Indians passed me in ones and twos, each carrying his unsold wares or his purchases for the day. Their feet were bare—tough, strong looking feet covered with the dust of the road, with the toes spread as human toes were meant to spread, not crushed and caricatured by the wearing of shoes. Would these feet someday be the bringers of good tidings? The words of Isaiah again . . .
I hurried on down the path. An Indian man was coming toward me, not evading my gaze. It was Pedro Chimbu.
“Buenas tardes, señorita,” he said. His rope lay on his shoulder. Market would be over for the day, and he would find no more carrying work to do.
“Buenas tardes, Pedro.”
He asked if I had been in his house and looked pleased when I told him I had.
“Bueno, bueno, señorita,” he said, looking past me and then at me, as if waiting for my permission to go.
“Until another day, Pedro,” I said. “I would like to come someday when you are home. Perhaps you would help me talk to your wife.”
“Bueno, señorita, that would be a good thing. You come when I am at home.”
“I want to learn your language, Pedro,” I said, “so that I can translate God’s word into it” I hoped this would arouse his interest.
“Bueno, señorita.”
What did this reply mean? Was it all I was ever going to get from Pedro? If I did not understand him, he probably understood me even less. Of my declared intention, as of any declaration made by white people, he made nothing. He had never discovered any grounds for dealing with them. Whatever it was they wanted, he was bound to treat them respectfully. I tried again.
“Do you know God’s word?”
“No . . . once I went to the church. The priest talked about God, but I did not hear well, I did not understand.”
“God has given us a book, Pedro. Did you know that?”
“No, señorita.”
“Would you like to hear it? Would you like to hear God’s word?”
“Bueno, señorita.” This time I decided that the reply indicated not a desire to know but a polite willingness to be told.
“Someday we will talk about it. Until another day, then, Pedro.”
“Until another day, señorita.”
He trotted on up the hill. Well, they aren’t headhunters, I reflected with a slight trace of disappointment, for it was beginning to dawn on me that my position among these Indians was not really a very dramatic one. Where the need is not obvious, as it is (it seemed to me) among wild aborigines, sacrifice to meet the need loses some of its nobility. But then, they are certainly godless Indians. (The adjective was a sweeping condemnation, but I used it automatically, having been taught that all were godless whose personal commitment to Christ did not match mine.) They have no knowledge of God’s word. What a privilege it will be to bring it to them! I thought exultantly. It was said that they had a form of religion, but they needed what I had come to bring, needed it every whit as much as a demon worshiper. Godless heathens, pagan savages, degenerate serfs—they were all the same, and Christ had died for them. Any incipient misgivings I may have had about the effectiveness of my first visit were banished by these thoughts.
Rosa had wished me gone. No matter. Secretly I heaped coals of fire on her head. I was doing her an immeasurable favor, though she was as yet unaware of it. The day would come when she would thank me for what I had brought her. I could look for that day in faith. “My word. . . shall accomplish that whereto I have sent it”
I went on past my house and down to the post office. There was a missionary magazine in the mail and I quickly turned to the South America section. The item was there:
“Miss Margaret Sparhawk of IFC has now arrived at the new station among the mountain Quichuas of Ecuador, Indi Urcu. Pray for her as she begins her work among these neglected people. Pray for help in her study of the difficult tribal language.”
I was satisfied. They had me in my slot and could start praying now for the things I knew were going to happen. The word “difficult” made me slightly uncomfortable. I had not used it in my own letters describing Quichua, for I had heard from a noted linguist that Quichua is one of the easiest languages in the world. Well, I thought, the responsibility does not rest with me. If faulty information inspires more earnest prayer, who can regret it?