In Ecuador, we worked our way up into the Andes where we would be treating the Kishua descendants in the mountains near our base in the picturesque mountain village of Otavalo. Our whole team would travel, daily, by bus to distant villages until on one occasion, our bus got stuck in a dry riverbed well up in the mountain range and we were forced to hike down the mountain with darkness and a pending storm approaching. Eventually hitch hiking a ride on the back of a farmer’s truck we managed to get back to our base, none the worse for wear, in spite of a pelting rain that pooled and sagged on the canvass we had drawn over ourselves in the back of the truck as we sat crouched and chilled in the hay.
One unique aspect of every project is the introduction of a local cultural experience. Although on occasion it might be a one day safari or a hike to a waterfalls, almost always there would be a dance performance presented by the host country. As much as it was always a welcome treat to see the natives play their music and dance for us, on this occasion, all of us in the project got to be the performers. Each night, our local translates would break up the team of 12 into small groups and ,out of site of each other, we were taught a series of traditional dances. On our final night, these same Ecuadorians provided us with provincial costumes and brought each group into the common hall where we each performed a different dance for each other. I must confess, I looked pretty good in my brimmed hat, white pants cut beneath the knees, and my colorful cape. The flute and drum players played on and on until we feel in a heap. It just doesn’t get any better than this.
As the conclusion of the project several of us took the opportunity to fly west into the Pacific to explore the Galapagos Islands. The visit would be cut short, however, because my daughter, Kelly, who was playing field hockey for American University, had a game in Williamsburg Virginia so my intention was to fly back to Guayaquil then to Quito then to Miami on to Washington where I would rent a car and be off to Williamsburg. Our fight to Miami was delayed, however, because of a severe weather system in the Caribbean. Although I made it to the game on time (barely) while leaving Quito, I had spotted a Spanish flashing the headline, Mitch e 30,000 Morte. I had no idea that thirty-five thousand feet, below us hurricane Mitch had just brought Honduras to its knees. The spring schedule of mission projects had Honduras listed as a project site and the recent disaster made the choice an easy one. An added incentive evolved as I reviewed the roster of volunteers for the upcoming Honduran project, and saw the names of Mary Pergiovanni and her husband Ed. For myself this led to four more projects in Honduras but for the Pergiovannis, this Honduras project became the beginning of a like long commitment to the people of that country.