3. Butterflies and Toilet Seats – Summer 2007 in Jenaro Herrera

Written: October 2007

My eyelids refuse to open. The pale sunlight burns holes through them every time I try to lift them past a squint. And yet, the incessant, shrill repetition of my watch screams, it’s 6:15 am! Get up! It’s only a Saturday morning in July, get up! I groan at the ungodliness of it all, roll out of bed with an ungraceful thump, and pull on yesterday’s clothes. Trudging to the bathroom that has no electricity or toilet seat, I stand in front of the spotted mirror; splash undrinkable, freezing water onto my face and try to tame the tangle atop my scalp that is my hair; debate whether or not make-up is worth the hassle in a place where nobody has even seen eyeliner. A few minutes, many yawns and mosquito bites later, I’m sloshing along a wet stretch of sand that is supposed to be a road after last night’s rain. The sand squishes between the bare toes of my feet as my sandals dangle from my fingers. Thus dawns another day in which I am constantly reminded of the simplicity of joy and the joy of simplicity.

Photo: Boys playing soccer in Jenaro Herrera street. © C. Plowden/Center for Amazon Community Ecology

On the mile and a half walk into town, the quickly rising Peruvian sun and clear morning air wake my tired nerves in a way that cappuccino never does during the school year. Weather-beaten, machete wielding field –farmers flash their amiable, toothless grins as they pass, followed closely by wide-eyed, shoeless children. Pigs and dogs trot unconcernedly across my path, while scores of water buffalo dolefully stare from their mud puddles as I amble by. Soon I am walking against the stream of uniformed students going to class, all of whom stare, giggle and whisper as I go by, though I can’t help but smile when a few venture a “Buenas dias, señorita.”

Photo: Water buffalo at Jenaro Herrera. © C. Plowden/Center for Amazon Community Ecology

By the time I get to the health clinic, my self-consciousness gets the better of me, as I become yet again fully aware of the blaring “gringa” sign persistently hovering over my head. I try to slip inside unnoticed, a feat not easily done when twenty other girls my age in varying stages of pregnancy are sitting outside. I am greeted with the usual, “No desayunaste? Por qué? Eres tan flaquita, necesitas comer comida real!” (You haven’t eaten breakfast? Why not? You’re so skinny, you need real food!). When the first mother is called in, I measure her height and wrestle with the ancient balance to find her weight, feeling slightly put out when it tells me that this woman of eighteen, at eight months pregnant, is still at least five pounds lighter than me.

Photo: Measuring new baby at Jenaro Herrera clinic. © Marissa Plowden/Center for Amazon Community Ecology

A few minutes later, one of the nurses bustles into the room, brandishing a towel and sponge. “Ven, ven!” (Come, come!) She impatiently beckons me to the wide doorway of the cramped recovery cubicle. I hasten quickly, scuffing my feet over the dirty cement floor and peer tentatively around the doorframe. The nurse thrusts a flannel-swaddled infant into my arms and turns to help the baby’s sixteen-year-old mother down from her bed to squat over a plastic chamber pot. I shuffle away from the door to give her privacy, gingerly holding her offspring in the crook of my elbow. I haven’t held a baby since I lived in Brazil nine years before and feel a bit out of practice. She is so little, her skin still wrinkled and papery; her fingers are smaller than drinking straws and there are only three lines on her palms. My sheer wonder at this life form, not even three hours old, hits me as I examine that impossibly delicate nose before handing her back to the nurse.

Photo: New mother at Jenaro Herrera. © Marissa Plowden/Center for Amazon Community Ecology

By lunchtime, my stomach is gurgling unhappily over the inadequacy of a breakfast of saltines and I leave the clinic, destined for a lunch of meat, rice and fresh fruit. The sun is now beating fiercely down on my unprotected neck, but at least the road is solid. I can already feel sweat running down my back, even as I see the farmers coming home for lunch, hoisting unbelievably large, bleeding bags of game meat and wood. The absolute brute force of it amazes me as I watch their retreating backs and bulging biceps shining in the dry heat. Seeing them march by, I don’t feel like I have a right to even be perspiring, let alone tired.

Photo: Hauling material in a cart in Jenaro Herrera. © C. Plowden/Center for Amazon Community Ecology

I hear the strange, chunnering cry of various birds, the hum of the bugs, the snuffling of the water buffalo as a breeze cools my unaccustomed skin. A cloud of butterflies whirls in front of me and as they fly up and away into the cloudless sky, I recall how many stars can be seen at night, with no lights, no smog, no skyscrapers. This is the way to live, day-by-day, minute-by-minute. It is living without a toilet seat or electricity, with mosquitoes and dirty clothes, that I remember how the simplest aspects of life bring the biggest smiles to my face.

Photo: Marissa in the rain at Jenaro Herrera. © C. Plowden/Center for Amazon Community Ecology






Photo: Turquoise and black butterfly at Jenaro Herrera. © C. Plowden/Center for Amazon Community Ecology