La Tierra Del Sol Amada
She called after us, only somewhat ironically, “Try to walk in the shade!” Red dirt on my super heated black shoes. Beer caps smashed into the road caught the sun and reflected it upwards into our squinted eys. Sometimes we could shelter under an enormous and impossibly green mango tree. They were all full of iguanas and often little children as well who would toss a mango down to you if you asked.
Walking down the street with the sun hovering inches above our heads. I can still easily conjur up that erie feeling that my brain was cooking or drying out. White shirts, ties bleached by the sun, dark slacks absorbing the heat and the sweat and leaching salt into crystalline patterns on our thighs.
It was nearly impossible to keep your eyes open sometimes. Sitting in metal framed chairs made by wrapping vinyl strips around and around and around. Even when they were poorly strung and the strips cut into you it did nothing to keep you alert.
It was against nature to be running about in the heat of the afternoon. All other living things knew it was time to sleep in the shade.
Note: I was experimenting with writing as quickly as I possibly can (this was about a minute and a half total), trying to capture some of the feelings and memories of when I was a missionary in Venezuela. I am debating starting a new site for this kind of stuff, or having a special “Not Funny” header for your protection.
Excellent, I laughed out loud.
Oh wait, it wasn’t supposed to be funny? ;)
ducks
Well described.
Had I been writing it would have been something like…”Man, I was sure hot from the hot hot heat.”
I particularly liked when you detailed the ‘brain cooking’. I’ve always thought of it a tad differently. I’ve experienced a sunburned scalp due to my fine hair (yes, ladies, it’s fine). I always imagined the fluid in my brain eventually being brought to a boil, followed by a loud pop as my head exploded. Those around me would be severely burned from the outpouring of steam and magma-hot brain juice.
Now that is hot hot heat.
The days grow longer and the nights turn brief and restless. The air of the fan, failing as it strains to cool the sweat from my soaked and musty body. How can I sweat so much? Surely I haven’t consumed the quantity of water equal to that seeping from my pores and drenching my sheets. Is this how life was meant to be lived? Beyond the crisp clean air and cool evenings that, as I lay here, greet those I have left behind. Here, the only hope of drowning the heat is found in the half empty barrel, sitting in the bathroom. It hasn’t been filled since the last time the water was on. Spiraling threads of life propel themselves through the water, if one chooses to notice. I choose not to, and use a bucketful to wash away the filth and sudor from the previous day’s trials.
The tattered curtains on the window blow softly in the dead of the night as the fan continues in vain to move the heavy air that encases the stillness of the night. Listening closely, I can hear the faint sounds of trees rustling outside the window and the occasional soft footsteps of the late worker shuffling home from the drudgery of his job as night watchman. If I close my eyes, I can see his brown sandals, the thatched pattern stamped in the cheap plastic, crudely formed into a floppy shoe worn well beyond its rightful claim to appropriate use. Who is this man? Where is he from and where is he going? Does he know what awaits him at the end of his journey home?
As a ray of light finds its way to me over the windows sill, I understand that another day has begun. How long have I been here? Distant from life as I have known it, this place has quickly become a place of comfort. Will I ever know such peace again?
Your brain may not have been drying out, but apparently your back was degenerating.
Is this new “Not Funny” the format change you were talking about making to AR?
Or are you seeking to broaden your appear to the fastest growing segment of the polulation – those that read blogs with stream of conscience[sic?] essays on them.
Reminicent of Anaconda hunter in tone and discriptiveness. I waited for a Iguana to leap on you from the tree and perish either in the sunlight or the resulting struggle. Are you sure the little kids were throwing the fruit to and not at you. The image of beer caps imbedded in the road glinting in your squinting eyes struck me. Lets have more.
It is really just an experiement to see how much of this kind of stuff I can write before completely driving away my audience.
I was there with Josh and he forgot in Maracaibo, “La Tierra del Sol Amada” which makes you wonder how “amada” (beloved) that area was if it was so dangerously scorching every single day of the year, that makes everyone whine about it especially the native “marabinos”).
One thing that Josh and Ken forgot to mention was the pavement that bended at every one of our steps because of the heat. Call us “masoquistas”, but we really miss it.
It’s funny, but I had nearly the same experience (with the exception of the mango tree and iguanas) while doing the missionary shuffle in Tennessee… “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity!” is what people would tell us, over and over and over…
I am from Maracaibo and I recognize the land in your writing, so go ahead with your website. It’s an original view of a hellish place.