A Horse called "Horse"
| A Horse called "Horse" By Fr John Boles SSC Seminarians and priests travel to the rain-swept edges of the Peruvian Amazon |
 Fr John Boles and Horse making their way along the trail. |
"There is rain, heavy rain and Mendoza rain." That was the warning we received from Father Antonio, the pastor of Rodriguez de Mendoza, before we left the Peruvian capital of Lima for our visit to his parish. Every year during the summer holidays, I accompany our Columban seminarians from Peru and Chile on a month-long mission experience to a different part of the Peruvian hinterland. This particular year, Fr Antonio had invited us to his area, a region of great beauty but with one undeniable and unstoppable problem: the rain.
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Mendoza nestles in the Northern Andes of Peru, close to the border with Ecuador. It is on the eastern side of the great mountain chain, overlooking the Amazon jungle. It is covered in lush forest and ideal for the cultivation of coffee, one of the country’s main cash crops. But its location also makes it susceptible to huge amounts of annual rainfall. Westerly winds sweep across the Atlantic and grow heavy with moisture. They pick up yet more humidity as they journey over the vast Amazon Basin. As they smash into the natural wall of the Andes, they let drop all this stored water vapour in the form of torrential summer downpours. The worst month is February. And yes, we were going to Mendoza in February, the rainiest month of the year.
We had a dozen students going on the mission experience. Fr Antonio split them into pairs and sent them to live in six remote villages. These villages are communities which rarely benefit from visits by the priest or parish workers, particularly during the wet season. Many of the residents of these villages are farmers, or campesinos, subsistence farmers barely eking out enough food to survive.The seminarians soon busied themselves by visiting the campesinos in their homes, organising liturgies and preparing people for Baptism and First Holy Communion. My role was to circulate by visiting each village on a rotating basis and celebrating the sacraments.
It was easier said than done. No sooner had the seminarians established themselves in their respective settlements than the heavens opened. The jeep we had borrowed was no match for the road which had been transformed into a muddy stream. We had driven only a few miles before getting bogged down.
So, we turned to "Plan B". Antonio managed to get me a horse. It was named, imaginatively, "Horse" (caballo in Spanish). Horse was strong but apparently bad-tempered. Consequently, instead of mounting my less-than trusty steed I stowed my rucksack and Mass kit on his back, donned my Wellington boots, and away we went, guided by a couple of local catechists.
Taking our time, we successfully slopped our way from village to village. We slept in the houses of campesinos and met together in their humble chapels for the sacramental celebrations.
The visit to Nueva Luz (New Light) was particularly memorable. We arrived a little late since Horse balked at a series of swollen river crossings. It was twilight by the time we were able to join the congregation in the chapel, where we all huddled beneath the single light-bulb. "New Light" turned out to be a rather optimistic name, given the general lack of illumination in the community.
Mass had barely started when the deluge began. We had to suspend operations almost immediately. The rain was beating on the tin roof with such intensity that you could barely hear yourself think. Moreover, the waters of a flash flood began to seep into the building, and we were soon up to our ankles. Everyone had to rush out and help unclog the storm-drains of accumulated leaves. Then, all hands turned to swishing the water off the sodden floor.
The storm passed as quickly as it had come. With calm restored we resumed the ceremony, only to face a new challenge. Encouraged by the dank night air, clouds of mosquitoes and moths began to assail us. Or more precisely, began to assail ME, as the priest had been given the favoured position directly under the lone bulb. I continued with the Eucharist, maintaining as much dignity as possible while every few seconds slapping at little blood-suckers feasting on any and all exposed skin.
However, the biggest threat to decorum was posed by the moths. Some of them seemed to be as big as Vulcan bombers. One particular flying fortress, with wings the size of soup-spoons, decided to plunge into the chalice. We were at the Consecration, and so the cup was uncovered. Flapping desperately in its attempts to escape, our winged friend momentarily had the sacred vessel wobbling on the altar. For a time I think some of the faithful believed a miracle was taking place, until I unceremoniously scooped the bedraggled (but, presumably by now, very holy) insect out of the wine.
All these adventures made me aware of the enormity of the task that faces the Church as it seeks to reach out to communities it had formerly underserved, especially at a time when the Latin American bishops are launching what they term a "Continental Mission" promoting evangelization throughout the Americas. I felt proud to have participated in this movement, albeit only briefly. It was humbling to witness the extraordinary hospitality extended by the people to the seminarians and me.
Most of all, I was heartened by the effect all this had on the seminarians themselves. It had been a major step in their formation as future Columban missionary priests, capable of taking the Word to all parts of the world, through rain, sleet and snow, and with or without the help of a horse called "Horse".
Fr John Boles is the rector of the Columban South American seminary.
[Far East Magazine]