stories of travel, medical missions, and more
Unearth daily treasures
And unearth hopeful joy
Chip away at tomorrow’s sorrows
Serenity employ
Unearth the backward war
Seeds of trouble un-sow
Seek not strife and mischief
Un-fight friend and foe
Unearth something different
New and not imperfect
Unearth daily treasures
And unearth hopeful joy
anthony forrest
A dull hum roars in the back of my skull. Has it always been there? It must have a beginning. I can no longer remember what it is like in the outside world. But the passing of time is very apparent. Ah, I remember now. The droning began when our flight lifted off in Atlanta.
I’m on a plane.
Slowly I peel my eye mask away from my travel worn face. It feels like I’m removing a rejected skin graft. As my eyes come into focus, I look around. This must be what 14th century England looked like. What disease has taken hold of these flying peasants? Twelve hours ago, we all boarded with such high hopes. Smiling faces anticipated adventure. Small families settled and tucked into in-flight entertainment. The meal service stoked the fires of happiness and several opportunities for drinks and snacks have since come and gone. But now the romance has worn off.
As I look around this refugee camp, it hits me: I have to pee.
Holding it is not an option on a 17-hour flight. So, I untangle myself from the tissue-thin plane-blanket, replace my tray table, and begin the journey up the aisle.
When I fly, one of the first things I do is take off my shoes. My feet swell while flying and I hate to wear my shoes for so long. I opened the door to the bathroom (lavatory or lav). The garbage overflowed. Toilet paper lay strewn everywhere. And the little sink was filled with a residue of some scummy liquid. An airplane lav is disgusting at the beginning of a flight. But 12 hours in? You’d better be on a prophylactic antibiotic.
I stepped in to get to business and quickly realized that I was not wearing my shoes. Immediately my feet were soaked.
Water? I will never know. But deep down, I know the truth.
And I’ve learned my lesson:
Going to the airplane bathroom in solely one’s stocking feet is fraught with consequences.
anthony forrest
My heart tires of these needless worries
Backward care of this sick-sodden soil
Daily focus so earthly bound
The needless walk of human toil
That peace so longed for rarely found
Though searched for in every wrong place
Things and people and pleasures
None can satisfy
Only his grace
anthony forrest
We gazed back and forth—at the well, then up at the water storage tank. The only running water the farm had was a well system at the far end of a property. As water filled the well, a windmill pumped the water up and out, into a water storage tank 25-feet in the air. From there, the water gravity fed the Hacienda and the rest of the buildings.
For the past week, we had been experiencing reduced water pressure. And nobody knew why. So, there we stood, investigating. It was finally decided that the best course of action was to climb the tower and peer into the 600-gallon tank. We soon discovered that the tank was full of crystal-clear well-water. However, the two-and-a-half-inch pipe which fed the property was plugged.
Something was in there.
I might mention now that though my Spanish had improved greatly since I began living in Bolivia, there were still many words I did not understand. To make matters worse, the local dialect was awash with a rich Quechua vocabulary.
We both hung off the side of the sky-high tank trying to come up with a plan. It was decided that he would cut the pipe with a hack saw and I would hold my hand against the end of the pipe, holding back thousands of pounds of water.
Brilliant.
Surprisingly, it worked. Not because of my brute strength. But because of science reasons which to this day elude me.
As I gaped at my uncanny ability to stem this watery force of nature, I looked up and saw that my fellow tank repairer’s face turned an unpleasant shade of green. He looked up from the end of the pipe and coarsely whispered, “ch’uwaku.”
Not a Spanish word.
I scraped the bottom of my mind this new word and meaning. I asked for clarification and to my horror, found out that a bird (ch’uwaku) had died, been sucked into the tube, and evidently plugged our water source.
In silence, we finished repairing the tank. He disappeared and later returned with a jug of bleach. As he poured a ¼ cup into the tank, he looked up at me and said in a mix of Quechua and Spanish, ” bird water.”
anthony forrest
Black it starts
Unwritten and without ink
Before the words of birds and man
Yesterday’s tomorrow on the brink
Of beginning
anthony forrest
The fog lifted and the clouds drifted away, revealing a warm sun. I at the edge of a duck-infested fountain. The day had been filled with perfect clichés—cobbled streets, old cathedrals, and romantic statues. A perfect Paris day.
Hearing the bells at Notre Dame had meant more to me than I’d thought it would. There was something haunting about the ever-looming tower, protected by the watchful eyes of Gargoyles. The bells sang out and rang the hour—warm and mysterious.
I now relaxed at a fountain near the Louvre, eating a croissant and feeding the little birds directly from my hand.
A screaming 20-something cut though the ambiance. She walked aggressively up to her presumed boyfriend and began shouting in French. They argued loudly for a while.
My birds flew away.
The guy on the receiving end of this balling suddenly exploded. He picked up a metal chair and hurled it into the water.
My birds flew further away.
She was apparently part of a group. Her comrades beckoned her to give up the violent debate and move on. Before they left, a couple of guys did try to retrieve the chair. A kind gesture in a dark moment. But they eventually gave up.
No matter where you are or what beauty surrounds you, there will always be somebody screaming and throwing chairs into fountains. It’s human nature to ruin the good things, ruin peace.
But the angry girl and her angrier boyfriend eventually left. Heads and conversations returned to their previous state.
And even my birds came back.
anthony forrest
Walk with me
Where cobbled stones abound
Cross the street
To the tower
Soon, the hour
Will sound
Wait with me
On a courtyard seat
Under the tall
Dark tower
Soon, the hour
Will beat
Listen with me
To the ringing knife
Cutting hearts
Echo the bells
The song of life
anthony forrest
The mobile passport app saves frustration and loads of time. Prior to landing back in the US, the user simply takes a selfie, adds passport information, and answers a few simple questions. When walking into passport control, the traveler bypasses all lines and shows a Homeland Security agent their phone. It’s a breeze and very efficient.
But no time saving app or brilliant travel secret was going to help us make our flight. We landed, collected our bags, breezed through passport control and customs, and promptly missed our flight.
It wasn’t even close.
Although we live close, getting a shuttle home wasn’t going to happen until the next day. Cars were outrageous for a one-way rental. Taxis were even crazier. Time crept on and we continued to trouble-shoot. It was looking like we’d be spending another restless night in an airport. Though I am no stranger to the comforts of a scum-encrusted patch of carpet near a closed Wok-n-Roll, I would have much rather slept in a bed.
There we sat—right outside of customs in the baggage claim. What could we do?
I prayed.
“Lord, give us just a little glimmer of hope. I hate to wish that somebody else missed this exact flight, but if they did, send them my way. Maybe we could split a car rental. Amen”
Opening my eyes, I saw an older guy walked our direction, talking on his cellphone.
“Yeah,” he bellowed into the phone, “I missed flight! I’m thinking about renting a car.”
I collected my mouth off the floor and introduced myself. We were heading north. And so was our new friend Dave.
Thoughts crept into mind. What if he’s a serial killer? It was unlikely, but if he was, we never “found out.” With car rented, Dave kept us company, regaled us with stories from his childhood, and drove the whole way.
We won’t soon forget Dave.
We also won’t forget how God answered prayer. That was perhaps the quickest and most specific answer to prayer I’ve ever witnessed. Though it was a simple request, God showed Himself once more that He is a God who hears. Earlier that day I read in Psalm 6 that, “The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord accepts my prayer.”
I’m thankful for Dave. And I’m thankful for a God who hears.
anthony forrest
Heavy hung branches tremble and shake
Thawing sunshine beams down to awaken
The trees from icy sleep
The old shed’s corner drips and drips
Newborn warmth builds as winter’s grip slips
Away and away
Unremembered songs of birds returned
From Southern concerns
And stays
Door soon closes to waiting, waiting
Cold days over now—ready for Spring
To begin
anthony forrest
I peered deeply into the strange toilet. Along the side of the foreign commode several buttons and settings looked back at me, questioning my every move. To make matters worse, I couldn’t even read it.
No English.
What to choose? Back home I have one setting—flush. But here? So many options. It was a good thing that this was just practice. Call it a “dry run.” The panel had ten options. The first one looked promisingly like water. I pressed the button and listened for the sound of a successful flush. To my horror, a robotic arm extended from the back of the bowel and paused ever-so-briefly.
“Bidet,” I yelled (out loud mind you). And, faster than I could close the lid, the little arm began spraying water.
Upon closer inspection and further use, the electronic bidet in our hotel bathroom also had a seat warmer, temperature setting for the water, and a speaker that played the comforting and bladder stimulating sounds of a flowing stream.
Some friends we were traveling with met up with us later that day. I asked James what he thought of the toilet in his room. With a crooked smile and a breathy giggle, James said that he though the bidet was, “very accurate.”
anthony forrest
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