Reading Glasses in Peru- 2004

   Distributing Reading Glasses in Peru- 

 

It is late afternoon, just a little bit cooler than it was at noon but still very hot.  We board one of the handmade log canoes and make our way downstream, shielded from the sun by the massive protection of the trees. We are headed to one of the local villages, which sit right on the banks of the Amazon River. 

   As we walk along a poorly designated path, Victor, our guide, show us every plant and its medical purpose.  We touch leaves that serve as contraceptives and spontaneous abortions.  A tree bark heels an upset stomach. And leafy plants cure cancer, headaches, sore muscles and just about anything else. 

    W e meet the mayor and his wife. He proudly invites us into his humble home.  It’s about the size of my cabin and five people sleep in that one tiny space.  There are three single beds on the floor and two hammocks suspend from the ceiling.  There is no other furniture in this house. A singular light bulb hangs from the ceiling.  On Tuesday evenings, there is electricity for two hours.

We visit the Anglo church and the only item on the bare walls is a lone, plastic clock.  There are no crucifixes or religious pictures.  If Victor hadn’t told us that this is the church, I would have assumed it was a town meeting hall.

We visit the two schoolrooms for grades 1-6.  One teacher hasn’t arrived yet to start the new school year.   So those students haven’t started school yet.  The other classroom serves the older kids. There are about 20 of them. This teacher holds her 1-½ year old baby on her hip as she gives instruction on math skills.  There are no supplies, no books, very little paper, poor lighting, distracting mosquitos and it is hot.  There is nothing going on in that classroom that is conducive to good learning.

As we begin to head out and leave the village, Victor leads us to a town square where everyone congregated.  The mayor gathered everyone to meet us there.  It is here and now that he is going to distribute the eyeglasses I brought for them.  I had 20 pairs of gasses and had given them to the mayor to give out as he saw fit.

He announces that we will start with the older people so people line up by age.  The oldest, a fail woman who looks to be about 90, tries on a pair.  No, no good.  So that pair is passed on to the next person, a man who is satisfied with this offer.  He takes his glasses and steps out of line. This goes on until the first 20 people find a pair that fit their vision problem.  Someone came with one page of an old newspaper and that tattered page is passed down the line for people to read as they try on the glasses. There is a great mood amongst everyone.  There is lots of laughter and everyone waits patiently in hopes of finding a pair of glasses that fit them.  Not everyone leaves with new glasses but no one seems to begrudge this inequality. 

One old man hobbles up to me.  He takes my hand.  He kisses his new eyeglass case.  Then he touches his forehead with this case and then he touches my hand with it and then he mumbles some inaudible words of thanks.  I stand in complete awe of this very moving moment, overwhelmed with joy and he walks away, oblivious to what a profound moment this moment is for me.

When we leave the square to head back to our boat, the villagers cheer and clap and chant for me. I lament that I didn’t bring more pairs of glasses. I climb back in to our rickety boat and we frantically wave to each other until our boat finally disappears from their new, clearer line of vision.