Picture this: it’s 0700, you are somewhere in that space between asleep and awake, trying to convince yourself that what is outside your tent is better than what is inside your tent. Then *bambambam* “¿Hermano Andrés?” … *bambambam* “¿Hermano Andrés?”
By the time I put my shirt on inside out and stumbled to the door, Pastor and one of the deacons (I assumed it was Pastor and someone else since all I could see were two person-shaped blurs) had retreated across the yard and were standing by the church. When they saw me standing in the doorway, they waved me over, so I slipped on my Chacos and trekked over to their little pow-wow, wondering what was so important that they would wake me up at 0700 on our day off.
As my brain warmed up and all the colorful little people began clocking in at the different departments, the good folks down in Spanish were scrambling to process what was being said, but they simply couldn’t keep up with the volume of input. What I was able to gather from Pastor was that there were not enough men to do the fumigation, so they needed some help. I’m not sure if it is my personality, the habit formed over the last ten months of being the hands and feet, or the fact that I had been awake for about five minutes – I said, “sure, I can help.” Then it occurred to me to ask what day they were planning this fumigation. “Hoy día.” That phrase registered loud and clear: Today.
They also wanted me to ask the girls if they would help. I told them that I would let the girls know. There was no way that I was waking them up at 0715 on their day off. So I waited for them to come down for breakfast. I explained the situation as best I understood it; fortunately Pastor returned to share some more information with the team. By this time my brain had an hour to get the wheels greased, plus now Sarah was here to translate. It was a good thing too, since this culture is not direct. The other day, we got a two-hour background story to tell us that we couldn’t play with water balloons. So we were going to get a bit of back story before Pastor actually got around to his request.
The church had been talking to the Mayor about the team’s idea of doing a community clean-up campaign, and the Mayor was excited about the church’s interest in civic service, so when the day for village fumigation came and they needed men to help, immediately he thought of this church. So when the Mayor called Pastor to ask if he had some men who would help out, Pastor was excited to have this opportunity for the church to serve the village and build rapport with the citizens. The only problem was that he couldn’t find enough people, he still needed a few more. That’s where we come in.
To be honest, I wasn’t feeling it. Today was supposed to be my off day. And as we got more information, it began to sound more like an all-day activity. And fumigation like this in the US is no longer practiced because of the chemicals that are used – you have to have very specific containment tents to fumigate in the States, and somehow I had this feeling that they didn’t have those tents here. But, you’re only in Chipiriri, Bolivia once, right? And what are we here for if not to serve? So we agreed to help.
After breakfast (obviously, I was not going to do anything before I had breakfast), we put on our long sleeves and pants like we were instructed, then walked over to the park where the folks were meeting for this shindig. When we arrived they were trying to determine how to go about this given the manpower available. It was determined that I would fumigate and the girls would go door-to-door to tell people that the fumigators are coming and that they should prepare. I guess sexism works in your favor sometimes. Fortunately, I had a local accompany me to lead the way, translate, and carry extra fuel.
The fumigator is like a leaf-blower on steroids. Like the Barry Bonds of leaf-blowers. I was given a 30-second tutorial (in Spanish) on how to operate the joker: “Fuel goes here. Pesticide goes here. Crank this, if you hear clicking then the spark plug is working. Turn this knob to open the flow of pesticide. Push this button to turn it off.” Great. My understanding of the machine is that it is super-heating air and blowing it out through the nozzle (not quite with the force of a leaf-blower) and as the super-heated air passes through the nozzle, pesticide is spritzed into the flow, which is vaporized and comes out as a thick fog. The thing was heavy too. It had a shoulder strap, but one side of the machine is extremely hot, so you have to keep it against your right thigh – there was no option to switch arms.
Armed with my new toy and a dust mask (which made me feel better about not having the special containment tents), my escort and I headed house to house on our assigned block. People knew what was going on – probably because you could hear the machine from across town – by the time I got to each house, they all were outside, and had opened all of the doors. I had complete access to everyone’s homes. Basically, I went in and filled each room with smog. Start in the back and work your way out the front. Start at the top and work your way down.
At one point, one of the men from church wanted to do his own house, and I was more than happy to oblige. After he did his house, my escort took the machine and did several of the next houses. Which left me wondering why exactly they needed me… but no matter. We worked straight to lunch, took an hour break, and then resumed. We finally finished our portion and I was dismissed around 1500. What a day.
But the most exciting part of the day was when I figured out how to make the fumigator into a flamethrower. I was passing through a narrow doorway, too narrow for my wide hips and the fumigator to fit side-by-side, so I swung the machine around in front of me, resting the back of the machine on the front of my thigh. Since I haven’t been running consistently, my quad is soft and formed to the shape of the machine. In doing so, I covered what I quickly discovered to be the air intake. Combustion is an exothermic reaction between hydrogen, carbon, and oxygen. Remove one of those ingredients and the reaction will cease. So when I cut off the oxygen supply, the engine quit. Abruptly. Now, without the constant airflow to vaporize and carry the pesticide out of the nozzle, the liquid pesticide is sprayed directly into the nozzle, which still is quite hot. And presto! Flamethrower!
