relative comfort

I am too comfortable.

I walk into a grocery store and I can buy all the food that I've been wishing I had for the last four months. And for the eight months before that. It's too much.

I am sleeping in a cushy, full-size bed. Pillow top mattress. Pillows. No mosquito net. This is a long call from a thin airmattress on wooden boards, no pillow and a jaguar-proof mosquito net.

There is hot water at my beck and call, it even comes out of a spout that is OVER my head, and I don't have to pour it over myself with a cup. Out of a bucket. With water in it that hasn't been heated.

I can drink half a glass of water, then dump the rest down the drain. Not pour it back into the wash bucket to conserve water, 'cause it hasn't rained in a while. I can even drink the water out of the faucet. No boiling, no buying, no treating. All the water is drinkable. All of it. And dumpable. All of it.

The room in which I sleep is quiet. Real quiet. No roosters crowing. No bats fluttering around. No motocars straining to get up the hill outside the house, no rocks falling on the roof, no dogs barking, no cats fighting, no kids yelling and knocking on the door.

I am not sweating.

The woods outside smell like woods, leafy, pungent and clean. Not like breeding grounds for parasites, bacteria, spiders, snakes, and a trillion other insects that want to suck your blood.

People are wearing new clothes, clean clothes, and wearing shoes that look like they cost more than 5 soles. Or $1.88. Shoot they probably cost more than 150 soles. Or $53. They are driving cars with the windows rolled up and drinking coffee at the same time.

Last night I was driving the Big Black Truck that AIM is letting me use while I'm here. I think it's a Ford and I sit higher than almost all the SUV's on the road out there with me. The Truck has heat, air conditioning, a radio, power steering and probably sucks more gas than any other vehicle I've had in my life. Driving home at night, for the first time driving in almost a year, and there were few other vehicles on the road, the air coming in the vent was leafy and sweet, reminding me of bonfires, hikes, tricker-treating, and the-life-I-had-before. And I liked it. But not enough to even want to stay.

I feel oddly isolated. A bit too pristine. And out of place. Praise God Jesus is here and is the same yesterday, today, forever, in both North and South America and all around the world.

I miss the rotating door, the constant cumbia music, the walk to the market in the morning. I miss seeing people when I walk out of the door, neighbors and people going to and from work, miss speaking Spanish and miss knowing I'm where I'm supposed to be. Though for now, here is where I'm supposed to be. So I'll do my best to be here... but not get too comfortable.