10/19/2025
Sunday Stanza: The Zancudo Serenade
I once served a mission down Chepén, Peru, way,
Where the rice fields shimmered in heat all day.
“La Perla del Norte,” they proudly proclaim—
A valley of heat, hard work, and good name.
Founded by curacas and carved through the dust,
With Moche blood deep in its very crust.
They built from the river, from sweat and from grace,
A town with a backbone and sun on its face.
But for all its charm, and the love that I feel,
One thing down there still bites at my heel…
The zancudos—those devils in flight—
Would swarm at the dusk and feast through the night.
That could sniff out a gr**go a mile through sweat,
And feast on your ankles ‘til nothing was left.
I’d swat and I’d swing, I’d stomp, and I’d slap—
But they’d sneak through the net like a planned sneak attack.
We’d teach in the dusk ‘neath banana tree shade,
Reading scriptures while doing the mosquito parade.
They’d hum like a choir—wings tuned in G—
While I itched like a dog with a case of the fleas.
I wore socks to bed at night, DEET on my face,
Long sleeves in a desert where no breeze gave grace.
They’d hum by the dozens outside of each door,
As if guarding the place or calling for war.
No breeze through the canebrake, no peace in my bed,
Just a net full of holes and welts on my head.
I’d preach through the buzzing; I’d pray through the itch—
In pants made for Sunday, those bites made me twitch.
I love Chepén, its culture, its people, and its past,
Its mango-sweet mornings and memories that last.
I often think of that town, and I’d go back still—
To the hill of the cross and the sugarcane mill.
The sunsets, the people, the heavenly view—
Even the bugs… well, maybe just a few.
I must confess, with just with one small footnote:
Next time I’ll wear mosquito repellent…by the boat.
