An oddity

I did a double take when I first saw how this local landmark was identified. "Museo del Jamon" is Spanish for "Museum of Ham." Now, I suppose I like ham at least as much as the next person but, really -- a whole museum dedicated to a pork product??? Odd.

The above is located in the Plaza de España in Santo Domingo, but when I was there on Sunday morning after church, it was closed. Which I guess makes sense. After all, Sunday morning -- the average person does not think "Shall I go to Church or to brunch? Or maybe I should play golf. I know!!! I'll go to the Museum of Ham."

Ir de Compras

¨Going shopping.

I´m living in an apartment, so I´ve had to go shopping for food and other necessities. Since I don´t have a car and have to walk everywhere, I´m having to make my purchases in small quantities, so that they are light enough to carry the 12 or so blocks back to the apartment. Now...going shopping in a new market is always a bit bewildering for me, since I have to figure out where everything is. Figuring out the names of things in the Spanish language is yet another challenge. Add to this mix the fact that almost nothing for sale looks like it does in the US -- and I have another adventure.

If you´ve ever been to a dollar store and looked at the food items and the household cleaners, etc. maybe you have noticed that nothing in a dollar store looks exactly like it does in a regular market. Either the brands are different, the packaging is weird, or the sizes are wrong -- in the absence of the familiar it becomes hard to find something I think I want. That´s the way it is in the supermarket in the DR. Nothing looks quite the way I expect it to.

There are at least two enormous markets within walking distance of the apartment. Both are something like a supermarket plus a Walmart plus a furniture store and a Macy´s all rolled into one. Oddly, for a city in the tropics, there is little local produce available for sale in the market. There is fruit available for sale in the city, but it´s mostly from fruit vendors in the streets. I have yet to see a mango for sale in one of the large markets, and only once have I seen pineapple for sale. Both seem to be available in abundance on the streets.

The other oddity (for me) is that the meat is cut differently. This morning in one market there was a ´California steak,´and a ´butterfly steak´for sale. Porterhouse, flank steak, round steak were no where to be found. The few times I´ve attempted to cook beef it has ended up approximately the taste and texture of the Rockport Sportwalkers I´ve been wearing most days. I´m guessing that long, slow cooking techniques are more common here, so tougher cuts are esteemed more. I also have the notion that the meat is not aged. At all. As in: cow yesterday, food today.

There is also the issue of vocabulary, of course. More than once I have had to begin a question to the sales personnel in the store with the phrase No sé la palabra en Español... I don´t know the word in Spanish. A sensible enough strategy, except that I don´t always understand the response -- an answer in Spanish to the effect of ¨Second aisle on the left -- no, sorry the right --just past the second escalator between domestics and laundry detergent¨ mumbled rapid-fire while walking away from the questioner (me) does not always lead me to find the desired item.

I´m not starving, in case any reader should happen to worry. In fact, I haven´t missed too many meals lately, although some of them have been comprised of foodstuffs I almost never eat at home: oatmeal, and PB and J to name two. Occasionally I do eat in a restaurant, which are abundant here. I´m ashamed to admit that once I even ate at the local McDonald´s, which is actually pretty upscale here. Having paid $425RDP -- over $7USD for a Big Mac combo --I decided I won´t be repeating that again.

The best and cheapest food is found in the simple family-run restaurants. Comida criolla is local fare and consists of something called La Bandera -- the flag. It´s a platter consisting of beans, white rice, and chicken with a side of salad (iceberg lettuce with faintly pink but mostly green tomatoes dressed with salad oil and white vinegar). Other local favorites include pica pollo, which is fried chicken with french fries -- a cardiologist´s nightmare. I have discovered that almost anything on the menu that´s identified as criolla or al estilo criollo is quite good. ¨Creole style¨ means in a sauce of tomato, onion, garlic, pepper, and herbs -- flavorful but not hot. Since I have committed to memory the Spanish for liver, kidney, and tripe, I think I´m safe from ordering something disgusting in creole sauce.

BTW, to my disappointment, Dominicans seem not to be big dessert eaters -- other than the occasional flan, most restaurants don´t seem to bother with sweets. There are local ice cream places that are quite good and not too expensive, but by the time I´ve had supper and cleaned up I´m in no mood to walk six blocks one way for an ice cream cone. The good news in that is that I won´t be losing my trim and boyish physique for overindulging in rich desserts.

Strangers

Yesterday was Sunday, and I had two experiences that made me think about what it means to be a stranger.

Rest assured that the rector does, indeed, attend church on Sunday, even when on vacation or sabbatical. Just a couple of blocks from the Zona Colonial, in a leafy suburban neighborhood called the Gazcue, is located the English-speaking Church of Santo Domingo. It has the dual name and identity of Epiphany Epicopal Church and The Union Church of Santo Domingo. Located just across the street from the national headquarters of the Communist Party (a source of amusement to some members, and consternation to others) services alternate between Prayerbook services of Holy Eucharist and generic Protestant services, adapted from the Prayerbook of the Armed Forces.


To my disappointment, it was Union Church Sunday -- i.e. no communion, and Protestant worship. The vicar happened to be away for the day, so the deacon led worship and preached. To my surprise, the service was actually OK -- one thing I find objectionable about much of Protestant worship is that ironically there is often little use of the Bible -- sometimes just one scripture reading -- and little familiar liturgy. The Union Church used the lectionary, which is to say the same 3 year cycle of readings used in the Episcopal Church, and also used some material which was similar, though not identical to the Prayerbook liturgy.



What surprised me most about the congregation that had gathered that morning was that it was overwhelmingly men! There appeared to be about 30 people present, and of those, approximately 25 were men. (One was the retired bishop of the Diocese of the DR, and another was the dean of the Episcopal seminary.) As far as I could see there were no children, and I don't believe there was any church school either. From what I could surmise, most of the men in attendance were from other Carribbean islands or from Africa. Music was accompanied on a reasonably well-played pipe organ, though the hymns tended to the fundamentalistic in style -- it's been a long time since I've sung "Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine."



So -- a church of mostly expatriates -- gathered in the name of Christ. A group trying as best they could manage to re-create the kind of Church service they were familiar with, trying to make a strange place feel like home, trying to find some comfort in a strange land. And yet at the same time, they did seem to do some valuable outreach to the community, including some kind of food distribution program.

Later in the morning, I visited the Alcázar de Colón, the Palace of Columbus (not Christoper, but his son Bartolomé). What I found fascinating is that the palace, one of the very first structures built in the new city of Santo Domingo, was that to all appearances it was a piece of 16th century Spain, picked up and transplanted into a new and strange place. Everything about it -- the architecture, the decor, the artwork, the furniture -- had nothing to do with where it was located and everything to do with where the owner was FROM. A piece of home, replanted so its residents might find some comfort in a strange land.

This, it seems to me, says something about the nature of the Church and Christian people. We are, in a sense all expatriates -- our real home is somewhere else. We try to recreate, as best we can, the culture and the values of the kingdom of God, where our permanent home and residence and citizenship is located. When we work to promote values of justice, freedom, and peace -- when we live in love and charity with our neighbor, then we show to this, our temporary home, what it is we really believe in. The problem is, like so many expatriates, we are tempted to simply create something that feels comfortable, without ever engaging the local culture, without respecting it, learning the language, and standing in gracious opposition to the values of an alien culture.

The Spaniards ended up utterly destroying the indigenous culture they encountered on the island they named Hispaniola. Within 40 years of the arrival of Christopher Columbus, the entire population of Taino people had been extinguished. This, I think, is the other problem that expatriates face -- even with every good intention, they can find themselves responsible for the wholesale destruction of the culture in which they live.

So ... I am a visitor in the Dominican Republic, for another 3 weeks (almost), but I´m also a visitor in New Jersey, USA, planet earth. My real home and final destination is the Kingdom of Heaven, ruled by the gracious sovereign, the Lord of love, Jesus Christ. My job is to remain faithful to that Lord, and the values and the culture of his kingdom, while at the same time responsibly engaging and learning from my current, though temporary home. Not an easy assignment by any means.

God grant that my heart may never forget my true home.

Mercedes photos

Not the Benz, but the celebration at Cristo Salvador, and the Church in Santo Domingo.

Above is a picture of the 6 of the 7 children posing after their baptism. The seventh, the 3 year old, was behaving like a typical pre-schooler and being shy. I know that Fr. Hipólito stressed to the girls, espcially the oldest one, that the ceremony is about what's inside, not outside, but, like girls everywhere, they wanted to look their best. I have no idea how they aquired these baptismal gowns, but the oldest girl's didn't quite fit her too well, suggesting to me that she had borrowed somebody's old wedding gown.

The top photo is the exterior of the church of the Mercedes, in the Zona Colonial in Santo Domingo. This Church was constructed between 1527 and 1555, and the sign outside claims that it contains the only gothic arcade in the Americas. I'm not sure what that means, but it was still very impressive to see a structure begun almost 500 years ago still standing.

La Capital

That´s how most Dominicans seem to refer to Santo Domingo, the largest city, the center of government, arts, education, and commerce for the nation, and at the same time a fascinating city with a rich history in its own right. This is actually my third visit to the city, and I have to say that each time this unique location reveals to me yet another dimension.

Today I visited the Plaza de la Cultura, which I thought was going to be an aggomeration of big (possibly ugly) modern buildings facing a cement plaza. Far from it. The Plaza de la Cultura is actually an enormous park-like enclosure, housing a number of museums, plus the national theatre as well as various study centers. A variety of palms and flowering shrubs have been planted around the grounds, and there are numerous scuptures, not only of busts of national heroes and artists, but also modern constructions and classical statuary depicting philosophical ideas like the four elements (earth, wind, fire and water). Unfortunatley much of the landscaping is beginning to look a bit seedy and overgrown, although the overall effect is still quite striking.

There are four major museums: Modern Art, History and Geography, The Museum of the Dominican Man (sic), and The Museum of Natural History. Of the four, History and Geography is closed for renovations, and has been for some time, and no target date for the completion of the project has been set. Museum of the Dominican man was closed today due to a power outage of some sort. So that left El Museo de Arte Moderno, and El Museo de Historia Natural for me to visit. Although the options were limited, I was not disappointed.

I am not very knowledgeable at all about modern art, but even from my limited perspective I could tell that I was viewing some very high quality material. There were two levels exhibiting brand new works -- not only painting and sculpture, but also photography, mixed media, and video. There was another level devoted to the permanent collection of 20th century Dominican art. What impressed me most was, as I say, the high quality of the material. This is due to the fact that every two years a competition is held, and the best artists in the nation compete for the honor of being named the grand prize winner. I´m assuming there is some kind of cash prize, but the greater honor seems to be the name recognition and place in the national museum that the winner gains.

I have to admit that I wasn´t exactly thrilled to be visiting the Natural History Museum, until I realized that I could have my own personal guide to the museum, for free. Instant Conversational Spanish lesson -- I was happy! And I was very pleased that I caught most of the content of the explanations that the guide gave. Ivan, who looked to be a about the age of a graduate student, was very well versed in every aspect of the museums collection -- and it is quite a large collection. It includes an exhibit devoted to indigenous marine life of the Dominican Republic, including two enormous whale skeletons. There is also an exhibit of astronomy, which features live video feed from the hubble telescope (if I understood the commentary here) plus the only planetarium in all of Latin America. Another section is devoted to geology, the science of earthquakes, and fossils and minerals. Yet another floor is devoted to the differing ecological zones of the the country, from the pine forest of the central mountain range (I saw that!) to the desert Southeast, to lagoons and marshes and tropical oceanfront. The themes that the guide stressed repeatedly were biodiversity, the need to preserve for the future, and the uniqueness of Dominican ecosystem.

After lunch in the Colonial Zone, I took in a few sights that I had missed the last time I was here, including the ruins of the Franciscan monastery, and the Church of Las Mercedes. I promise to upload photos as soon as I can find the gizmo that I plug the memory card into.

I am left with the very distinct impression that Santo Domingo is a seriously underrated city. The colonial Zone is a UNESCO world heritage site, and within its 16 square blocks are the remains of the first and largest urban European settlement in the Americas. Within the Zona Colonial can be found many firsts of this hemisphere: the first paved street, cathedral , hospital, palace, and university to name a few. Remeber the old poem that began in fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue...Well, when he landed this is where he first made a land claim for the King and Queen of Spain. One of the Palaces in the Colonial portion of the city was built between 1510 and 1512 for son of Christopher Columbus, who was appointed Viceroy of the Indies by the Spanish Crown. (Remember that Jamestown wasn´t settled until nearly a century later, and the Mayflower and the Pilgrims were more than ten years after that. So this place is OLD.) Considering the enormous historical district, plus the museums, and the beaches, and more -- I think this is a truly great city, significant for many, many reasons.

Tomorrow after Church I am hoping to visit the Alcázar de Colón, the Columbus palace. I may check out a gift shop or two as well.

Mercedes

Not Benz...

Thursday was a national and religious holiday, La fiesta de Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes, the Feast of our Lady of Mercedes. There is a story to go with the celebration, which I should know, but don´t. However, the general gist of the day is that St. Mary is a special patroness and protectress of the Dominican Republic and its people. (Something like Guadalupe, patroness of Mexico, for example)

Since it was a school holiday, and people planned to be in church anyway, Fr. Hipólito decided to make it a baptismal day. To my great surprise, he asked me to officiate and preach. I felt humbled and honored.

It was unclear up until the very last moment exactly how many children would be baptized, but it turned out that there were seven. The oldest was about 14, the youngest about 4. Some of the children I recognized from the catechism classes, some I didn´t. The oldest one has been one of the real helpers and leaders of the group, and I was actually surprised that she wasn´t baptized -- until I learned that her drug-addicted mother abandoned her, her father´s whereabouts are unknown, and she lives with her grandmother, who apparently is not too involved in the child´s life. That´s the kind of neighborhood where Cristo Salvador is located, and what the lives of many are like. It is really a blessing for this youngster to have the church in her life, and to have a Christian family to take the place of her birth family. As it turned out, Fr. Hipólito and his wife, Dulcina, served as the girl´s godparents -- they were just as kind and solicitous to her as if she were their own.

The church was fuller than I have ever seen it, and many were visitors, and a good number of those were illiterative. That, plus the fact that there were only a very few prayerbooks to go around, I was wondering how the service would go. Fr. Hipólito instructed me to do things just the way I would at my own church, but too late to arrange for an ersatz aspergillium (the water sprinkling thingamajig I use at the end of the baptismal service to get everyone wet. It´s the same thing that some of the altar guild members call the ´the asparagrasser´. Anyway, nobody got drenched either before, during, or after the service.)

The gospel asppointed for the day was the wedding at Cana of Galilee, and I used it as an opportunity to speak about the ¨miracle¨ of baptism, and the change that it brings about. It was actually a pretty straightforward (for me) reflection, though I did put some emphasis on Mary´s work in bringing her request to Jesus as PRAYER, and how she continues to intercede today (for those about to be baptized, for the church, for the country of which she is patroness).

One surprise, for me, was that Fr. Hipólito´s son, also a priest named Hipólito, came for the service with his wife and three children. Hipolito, Jr. is a fine musician, who plays guitar and has a terrific singing voice. He provided some background for the various choruses that the people sing, which was a real treat for them, because their music is always sung without instrumental accompaniment (well, there are percussion instruments, but no piano, organ, or guitar). He also sang a couple of songs by himself, and he has an excellent high tenor voice. Evidently he has recorded a CD of his music, which I would like to get my hands on before I leave.

Those who have attended a baptism at St. Peter´s know that I make a fairly big deal about the pouring of water into the font. There is good reason for this: baptism is a symbolic washing, not a symbolic dry cleaning, so the water needs to be seen and heard splashing around. Now -- the baptismal font at Cristo Salvador looks like a sink, mounted on a sort of pedestal. In fact, it probably is a sink. And the church does not own anything so elegant as a large ewer for the water, so instead I resorted to pouring the baptismal water from an old plastic Dasani bottle.

As soon as I went to pour the water, with all the splashing and attendant drama, it immediately began draining from the font: I was trying to say the prayer of blessing over the water while holding my hand over the hole through which the water was flowing out. By the time I finished the prayer there was about a half-teaspoon of water in the baptismal font. So much for dramatic symbolism. For some reason, I had reserved about a half-cup in the old water bottle, and with that, the deed was done. I believe that theologically speaking, it was still a valid sacrament.

And anyway, it was a joyful sacrament. So many smiles, so much laughter, so many tears. What a privilege to be able to be there at that moment.

And what a privilege that St. Peter´s was able to participate in a very special way. Shortly before I left, I was given a donation for Cristo Salvador that had been collected by the preK and Kindergarten Sunday School class. It was a relatively modest amount of money, but I know that a little bit can go a very long way here. I had decided to do something special with that money, so I gave it to the women of the church, who used it to create something that we in the US take for granted -- food and drink after church. The crowd was large, but the food made a huge impact -- there was hot chocolate (really good Dominican style, sweet and spicy with cinnamon and cloves) a banana, and a roll for everyone. You cannot imagine the impact that having a bit of food after the service made, and you wouldn´t believe the gratitude and wonder of the people. Thank you, thank you, thank you, pre-K and Kindergarten class. You really blessed many people that day. BTW, I also made three platters of finger sandwiches (a very ambitious undertaking in my miniscule kitchen) which I wanted to share as a sort of typical food that we serve on special occasions. Most Dominicans are flabbergasted that we have coffee and refreshments after every Sunday morning service.

Later in the day, I was invited to a festive meal with the Fathers Hipólito and their families. His son and daughter were there, with the daughter-in-law Lilian, and their three children, and Lilian´s mother Paulina. What a blessing to have conversation with the clergy and their wives (in Spanish) after the meal. The diocese of the Dominican Republic is not an independent province of the Anglican communion, but is a member of the same Epicopal Church of which we are members. We talked about the actions of the recent General Convention, the state of the American Church, and the challenges of forming Christians for ministry in our different cultural contexts. It was a rich and rewarding afternoon, which concluded with an invitation for me to preach and celebrate at Hipólito, Jr´s church in San Francisco de Macoris.

The last Sunday I was at St. Peter´s before leaving for sabbatical the opening hymn was Alleluia, Sing to Jesus which has that wonderful line about ´Jesus out of every nation has redeemed us by his blood.´ I had a real-life experience of that on Thursday, at La Fiesta de Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes.

Pictures from the Centro Leon

These pictures don't begin to do justice to the gorgeous landscaping and manicured gardens surrounding the Centro. The lower picture shows the entrance to the museum between two large fountains, giving the impression of walking on a bridge over a moat. The other photo shows a side entrance, where the very swanky-looking snack bar is located -- bar being the operative word here -- in addition to Presidente beer, there was liquor of every description for sale. I guess some people need a certain amount of lubrication in order to enjoy the finer things in life...

All kinds of modern sculpture is scattered around the grounds. There is also an aviary and another small museum devoted to the Leon family, an important, wealthy, powerful, and influential clan here.

Cultural Enrichment, part 2

Yesterday afternoon, having recovered from the salsa and merengue dancing lessons, I went back to the school to meet the group that was visiting the Centro Leon. The group turned out to be one other American Spanish language student, and a Dominican American guide named Jason. The American was Antonio (no, I don't have this backwards...) but despite his hispanic first name spoke absolutely not one word of Spanish. He was a rank beginner, come to Santiago for 8 days to learn the language. Hint: immersion language program generally take more than a week to show real results.

Anyway, we piled into a taxi (note to self: Taxis that are called by telephone seem to have better vehicles than those roaming the streets) and took off for the Centro Leon, which is in another part of town. I had actually visited the Centro on first trip here to Santiago, but I found this time that the visit was much more interesting. Part of this had to do with the fact that I speak better Spanish now than I did then, so it's easier to decipher the exhibits. But most of it had to do with the fact that we had a guide to show us around.

The Centro Leon presents the natural, cultural, economic, and social history of the Dominican Republic from prehistoric times to the present. The quality of the material and the manner of display make it one of the best organized museums I have ever been to. The first room is a sort of introcution to the themes of Dominican Culture, using panoramic views shown on a 360 degree surround screen. The next room is explores the natural world that the earliest inhabitants of the island, the Tainos knew. Cultural artifacts from utensils to weaponry to religious objects were thoughtfully displayed, and the guide's explanations put everything in context. understood her anyway,

I insisted that the guide explain to me in Spanish (I'm here to learn, after all), so she had to give her commentary in two languages, first Spanish, then English, for Antonio. What struck me about her English was that it was imperfect -- but I understood her anyway. This was important for me, because I'm enough of a perfectionist myself that I can't stand the idea that I make more than occasional grammatical errors and (I'm told) I have an American accent. Nobody is listening for mistakes, they are listening for the meaning. (except for Angela, but that's what she's paid to do)

The next rooms were devoted to the Spanish conquest and the importation of Africans who were enslaved on the sugar plantations. One of the really horrible aspects of the history of the DR is that as soon as 40 years after the arrival of Europeans on the island, the indigenous population was wiped out by diseases against which the natives had no resistance, and overwork on the plantations. The Spaniards saw no alternative to slave labor to support the economy they were developing. The grimness and horror of the slaves' lives was understated in the exhibition, but the point was made nonetheless.

Other rooms documented Dominican culture in the 19th and 20th century, including the continuing influence of Spain, the rise and fall of the dictator Trujillo, and the current and growing influence of American culture on the Domican identity.

The upstairs of the Centro is devoted to Dominican fine arts, mostly paintings, though some sculpture, photography, and other media are included. Fascinating to see all of the cultural elements revealed in exhibits downstairs at work in the fine arts upstairs. From a very derivative style in the 18th and 19th century a unique vision today. Antonio was no aficionado of modern art, but I found myself actually grasping some of what the artists seemed to be communicating.

A great day, and a fascinating place.

La Maestra

This is my teacher, Angela, posing in front of the whiteboard in the basement classroom where we meet. I´ve said in various posts that she keeps the pace moving, and I like to keep it interesting for her, by thinking up Spanish translations for every excuse for not doing homework. (I always do it, of course. I just like to amuse her...) The dog ate my homework...My baby brother threw up on it...My mother accidently put it out with the trash...It was swept away in a flash flood last night...and -- her favorite so far -- I lost it in the fight with the kid who said you were a lousy teacher...

Cultural Enrichment

Today I had my first experience cultural enrichment -- dance lessons.

As I mentioned in yesterday´s post, I´m working hard in Spanish class. This morning we read and discussed an article from a local newspaper, read and translated a short comic strip, reviewed a chart of irregular verbs (who thought that up, anyway? Aren´t things in this world weird enough anyway without verbs having to be irregular, too? ). I also wrote a composition, listened to and translated a popular song, and did a fill-in-the-blank page of the same irregular verbs. So the pace is pretty rigorous, and we do a lot in a relatively short period of time. So today I was rewarded with a change of pace.

Punished is more like it. I will have to learn the Spanish word for klutz, because that´s exactly what I am on the dance floor. Somehow even the expression ¨two left feet¨ doesn´t fit. Maybe two left paws...two hind paws...

There were exactly three people in the upstairs classroom where we met for dance lessons in Merengue and Salsa: the Dominican guy who was the dance instructor (evidently also a language instructor) and two other American guys who looked as if they must be college students, or perhaps very recent college grads. These were not good odds in terms of finding a suitable partner.

The instructor began by demonstrating the steps, which sounds simple enough to any human being who knows the difference between right and left. But a dance step is a lot more than that -- if it weren´t the ´hokey pokey´ would rate as the most advanced example of human achievement in the art of dance. Can you guess that said dance step is my own highest achievement in dance? (I realize that for some the image of this writer ¨shake-ing it all around.¨ is, if not downright alarming, then at least humorous.)

At any rate, I tend to choke when an instructor in anything asserts, ¨This is really easy!¨ Wrong. So, before we had to deal with the awkwardness of choosing a partner, we had to learn the steps. To do so, the four of us stood in a line while Yulí, the instructor showed us, and Angela, my language instructor sat down to watch. It must have been quite a sight, as no sooner had we started than she broke into gales of hysterical laughter and had to leave the room. I guess the concept of building self-esteem as a pedagogical technique has yet to catch on here in the warmer climes...

I will admit that the idea of Merengue and Salsa dancing is quite easy. But being a klutz means that even one step forward, one step back is pretty advanced for my abilities, as I was thinking How far back? Should I keep my knees bent or straight? Weight forward or back? Move torso or keep it steady? Move arms, and if so, how far and in what direction? Oh look, Yuli seems to be snapping his fingers. Am I supposed to be doing that? Or is it just the instructor who is supposed to do that?

And, of course, the most important thought of all: This is fun? says who? If I wanted to be humiliated, I could do that in my native language...

When instruction in the twirling and whirling started, I stepped back. Good thing, too, because this is when the pairing off began. I didn´t quite catch the conversation between Yuli and the young American lad, but I think it was something to the effect of ´You be the woman,´ ´No, you be the woman...´

Later today we head to the Centro León, which is a local musesm. More my speed in the cultural enrichment department.

School Daze

Spanish classes take up 3 and a half hours each day, Monday through Friday, alternating mornings and evenings. The Institute offers not only Spanish, but also English for Spanish-speaking natives. In fact, it appears that is the largest portion of their business.

Because of my advanced level (ahem...) I am the only one in the class, so I´m getting lots of individualized attention. The classroom is in the basement of the institute, and the room is un-airconditioned, though not uncomfortable with a ceiling fan, and two wall-mounted oscillating fans all going at full throttle. In fact, it´s something like having language class inside of a wind tunnel. Or a giant lung. Often the noise of the fans is so loud I have to ask the teacher to repeat.

The instructor, Angela, is quite young -- I´m guessing about 25 or so -- and was not a language major at college, but instead a marketing major. She tells me she would like to be a family therapist some day. She is expecting her first child.

You may remember that in a former life I was a teacher, so I feel a bit sensitive to pedagogical techniques, pacing, and curriculum content. I have not been disappointed in ALPI. Every day, we discuss Spanish language proverbs, listen to a Spanish popular song (including some really nice Spanish Christian music) do dictation, grammar exercises, and composition. So the content is varied and the time goes quickly. Much of the time we spend simply conversing, and I´ve learned a lot about Angela, who I think in many ways is not a typical Dominican woman. She absolutely refuses to cooperate with the spirit of male machismo here, for one thing, and is quite cynical about the country´s heroes, beginning with Christopher Columbus who she believes was an evil man (her words). So our conversations are lively. Tomorrow I have the first of my ´cultural trips,´so I look forward to that.

I´m off to visit the preschool at Cristo Salvador this morning -- so the adventure continues.

Beauty

Two things happened this morning at catechism class that made me wonder ...

I have been using a Spanish language website to print out coloring pages for the children in the Saturday morning program. Today´s picture was Jesus and the little children. With no instructions about which crayons to use, or what particular colors to choose nearly every one of the older children in the classroom where I was assisting chose yellow colors of one shade or another for the hair of Jesus and the hair of the children. As you might imagine, there is not a single tow-headed blond child in the group. A few have what might be called ´medium brown´ hair, but others have dark brown, and most have black hair.

The other event happened when I spoke with Fr. Hipólito about a young girl in the catechism class who I suspected was illiterate. He told me that, indeed, she could not read, and that in the DR elementary classes can have 50 or 60 students in a single class. Only those who are really motivated, and sit in the front of the classroom where they can hear and see the teacher actually learn anything. Others are left to fend for themselves, which is to say, they are forgotten. (Aside -- one of the really important ministries of the Episcopal Church here is the ministry of education. Many of the local parishes have parochial schools, with relatively high academic standards, and smaller class sizes. Unfortunately, tuition costs keep many bright but needy students away, even with scholarships.)

This girl, who I assumed was about 13, was very dark skinned. Fr H told me that the first time she came to catechism class, she was in tears. She told him her mother had abandoned her because she was prieta, a word which refers to dark skin color. Fr. H reassured her that she was sweet and lovely, and now calls her ´chocolate,´which in our country would be, if not insulting, at least a bit rude. (Though you might name a pet Chocolate).

Here it is a term of endearment, as are terms like morena, morenito, negro, negrita, none of which translates directly into English, but all of which imply something like "darky." It´s unthinkeable to most of us in our country to use such language, but that´s the difference in the culture.

Nonetheless, there are clear indications that beauty equals fair skin, light eye color, and straight hair. Nobody is going around deliberately teaching children that these are the standards of attractiveness, but they are picking them up from an early age. Some of this comes from the ubiquitous American advertising pictures, and some of it, I think, probably comes from the historical heritage. The Spaniards -- i.e. the Europeans -- were the ones with the power and the influence and the money. And they were fairer than most of the other residents.

Is it racism? I don´t know...maybe. But it makes me think. What is beauty, really?

And it makes me wonder what people make of this blue-eyed fair-skinned guy they see around the city.

Contrasts

I said in an earlier post that the apartment where I´m staying is in a quiet and safe neighborhood. That is not to say that it is equivalent to an apartment in a American suburb. For example, there is no hot water, which means that to wash dishes I have to heat water on the stove before cleaning up. Not a huge problem, not even much of an inconvenience, but it is a reminder that this is still a developing country, and things are different here.

As to a hot shower, well, the water in the shower stall is attached to this enormous plastic showerhead that is about the size of a football. On the showerhead there is a switch hot-off-warm. When the switch is activated, the water passes over a heating element inside the showerhead and hot water emerges on the bather beneath. Supposedly. The water is barely tepid, which, believe me is a great deal better than cold (I took a cold water shower at La Comparticion and it was almost painful) Yesterday morning when I went to take a shower, I discovered that the water had slowed to a trickle from the showerhead. It takes a long time to take a shower under such conditions.

I arrived late for class, and explained to Angela, my teacher what had happened. Apparently water outages are just as common here as power outages. It just happens, and everybody takes it in stride.

My other water-based experience had to do with washing my clothes. I was told there was a washing machine on the roof of the apartment building, so I decided to check it out. The first thing I discovered about the 'laundry room' is that it had a great view -- I could see rooftops of buildings, the towers of the Altagracia church, and the mountains in the distance. In the US, the laundry room would be in the basement, so this was a very nice surprise.

As to the washing machine -- there were two derelict machines, vintage circa 1968, both unplugged. I was about to give up, when I noticed an odd-looking device, about the size and shape of a laundry hamper, situated next to the sink. Upon opening the cover, I saw that there were two backet-sized receptacles inside. One to wash, one to spin. No hot water, and what water there was had to be put in from the hose connected to the sink. So here´s how to do laundry on the rooftop: Fill the bucket sized receptacle with cold water. Add soap. Add clothes. Wait 10 minutes while the slow and inefficient agitator does its thing. Turn the knob to drain. Wait for water to drain. Wring out the clothes by hand. Put them in the spin bucket. Spin bucket does not work unless leaned upon. Set the timer for the spin bucket and sit on top of the apparatus, enjoying the ride if the load is unbalanced. Replace the clothes into the washing bucket to rinse. Fill with water by turning on the spigot at the sink. Agitate for 10 minutes. Drain. Wring out clothes. Place in spin bucket. Set timer. Sit on Apparatus until the ride is over. Remove clothes. Hang them out to dry.

As far as I can figure, nobody in this country uses a clothes dryer. After all, when it´s hot out all the time, there´s no point when you can just put them on a clothesline.

So...I have been pondering the difficulties and irritations of being in a developing country.

But something happened yesterday to change my perspective on all this. Fr Hipólito picked me up at 4 in the afternoon to go to the church for their weekly Bible study. Since we arrived so early, he decided to visit a parishioner who lived locally. I understood him to say that this parishioner´s mother was ill.

I have only passed by the simple houses, and not entered. Until yesterday. Fr. H led me down the street to a dilapidated wooden gate between two houses (shacks, I should say). From there we descended a flight of uneven and decaying cement steps to a tiny cinder block house. It was the home of Jyosi, who is one of the cooks for the pre-school and and mother of two. The walls, which were painted a variety of different colors, were crumbling and water-damaged in places. The floor was cement. Of course there were no screens or glass in the windows, only louvers to let in light or to keep out rain. The roof was made of the corrugated metal that seems to be the default construction material around here. There was a bit of furniture, and also a fridge, a stove, and a television. I wouldn´t describe the conditions as squalid, exactly, but ´simple´doesn´t capture it either. Really, it was probably my first hand look at living conditions for many in the developing world. This family lived in what I can only describe as poverty. And the irony is that they lived better than many people in this country. Much better.

And they are faithful Christian people, pillars of the church. Both the mother and her teenage daughter are members of their chapter of the Daughters of the King. The younger son I haven´t seen much, as he suffers from severe asthma. The father works on Sunday.

I never did meet the sick mother. But the teenager was sick -- swine flu? or something worse? Fr H gave Jyosi some money to go to the clinic and have her checked. Real ministry, I would say.

And a real contrast in so many ways for me.

Los Dominicanos

I know that it´s dangerous to make generalizations of any kind, and particularly so in the case of making generalizations about people. But here are some observations about the Dominican people that I´ve made:

They are a people who have a profound sense of inner joy and love of life. I always feel such a sense of welcome and acceptance when I am here. The members of Cristo Salvador are so warm and friendly -- but so is almost everybody else that I´ve met. Folks seem to be eager to help, and interested in others, grinding poverty notwithstanding.

Everywhere there seems to be music from boomboxes, but not playing rap or heavy metal or something that I think of as ugly and harsh. They are listening to Merengue and Bachata -- local music that has a beat and a melody and a quick tempo. It reflects the attitudes of this lively culture.

Any excuse for a party, too. The cafes, bars, and nightclubs seem to be active everynight. but people also congregate on front porches, on the sidewalks, and in the parks. This is a sociable group and people just seem to like being together.

Culturally, it´s a fascinating place. The Dominican Republic was, of course, a Spanish colony at the beginning of its history. (It was also, briefly, under the control of France, then Haiti, and for some time in the 20th century under control of the US, but that´s a longer and more complicated story...) So there is certainly Spanish influence here. During the colonial era there were indigenous Taino people, most of whom eventually died out from diseases that the Europeans brought with them, and against which the locals had no immunity. When the Taino died off, the Spaniards brought in slaves from Africa to work the sugar plantations. So each of these groups -- indigenous, African, Spanish -- influenced the identity and the culture. Music, food, religious practices are all colored by these different elements.

At the same time, the Dominican Republic is in the Western Hemisphere, so they have an ¨American¨ sort of identity and connection as well. Most have friends and relatives in the US as well, in this strengthens that connection. (Nearly every time I´ve told a Dominican that I am from New Jersey they have answered that they have some relative or other in NJ -- usually Paterson, Elizabeth, Jersey City or Perth Amboy)

In contrast to many other Caribbean nations, here in the DR there has been much intermarriage and miscegenation. Almost nobody looks to be European, or African, or indigenous. Instead, most Dominicans have a sort of cafe au lait or caramel skin color and black hair. Eye color varies from dark to light brown, to green and hazel. As a result, Dominicans have a uniquely exotic beauty.

So... those are my generalizations, which, like most generalizations contain some truth. I do love these people and do love being here.

Hasta luego.

Back to School

Yesterday was my first day at the American Language Partnership International here in Santiago. I was picked up from my hotel and brought first to the apartment where I will be living for the next four weeks. I like the location very much -- it is in a safe residential neighborhood, and relatively quiet despite the fact that it is within walking distance of virtually everything in the city center. It´s a couple of blocks from the monument, which is the key landmark of the city. But it´s also near the shopping district, and about a dozen blocks from the school.

It is a furnished apartment. Now, it´s been a good many years since I´ve lived in school-owned or operated housing, so perhaps I had to exalted a notion of what the term ´furnished´refered to. There was, indeed furniture in the apartment. But there was nothing else. NOTHING -- not even a sheet of toilet paper. Other than the actual furniture per se, there was one plate, one fork, one spoon, and one knife. Period. So I have had to go out and buy everything necessary for a four week stay.

When I later commented to the director of the school that I was surprised both by the fact that the apartment had no amenities and that I had not previously been told I would need to purchase whatever I needed to cook, clean, and generally speaking live normally, he responded that of course they couldn´t supply plates, etc. It would be un-hygenic to allow someone to use plates that had previously been used by another person. I guess he has never been to, or heard of the concept of restaurants...Odd enough by itself, but there were bedsheets. Now, think this over -- what is likely to be less sanitary -- bedsheets that someone else slept in or a plate that someone else has eaten off of?

Other than that, the apartment is perfectly adequate, although every room is approximately the same size -- i.e. the bathroom, the bedroom, and the combination kitchen-sitting room are of about the same dimensions, which is to say they are small. There is cable TV, and I´ve been pondering the irony of watching Jay Leno´s premiere show last night. Most of the channels, naturally, are in Spanish, but a handful are in English, so I´ll be able to keep up on the news from the US, which I´m grateful for.

As it turns out, I am the only student in the class, and the only one at my level. The teachers, Angela, is quite energetic, and keeps the pace moving by changing activities frequently. It is not rote memorization and drills. So far, in two days of class, I have listened to Spanish language songs, written a composition, done some verb study, and had a session on Spanish language proverbs. My favorite En boca cerrada no entran moscas, loosely rendered in English -- Flies don´t enter a closed mouth. Wise words.

Seems like a good place to close for now.

Sister Act

Members of St. Peter's who are reading this blog will remember that Fr. Hipólito's Church, La Iglesia de Cristo Salvador in the city of Santiago is our sister parish -- members of the same family of Christ, serving the same Lord, and supporting one another in prayer and any other way that we can. So every time that I am there, it's like a kind of family reunion for me. I hope that some day other members of our St. Peter's family will join me down here, since it's highly unlikely that with visa requirements any of our family in faith from the Dominican Republic will be able to join us in New Jersey any time soon.

A couple of things caught my attention this morning. One was the epistle lesson, which was read by the Senior Warden, whose name is Esmerelda. To hear James' words about 'supposing a poor person dressed in rags comes into your assembly...' took on a new meaning since the majority of the people in Cristo Salvador are, in fact, poor. And the words, ' supposing a brother or sister is without clothing or daily food. If one of you says to him, "Go, I wish you well, keep warm and well fed," but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead' took on a new immediacy and power, in view of what had happened before the service even began.

Fr. Hipólito noticed that there was a youngster in the front pew of the church who he had never met before. (Some clergy are very good at noticing newcomers...) Turns out this little boy of 11 years old had never been to catechism class or church before, but worse, had not been to school in months. What does he do? He has evidently been abandoned by his parents, and lives with his grandmother and his uncle, who expect him to bring income into the household by selling coconuts on the street corner. As tragic as this scenario is, it is made worse by the fact that he is expected to meet a goal of $100RDP per month. 100 Dominican pesos is the equivalent in USD of about $2.78. For that amount of money, this boy remains out of school, illiterate, with no hope for his future. The cycle of poverty grinds on because people simply have no options.

So, I took James' words to heart, and after the service I told Fr. Hipólito that I would see to paying the family the $100RDP so that Victor Emmanuel could go back to school. I think that the Rector's Discretionery Fund can afford that -- and more to get school clothes, and to pay books and fees. Anything else I could have done would have been nothing but faith without works: lifeless hypocrisy.

God give me a grateful heart for the many blessings in my life that I have taken for granted. God grant the sister relationship between St. Peter's and Cristo Salvador grow and flourish to the benefit of your people, the extension of your kingdom, and the honor of your name.
AMEN.

These are two of the boys from the catechism class, wearing the 'salvation' pendants that they made. Most of the youngsters wore their pendants to church on Sunday.
















The view from the balcony of the hotel where I stayed Friday evening in the town of Jarabacoa. The mountains in the background are known as the Cordillera Central. Lots of Dominicans own vacation homes there, since the elevation means the temperature is generally about ten degrees cooler than in the rest of the country and the humidity is more bearable.

This is the map of the trail from La Cienaga to the top of the Pico Duarte. This map is very misleading -- it does indicate that some of the inclines are steep, but leaves out the part about the switchbacks, the rocky terrain, the lower levels of oxygen higher up, etc. etc.

This is the guide, Joel, and his assistant, the cook and the mule driver Rocelio. This picture was taken at lunchtime on Friday, at the parada known as La Cotorra, a word which refers to the wild parrots in the woods there. Notice the size of the knife that Rocelio has in his hand -- in most cases, being in an isolated location with someone wielding a weapon of that size would make me feel somewhat uncomfortable. But the three of us had a great time, and shared a lot of laughs, as well as the hard work of the climb. These two know the mountain like most folks know their back yard.

Down from the mountaintop

Today is Sunday, and it was Thursday that I ascended to the summit of the Pico Duarte, and then went all the way down to the trailhead (i.e. over 2000 meters) in one day. After leaving the summit at approximately 6:30 or 7 a.m., Joel and I went back to La Compartición to reload the mules and then descend. By the time we left, it was already 10 a.m., and Joel was a bit anxious about making it all the way down the mountain before dark. (Plus we still had the hour and fifteen minute truck ride from the trailhead back to Jarabacoa.) So he was eager to have me ride the mule, since we would make much better time that way. I was less eager...Anyway, a better saddle and a bit more training and explanation about how to adjust my weight to counterbalance the motion of the mule gave me enough confidence to try one more time. I am happy to report that I didn't fall off again -- which was a good thing, because I was very, very sore.

I suppose that the descent is never as interesting as the ascent, and my descent was blessedly uneventful. We got back to the ranch by about 6 p.m., which Joel felt was pretty good time. By the time we arrived I had already decided that didn't want to stay another night at the ranch -- although the room was very comfortable and the location was gorgeous, two days in the wilderness left me craving civilization, so I took a tzxi to town and stayed in a hotel in Jarabacoa.

I spent most of the evening icing my leg, which by then was sporting a lump the size of an avocado. Friday I was able to sleep late -- check out time here is generally no earlier than 1 p.m., so I had a leisurely brunch -- important since I was still moving at a leisurely pace (OK, I was pitifully slow). I was back in Santiago by later afternoon.

Which brings me to what I really wanted to share -- this weekend. I have written in previous posts about the catechism program on Saturday mornings. It is the equivalent of our Sunday School program, which they would not be able to run on Sunday morning for a variety of reasons. About 35 children ranging in age from about 6 to about 15 were present, and Doña Adela was delighted to share the teaching load with me. I mentioned before that rote learning, repetition, and memorization are a large part of the curriculum. This is mostly because there are simply so few resources in the kind of poor community where Cristo Salvador is located. So using even the most basic resources make for a new and exciting class for the children.

Following Sunday's lesson on 'take up yourcross and follow' I had the children make cross necklaces with some supplies I had brought with me. Each necklace was assembled with a small wooden cross and six large plastic pony beads on a linen cord. The color of each bead corresponded to an element of the salvation story, i.e. gold for creation, black for sin, red for the shed blood of Christ...you get the idea. This project was wildly popular with the children. So was a coloring page I had printed out for them, as well as a maze, and a couple of simple word games. To use new crayons for coloring, to have in their hands a long and sharp pencil: these things that we and our youngsters take for granted. For the children of Cristo Salvador, these are luxuries.

So was the clothing I had brought with me from the Englishtown auction -- Dulcina, the wife of Fr. Hipólito matched the clothing by size with the children who were there. Most of the kids got something new -- brand new, never used before, not a hand-me down from an older sibling, cousin, or neighbor. Many got several items -- a blouse and pants, or a t-shirt and shorts. For them it was another luxury, and they were really excited.

But there was another luxury, and this is one that is scarce and costly even in our relatively (by Dominican standards) affluent culture. That luxury is attention. To sit beside a child, and offer him my undivided attention, some encouragement, and some academic help -- this was something that seems so ordinary to us. Yet to them it was clearly something very special. When so few of them come from intact nuclear families -- usually the father's whereabouts are unknown, so mother, or sometimes the gradmother, or the maternal aunt becomes the head of househod and the chief breadwinner of the family

The catechism program closes with lunch, and two Dominican specialities were on the menu: huevos con berenjena and moros y cristianos. Again, my language skills put me at a bit of a disadvantage. I knew that huevos were eggs, but what was berenjena? Not meat, I found out, and evidently not some kind of grain. It was, I was told a vegetable. But what vegetable, I wondered, turned scrambled eggs a rather unattractive shade of grey? I knew that I recognized the flavor, that it was something I had eaten before, but coulnd't think of the name of it. And, of course, the Spanish language explanations about what exacltly a berenjena looked like didn't help much. I finally found out that in English it is EGGPLANT, of all things! I could ask for the reciple if anybody back home wants to try recreating this dish in their own kitchen. moros y cristianos is a recreation of an ancient Spanish dish. It's made of seasoned rice mixed with a bit of black beans -- evidently reminded some frustrated or racially bigoted person to the days before 1492 in Spain, when dark skinned Moors (black beans) and light-skinned Christians (white rice), lived together in peace.

More later...

Sunrise over the roof of the Carribean, Pico Duarte, September 10, 2009


Your adventurer-blogger-priest: tired and sore, but definately feeling a sense of accomplishment, and gratitude to God for the sheer physical beauty of the place, as well as my safe arrival on the mountaintop.

I did it!!!

And it about did me in...

Unaccustomed as I am to sleeping in a sleeping bag, on a floor, at about 7000 feet altitude, I didn't get a refreshing rest the night before my wake-up from the guide at 3 a.m. No matter -- I was ready to go, if not physically, certainly emotionally and spiritually.

It was so peaceful and beautiful at La Compartición at that hour, and the moon was so bright a flashlight was hardly necessary.

Rocelio had risen first, and prepared a bit of food for us to eat before the final ascent. We left by about 4, with Joel on foot and me on the mule. BTW, her name was Paloma which I think means something like sparrow or swallow. A lovely and feminine name that belied a creature of Amazonian proportions and sinister disposition.

Riding a mule is difficult. Riding a mule up a steep incline is more difficult. Riding a mule up a rock-strewn steep incline is even more difficult. Riding a mule up a rock-strewn steep incline in the dark is ... Well, you get the picture. The picture of me falling off. Onto the rock-strewn steep incline.

Add to this the auditory imagery of this blogger-adventurer-priest screaming out in pain "mierda! mierda! mierda!" then "that's Spanish for s***!" Joel was not impressed with my linguistic virtuosity. He did, however, rush to my side to help me up. It was obvious that he was worried, and he kept asking if I was OK.

The bruise to my inflated pride was enormous, but I had a feeling it was going to be surpassed by my the black and blue that I could already feel developing on my thigh, and the pain in my chest (right side, not left, so it wasn't a heart attack). I got back up but did not mount the mule again, since I was really shaken. As this was the last leg of the trip, it was very steep, and Joel kept asking me if I really wanted to walk, or if I wouldn't prefer to take the mule. I kept mulling over in my mind which I preferred: pain or fear. Pain, since my right leg was already very, very sore from the fall. Fear of mounting the mule again and falling off. After a while the combination of the pain, the darkness, and the fatigue of climbing at that altitude got the better of me, and I succumbed to the whiles of the lovely Paloma.

I had a religious experience at that point. It's called petitionary prayer -- i.e. praying for oneself. The gist of this oration was something on the order of "Oh God, please don't let me fall off this mule again, and I promise I'll never do anything this stupid as long as I live." Then I asked for the intercession of St. Francis, my patron, and patron of animals, for good measure. I also threw in a word to St. Mary for good measure, remembering her donkey ride to Bethlehem. Suffice it to say that the Christmas carol popularly known as The Carol of the Beasts will never have the same cachet for me. "I said the donkey all furry and gray..."

Well, those prayers were answered, and we made it to Valle de Lilis, which is the last stopping point before the final ascent. I had read, and Joel insisted that it would only take about a half hour to reach the summit. But we would have to do it on foot.

I'm sort of amazed that even with my injuries, I had enough determination, or adrenaline, or sheer stupidity to forge on ahead. As we made our way to the top, the sky was already beginning to lighten, and suddenly the grey of the sky was streaked with red. "Rosy-fingered dawn," were the words that Homer used, I believe in The Odyssey. Something about an experience like that left me speechless enough that someone else's great words were better than anything I could think up on my own.

We reached the summit just before sunrise, and scrambled up some boulders to the summit. El techo del Caribe -- the ceiling of the Carribean. A simple plaque, a Dominican flag, and bust of Duarte marked the spot. Joel and I waited together, the heavy silence broken only by the steady wind. The skies turned form grey, to red, to gold --the sun rose, and I was there.

Words of congratulations. The obligatory snapshot. A sense of accomplishment.

As we walked back to the Valle de Lilís where we had left the mule, again, someone else's great words were better than anything I could think up on my own. This time it was an old gospel hymn that came to mind. I sang it mostly to myself, but loud enough for Joel a few paces ahead of me to hear:

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
consider all the worlds thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed:
Then sings my soul, my savior God, to thee
How Great Thou Art, How Great Thou Art.
Then sings my soul, my savior God, to thee
How Great Thou Art, How Great Thou Art.

More adventure

I woke up before six to arrive early with the guide to the park. The staff had left breakfast for me: a ham and cheese sandwich and lemonade. Nobody was around to make coffee.

We took the 'truck' to the trailhead at the park. Spoiled and self-absorbed American that I am, I thought that we might make the short ride in a 4 X 4. Well, the trip took over an hour, and the guide, the supplies and I were all in the back of a sort of flatbed truck that had been fixed up with benches. It looked something like those transports that armies in third world countries take their captives onto, to bring them to some place where they will never be seen again.

About half of the truck ride was on paved roads, the rest on dirt roads. And not well maintained dirt roads -- they were full of potholes, and we bounced up and down the whole trip. Joel, the guide, seemed to know everybody we passed. He was forever waving, whistling, and shouting greetings to folks on the side of the road. When he hollered at them that he was going up the mountain, it was clear that even though he has done this trip many, many times before, he was just as excited about going up this time as if it were his first time. Frederick Buechner once said something to the effect that call is where your deep joy meets the world's deep need. I think Joel has a calling -- and I'm deliberately using spiritual language here -- to take people to this awe-inspiring place.

When we finally got to the park entrance and the trailhead, Rocelio the assistant guide (the cook and manager of the mules) was already there with three mules. One was the pack mule that carried the food, supplies, and our luggage. Another was there in case of emergency. The third was in case I should need to ride instead of walk at some point. IN CASE...

Joel and I started on ahead of Rocelio who finished loading the pack mule. One mule came along with us, but not on a lead, just walking beside us. So it began...the first portion of the trail went through a sort of tropical hardwood forest beside the river. Joel was explaining to me what wonderful animals the mules were -- how intelligent, how gentle, how strong. So we walked along in the shade, enjoying the sights of a lush forest, the sounds of birds in the trees and the river flowing briskly in the distance. Man and beast at one with nature. What could be better?

What unfolded next was like something out of an episode of I Love Lucy, if she had done a Dominican Adventure sequence. The gentle,intelligent mule bolted off on her own -- running down a side path toward the river. Joel ran after her -- and since he was in such good shape, he ran FAST.

But not fast enough. After a good while the mule ran out from the path, and took off in the direction from which we had come. Joel was right on her tail. Even with my limited language skills, I could make out that he was yelling at me that he would be right back, to stay put, and not to budge from in front of the spot where I was, so as to keep the mule from making the same detour when she came running back.

So I waited. And waited. Finally Joel appeared without the mule. He was hoping (assuming) that Rocelio would track her down, and eventually catch up with us, bringing all three mules with him.

So off we went again. What I saw around me was really the whole reason that I had chosen this adventure in the first place. The scenery was truly breath-taking: the swiftly running river, crested in white, giant palms, vines hanging from the treetops. After crossing a small tributary of the main river, we paused at the first parada for a brief rest. A little further on there were a couple of cabins, and an old man who I assumed was a sort of caretaker for the government property. He gave me a walking stick with words that I understood to mean "you are going to need this!."

He was right -- the trail almost immediately became steep. Very steep. Most of the trail at that point was quite muddy, and what wasn't muddy was sandy, making the footing very slippery. Before long, it wasn't just the scenery that was taking my breath away. It was about two hours to the next parada, and by then, I was already exhausted. Exhilarated, too -- by then the scenery had changed and as we mounted higher, the flora became a forest of giant ferns and what looked to me like bamboo, but which Joel identified as caña brava, evidently some kind of plant distantly related to sugar cane, but not edible. Overhead we heard wild parrots, and, in the distance, woodpeckers.

Before long, Rocelio caught up to us with the cargo and the mules, and I was mounted upon one of them. Of course it was the selfsame beast who had earlier nearly escaped. This gave me pause. As did the fact that when it comes to land-based transportation, I prefer the kind that has a steering wheel and seat belts. A mule has neither. Lesson: riding a mule is not like driving a car. Or a bicycle.

Very quickly I was learning the meaning of the phrase, "It's going to be a bumpy ride." Later, I was to learn the meaning of the term "Saddle sore." Personally. But first, I had to learn the meaning of the charmingly inspirational words about how if you fall off a horse you should immediately get back on. The same sentiments, I assume, apply to mules as well. At any rate, they applied to me, and I got back on.

The trail got more and more steep, and more rocky. And the scenery got even more astonishing. Before long, there were no more palms, no more ferns, and we had entered a pine forest. We stopped for a lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches and pink lemonade, which got stirred around pretty well on the mule ride.

I just can't begin to tell you how gorgeous and inspiring the scenery was. Wonderful. Most of it I saw from the back of the mule, but there are some portions of the trail that were too treacherous to take on the back of a mule, so I had to walk those. Most of those portions were on a part of the trail known as la vela, which means 'the candle.' I didn't get the connection, but then again, I was busy just trying to put one foot in front of the other without falling off the ridge and tumbling to a hideously painful death.

Eventually, by late afternoon, we reached our last parada of the day, La Compartición. This was an encampment in a kind of wide ridge between two mountains. It was pretty basic -- no electricity, no telephone, although there was running water. I spread out my sleeping bag on the floor of a guest house that could easily have slept 100 people. (It's amazing how much room furniture takes up. When you've got nothing but a floor, four walls, and a ceiling, you can pack a lot of people in. When you are the only person in such a place, it's downright spooky.)

Rocelio prepared coffee, then dinner, in the kitchen. Cookhouse would be a better term. Very basic -- there were a couple of deep cold water sinks, tables attached to the wall as a place to prepare food, and something called a fogón, which was a sort of concrete stand with horseshoe-shaped cut outs where the fire is lit. There is no chimney, but instead a kind of vented ceiling. the only light, of course, was the light of the fire.

We eventually ate a sort of stewed chicken, and a side of rice and pigeon peas. It was actually very tasty. It was just the three of us at the encampment, plus the three mules, and a ranger who spends ten days up there, and ten days down in the town below, alternating with another ranger.

Afterwards, they built a bonfire outside -- it was cold. I don't believe I have ever been anywhere that the stars shone more brightly than there at La Compartición.

Joel reminded me that we would need to get an early start the next morning, to get to the mountaintop in time for the sunrise. The conversation went something like this --

Frank: Que hora?

Joel: A las tres.

Now, mathematics is not exactly my strong suit, and listening to numbers in another language is doubly difficult for me. I often have listen two or three times when I hear a number in Spanish like "dos cientos cincuente y cuatro" -- is that five hundred and twenty or is it two hundred fifty? Or is it fifty something...

So the conversation continued:

Frank (expressing surprise) Las tres?

Joel: Si. Las Tres.

Frank: (holding up three fingers and counting) Uno, dos, tres?

Joel. Si.

I went to bed shortly thereafter.

Here are two views of the 'Ranch.' In the first you can see a bridge that crosses over a local river. In the background the pool is barely visible. In the other photo a view of the campus.

Most of the guests at the Ranch come just for a day trip to go rafting, horseback riding, or hiking.

The adventure continues

After a long bus ride to go a relatively short distance -- one of those trips where I spent more time waiting in terminals than actually sitting on a bus, I arrived in Jarabacoa.

This area is at a higher altitude than the rest of the country, and surrounded by mountains. It´s quite a bit cooler, somewhat less humid, and, if it´s possible, is even more verdant. Evidently this is known as ¨The Dominican Alps,¨ and Jarabacoa as ¨The Switzerland of the Dominican Republic¨ -- a somewhat ridiculous designation, analogous to calling Freehold ¨the Paris of Western Monmouth County.¨ i.e. it was nice, but not that nice. Upon arriving at the bus stop, I had to take a taxi to the Ranch.

I was beginning to feel a bit anxious about staying at the ranch, when we had to turn down a rutted and bumpy dirt road to get there. The location was quite isolated, and the check-in was in a simple wooden building with a concrete floor and one light bulb in the ceiling. (Although they did have internet access, as well as those machines that communicate with the credit card companies, which was convenient. For them.) The word rustic came to mind, as did a few other words.

But I had nothing to worry about, since the accomodations were actually quite nice. No air conditioning -- not necessary at this altitude. No TV, either. But quiet, and lavishly landscaped.
There was a huge pool, across a bridge over a river. There was also a game room, a restaurant, and, of course, a bar. It was really a lovely spot.

Shortly after my arrival my guide for the excursion found me. His name was Joel, and he was young, energetic, and amicable with an wide smile. I immediately found him both likeable and trustworthy. Joel was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, which revealed large ropes of muscle that extended from his shoulders to his wrists. So he was very strong and athletic -- which should have clued me in to the fact that this excursion was going to be very physically strenuous and demanding. However, as a friend of mine used to say ¨Other than gravity, denial is the strongest force in the universe.¨ So I allowed myself to think I was in for a lovely stroll in the mountains. More on how I was disabused of that idea in the next post.

Anyway, I had supper at the restaurant, sitting at the bar. And it struck me as very odd that there was no one else at the restaurant, or the bar. In fact, I had not seen anyone other than the Ranch staff since my arrival. I began to realize that I must have been the only guest in the entire resort -- kind of a spooky feeling. And for being the only guest, I didn´t think the service was all that attentive!! And the food was not too great.

The other staff members were watching the lone television on the campus. It was turned to a Spanish language movie channel, where, of all things, Dr. Doolittle 2 was playing. I had never seen it before, nor, I quickly decided, had I missed much. An inane movie about talking animals -- it seemed even more absurd that the animals were speaking Spanish. Everybody knows that if animals actually could talk they would be speaking English, right!

I turned in early -- both since I had to get up early and because the electricity went off as well. Not a planned blackout, but a frequent occurrence here.

The climb in the next post.

The Adventure begins

...not that it hasn't already been an adventure -- being in another country is always an adventure, and I'm learning something new every day about this beautiful and blessed place. But TODAY I begin the mountain climbing excursion.

From Santiago, I take a bus to the city of La Vega. From there, I take a guagua to the town of Jarabacoa. A guagua is a kind of group taxi, a minivan that runs certain established routes, usually within one city, though sometimes from one city to another. They are amazingly cheap -- usually less than the equivalent of $1USD. They are also, for the most part, unimagineably beat up. I have literally seen the drivers taping parts back together with duct tape.

From Jarabacoa, I take a taxi to the 'Ranch' a couple of kilometers outside the town. Here is another part of the adventure -- I not only have to think in Spanish, I need to think in several other languages -- I need to think in pesos, which are somewhere between 32 to 36 to the dollar, and I also have to think in kilometers. I am learning that instead of asking how far is something -- and getting an answer like "75 kilometers" which means nothing to me, I ask "How long does it take to get there?" So I think it's about one hour to La Vega, then another 40 minutes from La Vega to Jarabacoa.

I'm all packed and ready -- as ready as I'll ever be. In addition to hiking boots, I actually had to bring a winter jacket because there can be frost overnight at the top! Plus raingear, since it's almost guaranteed to rain at some point during the trek, plus sunscreen, flashlight, etc. I was also told by a friend who has done this climb to bring my Ibuprofen, so I've got that, too.

So, I'll be incommunicado for a couple of days. The adventure begins...

"Let's have a party!"

Sunday -- the first time that I've celebrated Eucharist in over a month. Vacation or no, sabbatical or no, it was good to be back at the altar. And it was really good to be back at the altar at Cristo Rey.

As you can see from the picture, the children generally sit separately from their parents, in the front, where Fr. Hipólito can scold them if they're not paying attention. In truth, very few of the children's parents come to church anyway, and very few of the children live in two-parent households. Most commonly, the father abandoned the children in search of better opportunity-- usually in the US, although sometimes in Spain or other European countries. I have the feeling that most of these men don't actually leave intending to abandon their families, but after living in a new country for a couple of years and not earning enough money to bring over wife and children, they simply become discouraged, and, feeling lonely, take up with a local woman. One thing leads to another and...before long they have a child together and he's building a new life for himself. I'm not defending this, of course, just noting it as one of the sad realities of a life of poverty. I forget which of Junot Diaz' books featured the preceding scenario, but if anything I'm saying in this blog sparks anyone's interest, I encourage you to pick up one of his books. Drown is his collection of short stories, while The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is a full-length novel. Each book is disturbing in its own way, but nonetheless a realistic portrait of a people group most of us are unfamiliar with.

Anyway, back to the children and the church. Church didn't begin in the way which we are accustomed to. There's no organ, so obviously there's no organ prelude. Instead there is a sort of spoken prelude, which consists of Fr. Hipólito coaching, teaching, haranguing, and joking with the people. I didn't catch quite everything he was saying, although there were reminders to the children not to talk in church, encouragement to those unbaptized to be baptized and to have their children baptized, and, of course, an introduction for the man who needed no introduction -- me.

The service began with a lively opening hymn. Clapping, dancing in place, and a rhythm section of drum, guero, tambourines made for an explosion of joy to begin worship. EVERYBODY was singing loudly -- and, of course, from memory, as there are no hymnals. There are no Prayerbooks either, which is a bit more problematic, since the service is harder to memorize, especially the longer sections, like the creed.

After we said the Glory to God one of the music leaders -- I should say 'cantor,' but that seems a rather exalted title for what she did -- led a sort of 'call and response' style of song the gist of which seemed to be ' listen to the word of the Lord. Open our ears to hear/ our hearts to obey.' That's a very rough translation. But what was so striking was the purity of the song leader's voice -- she sang with clarity, and was answered with absolute sincerity. It was really very moving.

So I preached, and this was the first time that I offered a sermon without first having it corrected for grammar and comprehensibility by a native speaker (thanks for all your help in the past Mayra, Sal...) And of course this had to be one of the most difficult gospels in the whole lectionary -- the one about the Syrophoenician woman who asked for Jesus' help to heal her sick daughter. Jesus anwered her with that line about how it's not right to take the children's food and give it to the dogs. Not the most encouraging passage in Mark's gospel -- and what really gets me is that I -- as the humble servant of the Lord -- never get to talk to people that way. (Not that I wouldn't like to sometimes, but that's another blog...) So, after I had read the gospel the same thought occured to me that occurs to most preachers in such moments, namely Why didn't I choose to preach on the epistle? My Spanish is improving all the time, but since I'm still not ready for extemporaneous preaching I preached the sermon I had prepared.

What I really loved about preaching this time at Cristo Salvador is that I felt so deeply the emotion and the passion and was able to express it in words that are not my native language. The congregation was very encouraging -- smiling, nodding their heads, and letting forth with the occasional 'Amen' at critical points in my delivery. Although I did feel a greater confidence in Spanish than I have felt before, I still had worries about using words correctly, especially in the unique context of this gospel. You see, in that line about giving the children's bread to the dogs, there is some dispute amongst Bible translations about how best to render the word 'dogs.' To use the equivalent term for 'male dog' is apparently not quite accurate to the original meaning. But 'female dog' or 'mother dog' has the same connotation in Spanish as the equivalent terminology in the English language. Or worse, perhaps. Imagine the tension I was feeling hoping that I was not fracturing the words of our Lord and making them into something along the lines of 'it is not right to take the children's food and give it to b****es.'

I guess I avoided that pitfall since no one ran from the church screaming, "Heresy! Heresy!" Although a few people did run out of church to answer their cell phones. Or to use the bathroom. Which was one clue that I was really in an Episcopal Church.

Actually, the sermon was received very warmly. Including by Fr. Hipólito who gave his own personal commentary on my sermon after I was done. Not that he didn't like it -- he did. He just wanted to reiterate a few points for emphasis. I suppose that my sermon must have been relatively short by his standards.

The point in the Spanish language Eucharistic liturgy that I like best is the fraction. "Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us/ therefore let us keep the feast." In Spanish the line "let us keep the feast" becomes Celebremos la fiesta! Loosely translated: Let's have a party!

It was and we did. With energetic music, so much love, and so much enthusiasm, it really was quite a party. And we didn't even have coffee hour.