Father Frank's Dominican Adventure

Reflections on the climb

2009-10-15T08:13:00.000-07:00

Up-Hill
by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

I´ve said in earlier posts that somehow I find the words of others more fitting and more moving than my own when I´m trying to express some profound sentiment. Most of the climb up the Pico Duarte I was thinking about the above poem of Christina Rosetti. In reality, the road up the mountain was, indeed, uphill all the way. It did indeed take the whole long day -- from morn to night. As it was for Rosetti, my own physical journey was metaphor for the spiritual journey. Some reflections then:

1. It ain´t easy. In 21st century USA we seem to have developed a sense that life should be easy, smooth, and problem-free. Maybe it´s because we have found so many ways to protect ourselves from the physical difficulties and discomforts of this world -- we are accustomed to heat in the winter, air conditioning in the summer, ample food when we are hungry (and when we are not), closets full of clothing to choose in whatever weather or season, cars and trains and planes and buses to transport us from one place to another without the effort of walking long distances.
Try as we might to avoid the reality: the road winds uphill. The way is steep and rocky. Sometimes the exertion is arduous, and seems more than we can bear. Here in this country I have been aware, every day, of how much steeper the way is for the average journeyer in the Dominican Republic. So many have little to shield them from the difficulties of life. Some collapse along the way, and give up, because the exertion is too great. But some manage to continue, finding the strength and the determination to put one foot in front of the other.

2. You need a guide. Joel and Rocelio knew the way to the top of the mountain. They loved their work, and counted it a joy to be able to be on the journey to such a remarkable place. Both were confident, sure-footed, and strong. And they watched out for me, doing their best to keep me on the path. And at the point when I was injured, they showed genuine concern.
Such is the spiritual life, too. All who walk the uphill way of the journey in Christ need guides. I have been so blessed to have so many guides and companions on the journey -- guides who have been sure-footed, confident, and strong when I have been weak. I hope and pray that I have been so to those entrusted to my care.

3. Sometimes you need a mule. I doubt that I could have ever have made it to the summit without the aid of Paloma. Although she had something of a mind of her own, in the long run she knew her job and she did it. Without complaint, without asking questions. When I couldn´t walk, she did the walking for me. When I couldn´t carry my own weight, she carried me.
We are so used to being independent, free agents, we forget that we can´t do it all, and we can´t do it all the time. And to be carried by the mule was not a passive endeavor anyway. I had to learn how to shift my weight to counterbalance her movements -- when to lean forward, and when to lean back. And I needed to learn to hold on and trust the instincts of the pack animal.
I am grateful for so many who have carried my weight, when I could not go any further. They are hard working, faithful servants who uncomplainingly, without asking questions, forge ahead, seeking only the most meager of rewards.

4. There is beauty along the way. It wasn´t just the sunrise on the mountaintop that was inspiring. There were flowers along the steepest places in the path. There was the song of wild parrots in the distance, and the tapping of woodpeckers above. There were breathtaking vistas of mountains and valleys. There were remarkable sights, like giant ferns.
So often, when I´m forging ahead, putting one foot in front of the other, I forget to pause for a moment, and notice the beauty around me: the love of friends and family, the sight of some natural wonder, the joy of accomplishment. It is not just the arrival that matters, it is the way itself that matters.

5. It´s important to take care of yourself along the way. Climbing the mountain, arduous as it was, did include moments of rest. We stopped to eat, to catch our breath, and to sleep. Without these moments of refreshment and relaxation, as brief as they might have been, the climb would have been sheer drudgery.
God has blessed me, and the congregation I serve has been generous to provide this period of sabbatical rest for me. But I need to learn a rhythm of work and rest that allows me to take care of myself daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, and not just for a longer time once every 7 years.

AMDG

Christ the Redeemer

2009-10-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

Arms outstretched, looking over the city...looking over his people with benevolent care and love.

Another Mountaintop Experience

2009-10-14T07:34:00.000-07:00

I´m not really much of one to sit on the beach and soak up the rays, so in some ways it´s a bit odd for me to have chosen to be here in Puerto Plata which is a huge resort destination. However, I´m not in one of the 'all inclusive' resorts, but a very small apartment hotel at the very edge of the downtown, along the malecón (sea walk), across the street from a quite small but very non-touristy beach. So I have been swimming each day, and enjoying the view and the breeze from the balcony as I read or just sit in quiet.

But since I´m not a beach person, I have wanted to explore a bit, and yesterday went to Monte Isabela, which is looms over the city at about 2600 feet. This time I did not walk to the top, nor did I take a mule -- there is a cable car. Standing on the platform, looking up the steep slopes and seeing the mountain top in the distance I thought, ¨I´m going up there?¨ And then when I saw the cable car appear in the distance I thought, ¨On THAT thing???¨ I have something of a fear of heights, and I kept looking at the size of the cable car (large) in comparison with the cable that was holding it up (slender) and having second thoughts...

I decided to put myself in the frame of mind that I was taking a bus ride up the mountain, and that the bottom of the car was not in mid-air, but instead resting solidly on terra firma. Amazing what the human mind can do. Sometimes denial is a good thing.

As it turns out, I was the only one in the cable car with the operator. Between taking about a bezillion (is there a word for this in Spanish?) photos, and saying over and over to myself, ¨it´s a bus, I´m on the ground...¨I managed to make it from the bottom of the mountain to the top without the haunting feeling of fear or panic that I usually sense in such situations.

One of the things that tour books don´t mention is that it´s not such a great idea to take the cable car in the afternoon, since it´s often overcast then. The whole point of taking a cable car ride to the top of the mountain is to see the view, which was obscured by a cloud. I did get some great pictures as I rode the cable car to the top before the car actually entered the cloud. I was feeling slightly disappointed about not being able to see from the mountaintop, until I realized that the mist-fog-cloud that blanketed the mountaintop actually had its own unique beauty.

At the top of the mountain there was a huge Dominican flag, plus a snack bar, restaurant, souvenir stands -- typical stuff you´d expect to find in a touristy area. There were also walkways winding through what was a sort of botanical garden. Supposedly there are over 200 varieties of flowering plants in the area. I didn´t count, but there were quite a few, plus giant ferns, palms of various descriptions, and other exotic plants. Strolling along the pathways, in the cool of the mist I had the impression of being in a rain forest -- and maybe it actually WAS a rain forest, with the occasional droplet falling from the treetops onto my shoulder. It was a stunning location, and a living reminder of the beauty, abundance, and majesty of God´s creation.

For me, the most impressive item at the top of the mountain was an enormous statue of Christ the Redeemer, standing with arms outstreched watching over the city. It is supposedly a replica of the statue that stands high above the city of Rio de Janeiro. What struck me about statue, which I understand is visible from the bottom of the mountain in clear weather, is that it could be seen only as I approached the top. At first, i had only a vague image of a dark figure in the mist. But the closer I got, the more clearly I could see the figure of Christ. But it was still misty enough that it was not possible to make out the full details of the Christ as long as that cloud hovered above the mountain.

I thought about the statue in the cloud as a metaphor for the spiritual life. Christ is there, present, arms outstretched, watching over his people in benevolent care and love. He is always, always there. But he is not always visible. Faith, says the epistle to the Hebrews, ¨is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.¨ The spiritual journey is something like that cable car ride -- it´s a bit scary, but at the same time exhilarating. It offers a perspective on the world that is not apparent from any other vantage point. The destination, the mountaintop goal, is Christ -- in this world and in this life obscured, not always visible. But he is there, always, always there. One bright cloudless day we will see him in his fullness, every detail.

Ubiquities 2

2009-10-13T08:32:00.000-07:00

Cafeterias, Colmados, and Comedors -- There seems to be at least one of these on nearly every block. A colmado is a corner store and most of them are tiny -- some just about the size of a closet. They seem to sell more beer and water than anything else, but in some you can buy a tiny quantity of flour or oil or sugar or rice. Most appear not to be very clean, and seem to be neighborhood 'hangouts,' with people sitting in plastic chairs outside on the sidewalk, just chatting, maybe with a beer in hand. Cafeterias and comedors are sort of 'fast food' joints with very limited menus. The majority prepare large quantities of one particular combination platter daily usually chicken (sometimes beef or pork) and rice and beans. They are quite inexpensive, and the one time I ate at one, I though the food was pretty tasty. Sometimes a sandwich can be purchased there as well.

Bright colors -- Many of the older, traditional Carribean style Dominican houses are painted in bright colors: robin's egg blue, cantaloupe, hot pink, or canary yellow. It was explained to me (I didn't quite understand this) that the bright colors are more suitable or reflect the light or something of the tropical sun. At any rate, I know I've read newspaper articles in the Star-Ledger about how neighbors complain if a home on their street is painted a garish shade. Not so here.

Chickens. Yes, chickens -- live ones, that is. Both Fr Hipólito's have chickens. I asked if they were for eggs or meat and was told 'neither, we just like to hear their songs.' I've heard the crowing of roosters in the middle of a city just as often as I've heard the barking of dogs. Yesterday I was walking down a main avenue and a chicken jumped out in front of me from behind a dumpster. With a chick in tow. Another time there was a rooster simply wandering around an outdoor market. I think that some of them are rescued from a life of crime -- the cock fights that are popular in some areas of the country.

Gomerías. This is basically a tire repair business. With so many potholes, bumps, and divots in the roads, flat tires are pretty common. So are shops to repair them.

Saludos

2009-10-12T13:01:00.000-07:00

That´s Spanish for ´greetings´and with this blog I send greetings to St. Peter´s Church in Freehold, New Jersey from the people of the Church of Cristo Salvador in Santiago, and Jesús Nazareno in San Francisco de Macoris, where I spend the weekend.

The Church of Jesús Nazareno is quite a bit different from Cristo Salvador. It is located in the downtown part of the city, and the congregation is much more middle class (NB: middle class in this country is certainly less affluent than the middle clas in the US). There is also a colegio -- sort of a parochial school attached to the church.

I arrived in San Francisco de Macoris on Saturday afternoon, in time for their youth group meeting. Their concept of ´youth´ is a bit different than ours in the US. They include young people from ages of 13 up to about age 30. There were about 25 or 30 total in the group, and it began with two youth (who appeared to be approximately college age) leading a Bible study on the parable of the prodigal son. There was prayer, and a couple of songs. Then Fr. Hipólito, son of the priest in Santiago and a priest himself, gave a power point presentation on the subject of ¨Why young people distance themselves from the Lord,¨ using a passage from Hosea as his topic. I was impressed with his teaching, which was solidly Biblical, well organized, and spiritualy challenging. Then the visitors were asked to introduce themselves. Before closing, there was more prayer, and another song.

A couple of differences between youth group here and youth group in the US that I noticed -- this was a very serious group. No entertainment, joking around, or ´fun stuff.´ And no food. I had brought a bottle of water with me which I quickly hid, feeling as if I were doing something verboten every time I tried to sneak a sip. The other thing that I noticed was the warmth and genuine Christian love demonstrated: every person who came into that parish hall greeted every other person personally -- sometimes with a handshake, but more often with an embrace or a kiss. ¨See how they love one another...¨ I thought. I´m not necessarily saying the Dominican way of Youth group is better than the US way, but I do notice there are distinct differences which are related to culture and tradition.

I spent Saturday night with Hipolito and his family. His wife is quite a fabulous cook, and I felt that she made a special effort to create some terrific dishes. Clearly she understands the meaning of Christian hospitality, and was demonstrating it. They have three children ranging in age from 7 to about 11 -- it has been so long since my own daughters were that age, that I´ve forgotten what it´s like to share a meal with children. I really enjoyed the time with them, and had the feeling that these are friends I had known for my whole life - and surely would know for the rest of my life.

Sunday morning I had the honor of preaching at Jesus Nazareno. I also assisted at the Eucharist. A wonderful, wonderful day.

Now things are winding down... with a few days of rest for reading, writing, and a bit of sightseing.

Success

2009-10-10T11:09:00.000-07:00

Just to set the record straight -- not EVERY family in Cristo Salvador is living in poverty. (Nearly every family, but not all...)

Last week I had a dinner invitation to a very gracious and lovely family who are members of the congregation. To be sure, through hard work they have lifted themselves into the middle class (upper middle class). The parents both grew up in the barrio where the church is located, and the father was basically illiterate, and learned to read as an adult through a program at the Church. Despite that handicap, he had a good business sense and an excellent work ethic. He built up a business that (as I understand it) tansports produce from the fields to the local supermarkets. Or something like that. His two young adult sons also work with him.

Dinner was typical Dominican fare, which is to say that it was very flavorful, meat simmered slowly with an abundance of herbs and aromatics, served with rice, beans, and salad. Dessert was absolutely the sweetest thing I have ever eaten in my life. It tasted like pineapple jam straight from the jar, mixed with coconut.

It's encouraging to know that it is possible to lift oneself out of poverty in this country, even with what seems like the odds stacked against one. It offers hope not only to me, but to others in the church, especially since this particular family has been generous with their time and their money to support the ministry of Cristo Salvador.

Give a fish...

2009-10-08T10:57:00.000-07:00

... to a person, and that person eats for a day. Teach that person to fish, and they eat for a lifetime.

There´s a proverb to that effect I remember hearing some time ago. And yesterday I saw an example of that philosophy in action.

Some St. Peter´s people may have heard of Food for the Poor or remember some years ago when we had a speaker from that organization give the sermon one morning. I was a visitor at their center in El Cercado yesterday, and saw the work that they are doing for the poor of this country, and of Haiti, which shares the island.

It was a very impressive operation, which included resources not only for food distribution, but, more importantly, agricultural self-sufficiency. There were about a half dozen hen houses each containing several hundred hens, plus ponds for a fish hatchery where tilapia are raised for consumption. There were also hothouses where tomato plants were growing, plus gardens containing yuca, plantain, and bananas, which are all staples here.

But the organization goes further than that: they have also built schools, medical clinics, and houses. In fact, they have constructed whole villages of simple 2 bedroom homes for local campesinos, replacing the jerry-built shacks and huts that most of the rural poor in this country live in. And they have projects to bring electricity and potable water to the new homes. All in all, a very impressive enterprise run not by US or European missionaries, but by locals, which helps to keep the cost down.

I won´t share the story of how I got from Santiago to El Cercado -- believe me, any attempt to use local transportation here has turned out to be an adventure. But I will share my impression that this organization seems to be doing a great deal of good for a great many people. Sometime in 2010 one of their speakers will be at St. Peter´s, and we will have the opportunity to hear another voice.

Ubiquities

2009-10-06T16:51:00.000-07:00

1. Emaciated, unspayed dogs, typically rummaging through garbage, or lying down on the sidewalk in a motionless sleep so that it appears they are dead.

2. Bancas -- a sort of local betting parlor. More on this later, in another post.

3. Street vendors. They sell everything from clothes and sandals to belts, earrings, and accesories. Also: cell phone cards, chargers, and covers. Food: some of it looks positively awful, although some things are actually better, or at least cheaper and more abundant on the streets -- fruit, for example, of which I buy only unpeeled items -- i.e. bananas, oranges, mangos, pineapples.

4. Haitian immigrants -- they are identified by their skin tone, which is much darker than the Dominicans, who are almost all of mixed race ancestry. They also speak Creole, which sounds a little bit like the French to which it is related.

5. Beggars. I was told NOT to give them money, as many work for crooks who give the beggars only a portion of their proceeds.

6. Shoe shine boys. This is very sad -- most never go to school, and try to eke out a living by charging $10RD per shine, something less than 30 cents. Evidently some of them sniff the shoe cleaning products for a high, as it eases the hunger pangs. Every time I walk on the streets during the day I am asked if I want my shoes shined. This happens even if I am wearing sneakers.

7. Traffic. Cars, taxis, buses, trucks compete for space on overcrowded and inadequate roads. This leads to --

8. Horns blaring. Used nearly as frequently as steering wheels, accelerator, and brakes. I can´t imagine why. No one seems to pay the least bit of attention to a horn honking, no matter how loud or insistent.

9. The love of God for each human being, and every creature under the sun. Good to know when I feel a bit overwhelmed.

Living Sermon

2009-10-05T06:51:00.001-07:00

Who am I to get up in front of a church full of people to preach? What right do I have to offer any word of counsel, instruction, or exhortation? Those questions go through my mind nearly every time I step into the pulpit. And so does the anwer: It has to do with vocation, with the reality that God has called me to preach the gospel, not that I have any right to preach, or even any choice in the matter. And every once in a while, I have the sense that the Holy Spirit is trying to get my attention, and is asking me, "OK Frank, do you really believe this stuff? Are you willing to put self behind your words and DO something about this? Is it just words or is it the Word?'

I had an experience like that on Sunday.

Using the text from Genesis, Sunday morning I preached at Cristo Salvador on the text¨It is not good for a person to be alone,¨ I spoke not only about Jesus´ words regarding marriage and divorce, but also about the church as a community where we learn the meaning of not being alone. It was an important lesson, and I stressed the connection between St. Peter´s in Freehold, NJ and Cristo Salvador in Santiago, DR. We are not alone, but together, praying for one another, working together for God´s purposes.

Just words, or the Word?

After service, I went on a Pastoral visit. The young boy who had been selling coconuts with his uncle reappeared in the church with his two young cousins. (I later learned that he actually had several other cousins in the church, plus a younger sister, but I did not catch the connections until later in the day.) I say reappeared because he had been absent the day before at catechism class, and Fr H had his doubts about whether this youngster was going to be back. Turns out that one of the reasons he was selling coconuts in the street was so that the uncle could take his time away from work to drink.

So it was a pretty desperate situation, and it felt to me as if I needed to go forward with some kind of plan for this boy, otherwise he would never get to school, never learn to read, never again know the kind of experience of support and love that the church community could offer. And the cycle of poverty would continue for him. So I told him that I wanted to speak with his grandmother and the uncle with whom he lived.

So after service, I headed off with him ( his name is Victor Manuel) to speak with his family members. The house, well, the shack, where he lives was quite a distance from the church, but a number of the other children knew the location, and offered to accompany me. Fr H stayed behind because he felt it would be too far for him to manage with his advanced age. So he sent Papolito, the guy who cleans the church, as his emissary. Papolito´s son Andris is about the same age as Victor Manuel, and Fr. H has been making a special effort to watch over Andris, who is a charming , enthusiastic, and energetic youngster. Papolito knows personally that his son is benefitting from the advantages of being involved in church and beings watched over by the members of his community. He might not be able to articulate it, but Papolito (and his wife) are anxious to see their two children escape the life of ignorance and poverty that has kept them trapped.

So off we went, Fr. Frank, Papolito, and about a dozen children, walking the streets and back alleys of a poor barrio. We must have been quite a sight: an American priest in black clerical collar (in that heat!), another adult from the neighborhood, and a dozen kids ranging in age from a toddler to a 14 year old. Once they understood that I wanted to visit Victor Manuel´s family, all of the children wanted me to visit their homes as well. And they were not about to take ¨maybe next time,¨ let alone ¨no¨ for an answer.

It was quite a long walk to the home where Victor Manuel´s family resides. Avoiding potholes and the occasional car, we followed the steep and winding streets for a while before heading down a path. The further we got from the street, the more dilapidated the housing became. The neighborhood is ribboned with streams and creeks, so we crossed a number of makeshift bridges. All the while the children were trying to get a turn to hold my hand. I felt like the pied piper. Or some celebrity surrounded by teeny bopper groupies.

You can see in the photo above the shack where Victor Manuel´s family resides. I have never before in my life seen or been in such a place. Cement floor, no door, bare wooden walls through which light -- and I should imagine, rain and wind -- entered. Very little furniture -- a couple of plastic chairs, a few old wooden ones, a table -- that was all. Windows were simply holes cut into the walls to allow for air and light. In a conversation with the grandmother, the uncle, and a number of assorted relatives who crowded the front room of the shack, we struck a deal. My church and I from the US would provide enough money for Victor Manuel´s fees, clothes, and shoes as long as he remained in school, and as long as he continued to attend catechism class and church. I estimate the cost of this on most months will be $25 or less. (How often I WASTE $25 -- on a shirt I´ll never wear, food that spoils before it gets eaten, a restaurant meal when I could have eaten at home...) I´m hoping to develop some kind of long-range plan for our church´s relationship with Victor, maybe one that could involve some of the children. Fr H will be the one to see that Victor Manuel (and his family) keep their end of the bargain.

That should have been the end of the visit, but the grandmother had explained that she wanted to go the church herself, but was not well enough. So I closed with a prayer, with all of us laying hands on her. Then I took the snapshot you can see above of the large family group gathered outside the home. Victor Manuel is the boy in the center, wearing a white polo shirt.

The pied piper and his groupies did not head immediately back to the church, however, but each of the children wanted be to visit their home and meet their family members. All of the houses were (slightly) better than the one in which Victor Manuel lived, although none would merit any status other than ´shack´for us. This was an ¨up close and personal¨ view of third world poverty for me.

The last home we visited was that of Papolito, where I was greeted by his lively and energetic wife, who rarely leaves the home because of a physical disability that impedes her her ability to navigate the steep streets and the distance to the church. Their house was quite literally falling apart. They showed me a wall that was in the process of separating itself from the rest of the house, and the water from storm runoff that seeps beneath the concrete slab on which the shack is built. The other picture above is of Papolito, his wife Dora, and their son Andris.

The church is the community where we learn the meaning of ´not alone.´ It is the family of Christ where we begin to understand that we are connected, one to another. It is brothers and sisters in the faith, welcoming me into their small and simple homes with a shy smile and expressions of thanks for coming.

Driving me back to my apartment, Fr. H mused that the poor are sometimes more ready to respond wholeheartedly to the gospel, because other than hope they have nothing else.

Questions and (some) answers

2009-10-03T13:32:00.000-07:00

Saturdays is the day for catechism class at the Church, which is done on Saturday since there is not the space to do a (traditional) Church School program on Sundays. Fr. Hipólito picked me up at 8:30 outside the apartment, as usual. We were talking about various subjects, when I realized that we had failed to pick up Doña Adela. Turns out she wan´t coming since she was in San Pedro de Macoris for a diocesan meeting of the Daughters of the King. Not to worry, Fr H assured me, Maribel will be there and the two of you can do it together.

I suppose I would have been more reassured if I could actually remember who Maribel was, but I didn´t. And anyway, she didn´t. Show up, that is. So I was on my own.

Those who have worked with me know that I am quite comfortable leading children´s programs, and really enjoy working with them. However, I quickly realized a couple of things. First: I really wasn´t familiar with some of the vocabulary I needed to know to maintain order. Like: Listen up, people! or Is everyone using their listening ears? I resorted to something I thought was I would like everyone´s eyes up here. Which got their attention (briefly at any rate) when they looked at me as if I had invited them to participate in some sick American ritual of child sacrifice.

The other difficulty I faced was a rather different language barrier. Children seem to lack a sense of what it means that someone is a learner in their native language. They speak as fast to me as they do to each other, liberally using slang and shortcuts as if I understood precisely what they were saying. Which of course I didn´t. Throughout the morning children would ask me questions either mumbling or hollering or otherwise not articulating slowly and distinctly and using standard conversational Spanish. And aware of my priestly work of representing Christ, I smiled benignly and nodded my head after asking them to repeat themselves approsimately 50 times. For all I knew, they could have been asking me, ¨Father, my bratty little brother is bugging me. Can I pound him?¨ and in the name of Christlike charity I was permitting it.

Which brings me to the third and greatest difficulty I faced: Classroom control. Hard enough under normal circumstances, but add to the mix the language barrier, no curriculum or lesson plan, and a group of children aged 5 - 15 with widely varying abilities...you get the picture. Some of the older ones led the singing (more like choral shouting) since I know all of about three religious songs in Spanish. After we had sung them repeatedly, even the most patient of the bunch grew a bit restive, so a couple of the older ones led them in some songs that they (supposedly) all knew.

During which time, I hurriedly had to decide what the heck I was going to do by way of instruction. Over 20 years of priesthood I have learned -- in a pinch, use the Prayerbook. In the back is The Catechism, which I thought would be a dandy idea to use in catechism class. Those Episcopal, Roman Catholic, and Lutheran Christians of a certain vintage will remember the question and answer format as well as the memorization from dreary weekday afternoon sessions in the church basement. I chose 5 questions and answers from the Catechism, and proceeded to try to teach them to the children. Occasionally, when I grew exasperated with the inattention of some, I recovered enough language ability to ask them ¨Do you want me to go back to the United States right now?¨ which got the older ones upset enough to shush the younger ones briefly. Guilt and manipulation -- a great strategy in any language or culture.

At one point Fr. H came in to see how things were going -- believe me when I say that he gets their attention. The children know how much he loves them. And they also know that he stands for no nonsense. He gave a nice improptu lesson on Dios creador de todo lo visible e invisible. He later encouraged me by saying that in his experience, he has come to realize that you will never reach everyone, and if you reach 3 out of 100, that´s far, far better than reaching no one at all. Wise words, I thought.

Afterwards we did the most simple art project. I had purchased 5 large pieces of posterboard to make a ´Jesus loves the children´ mural. I traced each of their hands and had them draw a picture of themselves inside the handprint then write their names, too. They adored doing this project, and really threw themselves into doing the best they could.

The differences in the children´s abilities were very striking. Some could hardly write at all, some wrote legibly in good penmanship. One boy -- and I didn´t think he was fooling around -- wrote his entire name backwards. Isn´t that an indication of some kind of learning disability? If it is, I seriously doubt that the child has been diagnosed, and if he has, I doubt he´s getting appropriate intervention. Another tiny little boy seemed to be quite bright -- memorizing the catechism quickly, answering questions, etc. I thought he was quite advanced for a five year old. Turns out he was 8. I don´t know if he was battling a medical condition or if his stature is simply the result of malnutrition.

Which brings me to lunch, which was Comida Criolla -- white rice, abichuelas -- Dominican style beans which are much tastier than Mexican refried beans, and a piece of beef that had been simmered with many herbs and vegetables. I have said before that for many, if not for all, this is the best meal they will have all day, maybe all weekend. Fr H often has no idea where the funds for the next meal are coming from, and then a friend will give him a couple of thousand pesos, or someone will donate a sack of rice, or a couple of pounds of meat, and like the loaves and fish -- there is enough. This is faith in action.

When I got back to the apartment I was exhausted, and took a 2 hour nap.

Even more odd...

2009-10-02T06:43:00.000-07:00

The museum of ham was, indeed, odd. But not by any means the zenith of oddity in the DR. Possibly the Museo Folklorico de Tomás Morel could claim that title. This being my third trip to Santiago, but not having seen this particular site before, I decided to use my free (except for homework) time to visit.

When I got there at 3:15 yesterday afternoon, I found it was located in a rather unlikely gritty commercial district, about a block from a busy thorofare. I also found it closed. The building, a dilapidated 19th century home with a wide front porch, looked so negledted that I wasn't sure if it would ever open again. Turns out that like a lot of places here, the museum closes for a couple of hours in the midday, for folks to take a long lunch, which is the main meal of the day, and a brief siesta.

Let me note that the dilapidated exterior did not hide a lovingly restored or well-maintained interior. If anything, the interior was in worse shape. The floor sagged in various places, and a couple of times I thought I was going to fall through to the basement. Where the floor did not sag, there were planks and boards of varying heights and shapes which I presumed were placed strategically around the exhibit area over the worst areas of deterioration. The entire floor was covered in what appeared to be a kaleidoscopic array of different colors and designs of contact paper.

In theory, the museum houses the collection of folk art of a Dominican writer named Tomás Morel. Most of his personal collection seems to have consisted of carnaval masks worn by revelers in the annual pre-Lenten celebration of Carnaval, also known in other locations as Mardi Gras. Beats the heck out of pancakes supper, I'd have to say.

The masks are absolutely enormous -- most having 'horns' of three feet or longer. Many are comical, some frightening, and all are meticulously constructed. The curator (an exalted title for the guy in blue jeans and a t-shirt who seemed to be the boss) explained that every year a contest is heldfor best original mask, and that most of the winning entries eventually end up in the museum.

But so did some other stuff, for example the reproduction of a rustic kitchen of a campesino, complete with the oven that locals use to bake yucca bread. There were some Taino artifacts, some religious pictures and statuary related voudon and santería which I found creepy, and a couple of murals on the walls of a ramshackle backyard. There was also a haphazard collection of other stuff I can only classify as junk: a bunch of old typewriters, movie projectors, and faded and discolored matchbook covers.

Evidently I impressed the curator -- I was asking a lot of questions, and must have demonstrated if not a basic knowledge at least a respect for Dominican culture -- when I left he gave me a book of Tomás Morel's poetry. Glancing through its contents, I noticed an ode to John F. Kennedy. And also another ode written to mourn the death of Walt Disney.

Odd.

An oddity

2009-09-30T15:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

¨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

2009-09-28T06:45:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-28T06:24:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-26T14:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-25T16:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-23T16:22:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-23T15:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-23T06:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-22T11:09:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-21T07:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-19T14:14:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-18T08:00:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-16T07:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-15T09:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-13T14:40:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-13T14:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-13T07:59:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-09-12T13:46:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2009-09-12T12:38:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-11T16:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-11T16:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-11T07:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-08T06:41:00.000-07:00

...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!"

2009-09-06T11:09:00.000-07:00

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.

Let the little children come

2009-09-05T13:30:00.000-07:00

Padre Hipólito picked me up at 8:30 this morning, and we were off to the church for the Saturday catechism class. Along the way we picked up Doña Adela, a retired teacher who is the catechism instructor.

Well, if you think this blog is boring, consider that there are many, many other things on the internet that are either fascinating or useful, or maybe both. For example: I was able to discover Spanish language Christian Education resources. Blessedly, they included a sort of a script for the instructor to read, which is what I did. With my own embellishments, of course. Those from St. Peter's who have been to our 'Wiggle and Worship' would have recognized the format. I had brought with me three new boxes of 64 crayons, and began to show them different crayons, asking what color the crayons were.

Except that I chose only green crayons -- there were at least seven different shades. And I went through a sort of 1 Corinthians 12 paraphrase -- "If this one is green, how can this other one also be green?" and "What fun would this box of crayons be if all of the crayons were ONLY GREEN."

Segue into James and tomorrow's lesson about not showing favoritism to the rich. Treating all people the same. Then into La regla de oro: Spanish for 'the Golden rule.' Ama a tu projimo como te amas a ti mismo. Or something like that. I had the children repeat it about 800 times, which did NOT bore them, since rote learning still seems to be an acceptable pedagogical technique down here.

Finally, I asked about 7 kids to stand in front -- short and tall, younger and older, with dark skin and light skin, boy and girls. And I asked that Who is wearing a pink blouse?" Why, her blouse is different than everyone else's!!! Can she still be a child of God? Yes...because that's what we all have in common. We all fit together like the crayons in the box. All different, all beautiful, each one necessary to make the whole picture.

A reasonably good object lesson, except for the fact that everyone has there own favorite color, which seems to undermine James' notion of showing no favoritism. Fortunately our group theological reflection didn't get that sophisticated this morning, so I don't think I did too much damage to their spiritual development. Anyway, the loved the idea of coloring -- even the oldest. More on that later.

When I finished, Doña Adela led them in singing. I have found that Dominicans love to sing -- from the youngest to the oldest, especially if the song involves clapping, motions, and percussion instruments. I have a few ideas about songs to teach the congregation (and Wiggle and Worship). It was lively and fun.

Finally we went upstairs to the little classrooms off the parish hall -- older kids (i.e. those who could read) and younger separated into two groups. I said they loved the idea of coloring, and when I emphasized that the people pictured needed to have different colored clothing, different colored skin, and different colored hair, they took me quite literally. So a charming little cartoon of children sharing their toys featured little tots with green, blue, and pink hair. And I did not know the word in Spanish for 'punker.' Once again my limited language skills failed me.

Lunch is always part of the program, and there was a hearty meal of Chicken, rice, and beans. I did not hear any whining about 'I don't like this...' I'm sure it was because for some of them this was the only decent meal they would be getting all day. Or maybe all weekend.

Hasta Luego.

All sorts and conditions

2009-09-05T13:21:00.001-07:00

This post is actually from yesterday (Friday) but techno-challenged me couldn't figure out how to upload it properly until just now, so this is already old news...

Honestly, I don’t think of myself as a “people person,” but somehow I seem to have made connection with some very interesting people in my first days here.
Last night for dinner, I didn’t want to have to take a taxi, and really didn’t want to go someplace fancy, so I decided to try the little restaurant right next to the hotel. I knew nothing about it except that it was right next to the hotel, so I was taking a bit of a chance,but I did like the look of the place, especially the fact that there was a second floor patio that looked out onto the beach. I wanted to try more of a local than a tourist place – the better to practice my Spanish. Although there were a couple of people in the bar area downstairs, there was absolutely nobody upstairs. But there was a perfect breeze, and the roof overhead was thatched with palm, so I decided to stay.

The waitress followed me right up with a menu and I ordered a Cuba Libre. I don’t know what it is about those drinks, I can never get them to taste as good as they do down here. Three ingredients: Rum, Coca Cola, Lime juice – what’s so difficult about that? But I am absolutely unable to reproduce them in New Jersey. I asked the waitress what I should order – and she promptly sat down, shook my hand, and introduced herself. All of a sudden I’m in a sort of a tropical Mel’s Diner, and being waited on by Flo, minus the big hair and theSouthern accent.

I ordered shrimp cocktail – how could I resist at 150 pesos, about $4.50. I was surprised that it took so long to arrive at my table, until I received it and realized that the shrimp were just peeled, deveined and cooked right then and there. Not sitting in a bag or a plastic container in the fridge. I took this as a good sign. My waitress, Teresa, sat down next to me while I ate—not a problem since I was the only person in the place. Plus, she explained to me that she was not just the waitress, but the cook also. How’s that for multitasking? She told me she works six days a week at her job, and it’s obviously hard work. I told her I wanted to try a typical dish that she wanted to make. I knew her suggestion was a good onewhen she did not recommend the most expensive item on the menu.

Chuleta Criolla turned out to be a pork chop, but cut in large chunks, and cooked in a sauce with garlic, onions, sweet peppers, white wine, tomato and many herbs and spices. It was not hot, but very flavorful and interesting. Served with the ubiquitous white rice and beans, which they call habichuelas – something like Mexican refried beans, but soupier and with more flavor.

The whole time I was eating Teresa was telling me about her family, her love for the city of Puerto Plata, her ex-boyfriend (the cad!) and her dream for the future of owning her own restaurant. And ofcourse I told her about my family and my work. She was so impressed and interested. I really felt that I had made a great local connection. Since they didn’t serve desserts there, I settled for another Cuba Libre.

This morning, I took breakfast in the comedor in the courtyard of the hotel. As I seated myself at the table, I noticed an English language for Spanish speakers textbook on the adjacent table. Naturally I inquired whose it belonged to, and it turned out to be owned by the young guy who was the overnight clerk. He was Haitian (there are many of them in the DR. They come for the same reason that Dominicans and Mexicans come to the US – more economic opportunity). He had the unlikely name of Welcome Volner.

I told him – half in jest -- that Americans love nicknames, and I began calling him ‘Will.” He didn’t seem to object, and told me about his studies (he also speaks French, and Creole in addition to Spanish and English.) I was stunned when he told me that he was 29 years old – he looked at least ten years younger to me. I helped him practice his English, which I really enjoyed. It reminded me of how much of a struggle it is to learn a new language, but also how much of an excitement and a joy. He told me he loves learning English.

Later in the morning, I walked to the center of town, which was not as far as I thought it would be. I walked along the malecon enjoying the sounds and smells of the sea , but not the sensation of trying to walk carefully so as to avoid the rotten fruit that littered the sidewalk . Evidently there are some kind of tropical fruit that grown in abundance along the sea, and they drop on the sidewalk making a mess everywhere. I forgot to ask what they were, but I was guessing that they were small mangoes, though it’s hard to tell when something is black and squishy underfoot.

I was almost to the very center of town when I noticed, about a block away, the local Episcopal Church. Of course I had to investigate, and so I took a detour and turned to my right. The building was very well kept, and next door was a pre-school of some kind. Unfortunately, a guy hanging around the street corner noticed me looking around, and took it upon himself to ‘help’ me. He claimed to know the priest, although he was not a member of the church. So we walked around the block while he asked around if anyone knew where the priest was or where he lived. I should have taken this to be not such a good sign. Though he finally was able to get me the priest’s telephone number and ascertain that the rector was in Santo Domingofor theday, I should have taken it for another not-so-good sign that next he was offering to show me the sights – the cathedral was a couple of blocks away, as were a couple of museums and Victorian houses.

BTW, his name was Jesús. Theological reflection here about seeking and serving Jesus Christ in all people – reminder of the baptismal covenant. Even when, as Mother Theresa once said, he is in “distressing disguise.” Even, I suppose, when he opts to disguise himself as a really annoying person you can’t shake.

I quickly developed an interest in visiting a very high-end looking souvenir store across the street. I knew that Jesus –sorry Jesús – would not be welcome in there, so I decided to check out the gold jewelry that was on sale. Like as if I would be dumb enough to spend all my money on the first day.

Anyway, when I left, he was right there, so I ducked into a nearby bar that also happened to be the neighborhood internet café, from where I intended to send this update. Unfortunately, the lone computer was occupied, so I sat down at the bar. Then I began to wonder: What does one order at a bar at 10 in the morning? I was grateful that I remembered theword for soft drink, which is refresco. I should have known by then that Jesus – sorry Jesús – would not be deterred by a little obstaclelike a bar. Finally, after he told me about his hungry children, I paid him to go away with a bribe of 100 pesos,which is the equivalent of approximately $2.85.

More theological reflection here about paying off Jesus with a small bribe. Isn’t that what so many try to do with a little $ in the collection plate from time to time?The bar, BTW, was a ‘historical site’ – the oldest hotel in Puerto Plata. Not difficult to believe from the dilapidated appearance. Hotel Castillo upstairs, Sam’s Bar downstairs, with maps on the wall, flags on the ceiling, and a generally decrepit atmosphere. Evidently it is the hangout for American expats, as both of the people I met that morning were Americans living in Puerto Plata. Joanne was originally from Pennsylvania, and lived in the back room of the hotel. Her friend, whose name I didn’t catch, was originally from Woodbury, NJ, but had not lived in the US in over fifty years. He also had the oddest looking beard I have ever seen in my life. If I didn’t know better I would have thought that it was theatre make-up – a fake-looking blue-black nest of curls that looked as if it had been glued onto his face with spirit gum. Both of them looked as dilapidated as the Hotel Castillo itself. For some reason it made me think of a dissipated Hemingway haunting a bar in Old Havana.

Interesting people: Teresa, Welcome, Jesús, Joanne, the guy with the beard. Oh, and Jesus.

2009-09-05T10:42:00.000-07:00

This is the view from the front balcony, showing the pool. In this picture, it's a little difficult to make out the lovely murals on the wall.

2009-09-05T10:35:00.000-07:00

This is the view from the back balcony of the room at Hotel Lomar.

Day One

2009-09-03T13:42:00.000-07:00

I had'nt actually expected to start my blog on day one, but so far, it's been eventful enough that I figured I had better get started before I forget.

Who'd have thought that even an airport shuttle would be an avenue for the work of the Holy Spirit? God is full of surprises.

For the first time in about 15 years, I had to fly out of JFK (this was in order to get a direct flight and a better price). But, of course the shuttle doesn't GO directly to JFK, it goes to Newark, where you have to change for another shuttle to JFK. I arrived at Newark airport a half-hour before the next shuttle, so had to wait. I was the ONLY passenger on this enormous bus all the way from Jamesburg to Newark, and there were only two of us on the van from Newark to JFK.

It turns out, of course, that the other guy was on the same flight headed to the same city in the DR. (Puerto Plata) We got to talking -- hard to believe, I know, considering how shy I am -- and talked about politics. He was a Dominican American and we were comparing stories of corruption in New Jersey with stories of corruption in the DR. Suffice it to say things are worse down here. (e.g. there are something like 500 generals in the Dominican army which is a fraction of the size of the American army -- this is, of course, so that people in power can get their cronies to earn big salaries, and more importantly, big pensions. Is any of this sounding familiar, people?)

Anyway, it turns out this guy lives in Freehold and is interested in looking for a church.

BTW --- in case youever need to explain to anybody where St. Peter's Church is located forget about 'white clapboard,' National Historic Register, wrought iron fence, 18th century steeple -- just tell them we're across the street from Rita's Italian Ices. 90% of Western Monmouth County residents will know exactly where we're located.

One other blessed moment -- when I checked in to the hotel -- not quite as straightforward a project as one might think, considering the credit card machine was on the fritz, the reception attendant couldn't find a pen, spelled my name wrong eight ways from Sunday (try explaining a French surname in Spanish -- especially when 'v' and 'b' sound almost identical in Spanish. After trying for about 5 minutes, I was almost ready to sign my name as Frank Hetver, but decided against it since it wouldn't match the passport) -- turns out that the radio in the hotel reception was playing Christian music. Mind you, this was not STAR 99.1, but it was different from most of the music I've heard here. A nice reassurance for me of God's faithfulness.

The hotel is lovely -- right across the street from the malecon ("sea walk") is probably the best translation. The 'tuquoise waters of the Caribbean really are turqoise. A good place to spend my first day and night 'de-compressing.'