As the evening sun settled in, the little elderly man hopped out of the passenger side of a truck and opened the gate to the parish center. His gray hair and wrinkled face belied by his spry manner.
He and the driver approached and shared a few quiet moments with me checking email on my porch before they headed on their way once more.
The next day I ended up riding along with this elderly gentleman. To my surprise and dismay, he jumped out of the truck more quickly than I to open the gate of the facility we were visiting. I made sure to explode out of the truck the next time we came to a gate – beating him out of my seat but only by the slimmest of margins.
I hadn’t the pleasure of accompanying this small unassuming man on any more of his travels in the country side surrounding Banica and Pedro Santana. But I know he traveled far and wide; fording creeks, bouncing along rugged, raggedy roads, crawling high and deep into the mountains.
You wouldn’t know it by his quiet, humble demeanor, but I am told he is a real-life “Energizer Bunny”. He tirelessly travels all over, spending hours with townsfolk and country folk and listening to their troubles and concerns. Occasionally even, he reminds them of some concerns they have managed to forget in their excitement at his visit – for he knows them and their lives well. He makes it his job to know.
During his time here with us, I baked my 2nd ever chocolate-cake-from-scratch. While it wasn’t the disaster of my first attempt 20 years ago, it is also true that it wasn’t something you’d find in a fine restaurant either. But you’d never have known that from this simple fisherman’s compliments about it. And he was most happy to enjoy a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie of Virginia origin, compliments of my godmother!
Yearly his visit here. Yearly his visit everywhere in this diocese – this humble fisherman, Bishop Grullon of the diocese of San Juan de Maguana, DR.
(more...)
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
A boy and his dog
I have a dog. A beautiful black lab built sleek like a greyhound. He has a love affair with the tattered, weathered remains of a soccer ball. Pull it out and he transforms into a radiant tightly coiled spring; a bounding pogo stick barely disguised as a dog.
I am like my dog. I have had a love affair with anything resembling a ball since I used to bounce a tennis ball off the chimney for hours on end as a 12 year old just for the fun of it. Though I move more slowly and hardly ever without pain anymore, I still would rather miss a meal than miss a game.
I must say that this will be highly personal and as I am a very private person this will be difficult for me to speak about in public - even though I know it is about something relatively insignificant. But I am trying to learn a new trick or two these days and some of you have asked what are the crosses I have encountered here.
This unexpected turn of events has become a cross. I am sharing it, not for sympathy, but in the hope that by speaking here, I may speak and act more Christ-like among those I have come to serve and that your prayers will assist me in that regards. Please keep the sympathy sheathed and instead offer a prayer that I may bear this cross more gracefully than I have to this point.
I have been here just over five months now. I have cried three times - tonight being the third. Though many of you are likely to roll your eyes at what follows, some of you will understand perhaps. Some of you won't entirely understand but have known me long enough to know I speak the truth about myself. The rest of you will hopefully understand that even though it is in itself something trivial, it is part of who I am. I would remain more me if you changed the color of my hair or skin even than if you forcefully took "my ball" away.
My favorite sport has clearly become volleyball - I came to Banica with one football, one basketball, and a bag full of volleyballs. As I have gotten older and slower and the aches and pains have become part of every day life, it is one sport that I am able to still play mostly competitively. But until a month ago, I had only witnessed a single game of volleyball in a neighboring town.
Then, almost overnight, a new outdoor basketball/volleyball court was built in the center of Banica! It even has lights so night play is possible. Soon after, I saw a group of high school girls playing volleyball and almost ran over to join them. Then it occurred to me that a 45 year old caucasian man bolting into a group of unknown Dominicana teenage girls - with half the city looking on from the bleachers - might be a bit over board. Sighing, I went on home. The next day I saw a couple of the girls and in broken Spanish did my best to ask if I could play. They jumped up and down excitedly and made me promise I'd be there that night!
I arrived apprehensive at being the only male out there - and an "old man" at that. I was happy to see some young men out there. And happier still to see that some of the Banica youth actually were fairly skilled.
Since then, however, I have found that sadly almost everyone, is completely focused on winning - at all costs. They lie about the score. They lie about a ball being in or out. They lie about whether or not they touched the net. They steal balls from weaker players - if they don't outright tell them "tu no sabe" (you don't know how to play) and push them to the edge of the court. They argue for 2, 3, 5 minutes over a single call or the score in the middle of the game.
Additionally some talk on their cell phones while "playing" and then laugh when they miss a ball. Some have no clue what they are doing and then yell loudly at other players or perhaps the asphalt or moon when they mess a play up - as if yelling angrily changes the fact they messed the play up. Some do have a clue but when they are in the back row will send the ball over on the first pass every time, and then demand the ball when they are in the front row - heaven forbid anyone else attempt to make a play. At least half the "touches" are illegal but some of the people who are most guilty of atrocities with a volleyball will try to call a mere "lift" on someone else. The better players always stack teams so they are guaranteed to win. Etc. Etc. Etc.
I, with my over developed sense of justice compounded by my desire for something resembling a challenge, have refused to play on the stacked team the few times I have been asked to. I do so knowing I will be left to play on a team made up of much of the paragraph above. Many times that also means I get to touch the ball only when I serve or when I am trying desperately to save an impossible ball. That is - when I am not standing on the sidelines waiting for folks to stop yelling and arguing.
If only they could realize this is supposed to be fun. And that it is more fun when everyone gets to play. And when an opponent is close enough in skill to make winning mean something. If you know you are going to win, why bother playing? To feel good about oneself? Anyone who used even a fraction of their intellect, would see how hollow a victory would have been acheived.
I keep harping on my age and aches, I know. But there is a point. I have played volleyball longer than most of these young adults have graced this earth. When I was younger, I could spike the ball straight down - even when double blocked setting me was an almost automatic point for my team.
I have played in tournaments with lots of teams. One day long ago, we even won a tournament with over 90 teams in our division - many of whom were from a higher division. They had "dropped down" so they could win in a less skilled division. We beat several of those teams on the way to the trophy that day. We'd see the team warming up that we were to play next. Their shortest player would be taller than our tallest. They'd set perfect floating, mouth watering sets. They'd crush the ball into the earth ferociously. I'd turn to our one spectator and whisper, "Don't worry, we'll be going home after this match." And then we'd win. Again. And Again. Winning that tournament meant something.
I have played with people who could play professionally. With players, two of whom on a team by themselves would beat a team of six of Banica's best. The best players here, even though they are better than I am now, would be mediocre players where I "come from".
If the folks here could only see how unimportant this game was and that it should be a source of fun - not an excuse to bully lesser or weaker players in order to enable elbows to more easily pat ones own back. And yet most argue about everything as if winning a sloppy volleyball game in Banica will change the history of the world.
The point I spoke of? My knees both ache something fierce. two years my right leg has been numb/hurts almost 24 hours a day - the doctors haven't a clue why. Often my lower back hurts even worse - I have been told that I have very little disc left in two of the vertebrae in my lower back. My shoulder always hurts and only rarely has even half the strength it did before I tore it up and had it operated on 15 years ago. My eyes betray me - I often have double vision that the doctors can't explain. But when a ball is whizzing at you at 60-80 miles an hour - and there are two of them instead of one, it is difficult to pass the ball accurately. That has been perhaps the most bitter pill for me to swallow as I have aged - I was always known for my ability to pass any ball well.
Oh yes, my selfish point.... Like my dog, Rebel, I love to play ball. But the writing is on the wall. The days that I will be able to play are numbered. Even with my steel will and tolerance for pain, I know time will catch me just around one of the next few corners. I can't count the times I have sprained my ankle, for example, and refused to come off the court. Ditto when an elbow broke my nose or when I blew my knee out some years ago (ok, I did come off the court that time after a few failed attempts at continuing to play). But I have pride in how I play and with the pain now comes a marked deterioration in my skill level. If the pain doesn't shoo me away, sooner or later my pride will.
Until then, as my sun wanes, I just want to be able to play and enjoy and cherish the moments I have left. And to see other people enjoy playing. Don't get me wrong! I am as competitive as any and more than most. But always within the context of a good clean game, and always with the integrity of the game and the participants intact. I'd rather lose a hotly contested game in "extra innings" than win a game where the other team was demolished. And always I play for the sheer joy of playing. I laugh in glee just as hard when an opponent makes a great or spectacular play as when I or a teammate does.
Tonight I played one game. And one game only. Two of my team members were taking swigs of alcohol from plastic bottles between points. One of the two, perhaps 14 years old, was horrbile and yelled at someone else every time he messed up a play (I'd say 10 of the 25 points the other team got in beating us). A third player knew how to play but sent the ball over the net every time he touched it - a couple of times even stealing the ball and almost knocking over a young gal who was a very good player. As usual on such a team, I got zero sets. And only one pass while I was setting. Another "only touch the ball when serving game".
But it was me muttering at the nascient alchololic 14 year old, "Tu no sabe." And me snapping angrily at the fairly skilled gent to pass the ball to the setter and to not run the young lady over that sent me to the showers early. I went to the sidelines and did 50 pushups before sitting to think. I decided that I was simply not going to play with either of the two again - even if that meant I had to sit out while folks were begging me to play. So after telling the guys I was not going to play the next game (ie, with them), I thought I'd be ok. Then the arguing broke out - again. Without a word I walked away leaving my ball there. I'd let them keep it except that it has a friend's name on it.
I am hard to keep down and a day or two usually brings the sun again. But tonight, I selfishly wish that court had not been built. It was much easier to do without my beloved game altogether than to have it so close and yet not be able to enjoy it. I refuse (well most of the time, soft smile) to try to outshout the loudest of the loud. I refuse to play to win at all costs. I desire to help others enjoy this game that has given so much enjoyment to me. And I am determined, though many times fallen, not to give in to the temptations that my frustrations unleash within me.
For as much as I am like my dog, I have something he has not - a free will and an intellect. I'd appreciate your prayers that I will either find a way to balance my love for the game with the inherent frustrations of playing here or that I will give away the ball I'd not let you take from me. (more...)
I am like my dog. I have had a love affair with anything resembling a ball since I used to bounce a tennis ball off the chimney for hours on end as a 12 year old just for the fun of it. Though I move more slowly and hardly ever without pain anymore, I still would rather miss a meal than miss a game.
I must say that this will be highly personal and as I am a very private person this will be difficult for me to speak about in public - even though I know it is about something relatively insignificant. But I am trying to learn a new trick or two these days and some of you have asked what are the crosses I have encountered here.
This unexpected turn of events has become a cross. I am sharing it, not for sympathy, but in the hope that by speaking here, I may speak and act more Christ-like among those I have come to serve and that your prayers will assist me in that regards. Please keep the sympathy sheathed and instead offer a prayer that I may bear this cross more gracefully than I have to this point.
I have been here just over five months now. I have cried three times - tonight being the third. Though many of you are likely to roll your eyes at what follows, some of you will understand perhaps. Some of you won't entirely understand but have known me long enough to know I speak the truth about myself. The rest of you will hopefully understand that even though it is in itself something trivial, it is part of who I am. I would remain more me if you changed the color of my hair or skin even than if you forcefully took "my ball" away.
My favorite sport has clearly become volleyball - I came to Banica with one football, one basketball, and a bag full of volleyballs. As I have gotten older and slower and the aches and pains have become part of every day life, it is one sport that I am able to still play mostly competitively. But until a month ago, I had only witnessed a single game of volleyball in a neighboring town.
Then, almost overnight, a new outdoor basketball/volleyball court was built in the center of Banica! It even has lights so night play is possible. Soon after, I saw a group of high school girls playing volleyball and almost ran over to join them. Then it occurred to me that a 45 year old caucasian man bolting into a group of unknown Dominicana teenage girls - with half the city looking on from the bleachers - might be a bit over board. Sighing, I went on home. The next day I saw a couple of the girls and in broken Spanish did my best to ask if I could play. They jumped up and down excitedly and made me promise I'd be there that night!
I arrived apprehensive at being the only male out there - and an "old man" at that. I was happy to see some young men out there. And happier still to see that some of the Banica youth actually were fairly skilled.
Since then, however, I have found that sadly almost everyone, is completely focused on winning - at all costs. They lie about the score. They lie about a ball being in or out. They lie about whether or not they touched the net. They steal balls from weaker players - if they don't outright tell them "tu no sabe" (you don't know how to play) and push them to the edge of the court. They argue for 2, 3, 5 minutes over a single call or the score in the middle of the game.
Additionally some talk on their cell phones while "playing" and then laugh when they miss a ball. Some have no clue what they are doing and then yell loudly at other players or perhaps the asphalt or moon when they mess a play up - as if yelling angrily changes the fact they messed the play up. Some do have a clue but when they are in the back row will send the ball over on the first pass every time, and then demand the ball when they are in the front row - heaven forbid anyone else attempt to make a play. At least half the "touches" are illegal but some of the people who are most guilty of atrocities with a volleyball will try to call a mere "lift" on someone else. The better players always stack teams so they are guaranteed to win. Etc. Etc. Etc.
I, with my over developed sense of justice compounded by my desire for something resembling a challenge, have refused to play on the stacked team the few times I have been asked to. I do so knowing I will be left to play on a team made up of much of the paragraph above. Many times that also means I get to touch the ball only when I serve or when I am trying desperately to save an impossible ball. That is - when I am not standing on the sidelines waiting for folks to stop yelling and arguing.
If only they could realize this is supposed to be fun. And that it is more fun when everyone gets to play. And when an opponent is close enough in skill to make winning mean something. If you know you are going to win, why bother playing? To feel good about oneself? Anyone who used even a fraction of their intellect, would see how hollow a victory would have been acheived.
I keep harping on my age and aches, I know. But there is a point. I have played volleyball longer than most of these young adults have graced this earth. When I was younger, I could spike the ball straight down - even when double blocked setting me was an almost automatic point for my team.
I have played in tournaments with lots of teams. One day long ago, we even won a tournament with over 90 teams in our division - many of whom were from a higher division. They had "dropped down" so they could win in a less skilled division. We beat several of those teams on the way to the trophy that day. We'd see the team warming up that we were to play next. Their shortest player would be taller than our tallest. They'd set perfect floating, mouth watering sets. They'd crush the ball into the earth ferociously. I'd turn to our one spectator and whisper, "Don't worry, we'll be going home after this match." And then we'd win. Again. And Again. Winning that tournament meant something.
I have played with people who could play professionally. With players, two of whom on a team by themselves would beat a team of six of Banica's best. The best players here, even though they are better than I am now, would be mediocre players where I "come from".
If the folks here could only see how unimportant this game was and that it should be a source of fun - not an excuse to bully lesser or weaker players in order to enable elbows to more easily pat ones own back. And yet most argue about everything as if winning a sloppy volleyball game in Banica will change the history of the world.
The point I spoke of? My knees both ache something fierce. two years my right leg has been numb/hurts almost 24 hours a day - the doctors haven't a clue why. Often my lower back hurts even worse - I have been told that I have very little disc left in two of the vertebrae in my lower back. My shoulder always hurts and only rarely has even half the strength it did before I tore it up and had it operated on 15 years ago. My eyes betray me - I often have double vision that the doctors can't explain. But when a ball is whizzing at you at 60-80 miles an hour - and there are two of them instead of one, it is difficult to pass the ball accurately. That has been perhaps the most bitter pill for me to swallow as I have aged - I was always known for my ability to pass any ball well.
Oh yes, my selfish point.... Like my dog, Rebel, I love to play ball. But the writing is on the wall. The days that I will be able to play are numbered. Even with my steel will and tolerance for pain, I know time will catch me just around one of the next few corners. I can't count the times I have sprained my ankle, for example, and refused to come off the court. Ditto when an elbow broke my nose or when I blew my knee out some years ago (ok, I did come off the court that time after a few failed attempts at continuing to play). But I have pride in how I play and with the pain now comes a marked deterioration in my skill level. If the pain doesn't shoo me away, sooner or later my pride will.
Until then, as my sun wanes, I just want to be able to play and enjoy and cherish the moments I have left. And to see other people enjoy playing. Don't get me wrong! I am as competitive as any and more than most. But always within the context of a good clean game, and always with the integrity of the game and the participants intact. I'd rather lose a hotly contested game in "extra innings" than win a game where the other team was demolished. And always I play for the sheer joy of playing. I laugh in glee just as hard when an opponent makes a great or spectacular play as when I or a teammate does.
Tonight I played one game. And one game only. Two of my team members were taking swigs of alcohol from plastic bottles between points. One of the two, perhaps 14 years old, was horrbile and yelled at someone else every time he messed up a play (I'd say 10 of the 25 points the other team got in beating us). A third player knew how to play but sent the ball over the net every time he touched it - a couple of times even stealing the ball and almost knocking over a young gal who was a very good player. As usual on such a team, I got zero sets. And only one pass while I was setting. Another "only touch the ball when serving game".
But it was me muttering at the nascient alchololic 14 year old, "Tu no sabe." And me snapping angrily at the fairly skilled gent to pass the ball to the setter and to not run the young lady over that sent me to the showers early. I went to the sidelines and did 50 pushups before sitting to think. I decided that I was simply not going to play with either of the two again - even if that meant I had to sit out while folks were begging me to play. So after telling the guys I was not going to play the next game (ie, with them), I thought I'd be ok. Then the arguing broke out - again. Without a word I walked away leaving my ball there. I'd let them keep it except that it has a friend's name on it.
I am hard to keep down and a day or two usually brings the sun again. But tonight, I selfishly wish that court had not been built. It was much easier to do without my beloved game altogether than to have it so close and yet not be able to enjoy it. I refuse (well most of the time, soft smile) to try to outshout the loudest of the loud. I refuse to play to win at all costs. I desire to help others enjoy this game that has given so much enjoyment to me. And I am determined, though many times fallen, not to give in to the temptations that my frustrations unleash within me.
For as much as I am like my dog, I have something he has not - a free will and an intellect. I'd appreciate your prayers that I will either find a way to balance my love for the game with the inherent frustrations of playing here or that I will give away the ball I'd not let you take from me. (more...)
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Must I be "educated"?
Fr. Murphy's compliment surprised me, "I could tell you were educated when you read the reading at mass today".
Fr. O'Hare had asked me to do the readings at Friday masses saying that while my pronunciation wasn't perfect, at least I would enunciate clearly - an improvement over some of our dear brothers and sisters here in Banica. I thought to myself, "Great... I enunciate well, so every fractured vowel sound and each butchered consonant pairing would be all the more clearly heard by all."
Despite my overgrown sense of pride/fear of failure, I told Father that I'd give it a try. So every week, I spend 1 to 2 hours practicing for a short 5 minute reading. After so much practice, I continue to amaze myself with my innate ability to completely mangle harmless looking letters juxtaposed so peacefully next to one another as my mouth screams out to me, "You want me to do what?!!"
I had been thinking I was doing better as the weeks went on. So as we sat about the table, Fr. Murphy, Samantha and I, I was surprised, but pleased, to be receiving a compliment from Fr. Murphy. He is pastor of the nearby parish of San Jose but was saying mass at San Francisco in Banica while Fr. O'Hare was making a visit home to Virginia.
My mind wandered a bit. "Educated". Not exactly what I would have expected as something that would come to mind when hearing someone hesitantly reading in a language they were not fluent in. Not exactly the compliment I would have most desired. But a compliment is a compliment and I was very pleased.
I faded back into the conversation to hear Fr. Murphy explaining: "Educated...like one of my professors teaching class in Rome. In Italian (silently commenting in my mind: well clearly, it would be in Italian. And clearly this professor would be highly educated. I probably puffed my chest a little bit as Father's continuing words sunk in)... In Italian.... with a very strong.... Australian accent...
I must say his rendition of someone speaking Italian with a strong Australian brogue was very convincing, most impressive, extremely hilarious, and (sigh) completely unnecessary. I surely preferred the short version of the compliment. The one that ended about the time Father first said, "educated". (more...)
Fr. O'Hare had asked me to do the readings at Friday masses saying that while my pronunciation wasn't perfect, at least I would enunciate clearly - an improvement over some of our dear brothers and sisters here in Banica. I thought to myself, "Great... I enunciate well, so every fractured vowel sound and each butchered consonant pairing would be all the more clearly heard by all."
Despite my overgrown sense of pride/fear of failure, I told Father that I'd give it a try. So every week, I spend 1 to 2 hours practicing for a short 5 minute reading. After so much practice, I continue to amaze myself with my innate ability to completely mangle harmless looking letters juxtaposed so peacefully next to one another as my mouth screams out to me, "You want me to do what?!!"
I had been thinking I was doing better as the weeks went on. So as we sat about the table, Fr. Murphy, Samantha and I, I was surprised, but pleased, to be receiving a compliment from Fr. Murphy. He is pastor of the nearby parish of San Jose but was saying mass at San Francisco in Banica while Fr. O'Hare was making a visit home to Virginia.
My mind wandered a bit. "Educated". Not exactly what I would have expected as something that would come to mind when hearing someone hesitantly reading in a language they were not fluent in. Not exactly the compliment I would have most desired. But a compliment is a compliment and I was very pleased.
I faded back into the conversation to hear Fr. Murphy explaining: "Educated...like one of my professors teaching class in Rome. In Italian (silently commenting in my mind: well clearly, it would be in Italian. And clearly this professor would be highly educated. I probably puffed my chest a little bit as Father's continuing words sunk in)... In Italian.... with a very strong.... Australian accent...
I must say his rendition of someone speaking Italian with a strong Australian brogue was very convincing, most impressive, extremely hilarious, and (sigh) completely unnecessary. I surely preferred the short version of the compliment. The one that ended about the time Father first said, "educated". (more...)
Saturday, November 22, 2008
A Dominican Chair
The realization sank in after an encounter with a strip of asphalt and a ragged chair: I am being affected by life here in the Dominican Republic.
In the U.S. if I (and I assume most of you reading this) had seen a chair sitting on the side of the road, I would have either felt sorry for whomever had lost a chair off the back of their pickup, or I'd have wondered who the idiot was who left a chair on edge of the road.
Here in the Dominican Republic (and Haiti for that matter), it is common practice for people to sit their chairs on the edge of the road - but make no mistake about it, on the road. And of course, they must then sit in them doing nothing except watching traffic go by. It is almost comical to see them wait until the last possible moment - as if they expect traffic to detour for them - before scurrying off the road with their chair should two vehicles approach from opposite directions at the same time.
When I first arrived, I would fuss at them. But it is so commonplace that soon enough, I came to accept it as normal. To the point that often, they don't register any more than a tree or sign post on the side of the road - even as I am moving to the wrong side of the road to avoid them.
One day, I passed an empty chair. And it occurred to me, I hadn't wondered who had lost a chair or who the idiot was who left a chair in my way. No, I had thought, "I wonder why no one is sitting in that chair."
I am hoping this is not a degenerative disease I have contracted. But I'll know the sad truth should I be passing an empty chair in the road in my beat-up blue pickup truck and find myself thinking.... "Perhaps, perhaps I could sit in that chair...." (more...)
In the U.S. if I (and I assume most of you reading this) had seen a chair sitting on the side of the road, I would have either felt sorry for whomever had lost a chair off the back of their pickup, or I'd have wondered who the idiot was who left a chair on edge of the road.
Here in the Dominican Republic (and Haiti for that matter), it is common practice for people to sit their chairs on the edge of the road - but make no mistake about it, on the road. And of course, they must then sit in them doing nothing except watching traffic go by. It is almost comical to see them wait until the last possible moment - as if they expect traffic to detour for them - before scurrying off the road with their chair should two vehicles approach from opposite directions at the same time.
When I first arrived, I would fuss at them. But it is so commonplace that soon enough, I came to accept it as normal. To the point that often, they don't register any more than a tree or sign post on the side of the road - even as I am moving to the wrong side of the road to avoid them.
One day, I passed an empty chair. And it occurred to me, I hadn't wondered who had lost a chair or who the idiot was who left a chair in my way. No, I had thought, "I wonder why no one is sitting in that chair."
I am hoping this is not a degenerative disease I have contracted. But I'll know the sad truth should I be passing an empty chair in the road in my beat-up blue pickup truck and find myself thinking.... "Perhaps, perhaps I could sit in that chair...." (more...)
Monday, November 17, 2008
Saga of a lawn mower
After two months patiently, ok mostly patiently, waiting I climbed into the Landrover for the 5 hour trip to Santo Domingo. Finally! Shopping for real things in the "American section!" High on the list...a lawnmower for the grounds here at the retreat center, El Centro.
In my excitement, I even managed to forget that things here always seem to arrive with a particular appetizer - an opportunity to stretch and grow and (sigh) earn graces. All was well as the lawn mower was easily attained at Ferreteria Americana (The American Hardware Store) - a poor attempt at a Lowes/Home Depot.
It didn't look to be the quality I was hoping for, and MTD was not the brand I was looking for. But it had a Briggs & Stratton motor - a 6hp B&S even! - and large back wheels even if they were plastic instead of the metal I had been dreaming of. (for the fairer gender, yes, guys do dream of things like this). But I focused on that B & S and took the plunge! WooHoo!
Success was short-lived. To my dismay after purchasing the lawn mower for the parish on my credit card, the cashier started ringing up my personal items and... my card was declined. 5 hours from home. The next trip possibly weeks or months away and my card was declined. I came to find out that even though I had more than enough money in my account, the credit card had a daily limit on it for international transactions. Eep! Make that grrrrr!
But wait, there was an ATM machine on the other side of the complex! So Lulun and I went racing over with our check-out lane shut down waiting on us. I pulled out cash in smaller increments until I hit the absolute ceiling. 10 minutes later, I was able to pay for half of my items. The cashier agreed to put the cart to the side and let us return the next day to pay for it. As much as I HATE this sort of "embarrassing" scene, I was somehow beyond caring about having my card declined in front of everyone, and having tons of items put back into a cart and pushed to the side.
The next day saw an encore performance. The cart was still there! I eeked all the cash out of my card that I could, then paid for the rest of my items. On to the PriceMart where they had American food in large quantities (think PriceClub)! I waited nervously as the cashier rang my items up. Lulun assured me I had enough cash in hand. I wasn't convinced. Boy was I happy to be outed as a worry wart! :)
The short version of the story (yes it could be much longer) is that we made it back to Banica!
The next day, I carefully explained to Manuel (realizing, of course, that he speaks less English than I do Spanish) that he was to be on sharp lookout for rocks. If he saw any protruding above ground level he was to stop, dig them up and toss them in the driveway. And if the lawn mower blade hit a rock, he better get it dug up pronto! I didn't care how much longer it took to finish the job this first time.
He said he understood perfectly and not to worry. He started mowing and I headed off for a meeting. I returned to find a good bit of the center grounds nicely mowed. Success!
How fleeting the good things often prove to be. The next morning, we started the lawn mower... the blade FELL OFF! As in, "Clang!" the blade hit the ground and slid out from under the mower!
What was I going to tell Father?!! He was in the US (his departure, the trip that got me to the capitol). He hadn't even seen the bill yet and the lawn mower was already in pieces!
Upon examination, the mounting bracket had broken, and the bolt had, in turn, snapped. I picked up the blade. After a single day of use, it was in the worst condition of any blade I have ever seen. After a mere single day of use, the blade was mangled by rocks.
Here the story splits a bit.
Part one: Samantha (a fellow missionary, who unlike me does speak fluent Spanish without having to play charades) teased Manuel a bit about breaking the lawn mower. Now realize that he is talking about a lawn mower with a 6hp Briggs & Stratton motor on it ( a typical push mower has a 2 to 3hp motore)... He told her that it is "not a good lawn mower". That it is "very weak because it does not..... pass thru the rocks easily...."
I didn't know. I still don't know. Someone please tell me, do I laugh or cry at that? Perhaps I laugh tears? Or Cry laughter? Perhaps you can cry and I can laugh? Wait! I want to cry!
Part two: Danni hopped on his motorcycle and took the broken part to Las Matas (the nearest "real" town). We followed a bit later with the snapped bolt. Amazingly Danni found us in Las Matas. He had been successful in getting the piece welded back together! One half of the problem was solved!
Why 2 trips for a 45 minute trip? Because I had to go to Las Matas anyway, but couldn't leave immediately. I had a large (100 pound) inverter to drop off for repair. And I was afraid that if the broken piece didn't get to Las Matas as soon as possible that it would not be able to be repaired the same day.
Why didn't I give the bolt to Danni? Because it was a "hardened" bolt and I was sure Danni didn't know the difference no matter what he would tell me. And I'd end up with a low grade bolt that would quickly snap in two again.
For our part, we visited 4 hardware stores and 3 auto parts store. The bolt we needed to secure the blade to the lawnmower is not to be found in Las Matas. That was Friday. Hopefully Wednesday when Lulun makes his "hospital run" to San Juan (about 40 minutes beyond Las Matas and a bit larger) on Wednesday, he will be able to find the bolt we need. If not, it will require a trip to the capitol (4-5 hours) to get the lawn mower repaired.
And so the saga of the lawn mower continues. Perhaps in a daze? Perhaps a bit like a mad man? I was heard walking around that day muttering "Una dia. Una dia". That is, "One day. One day" (all that was needed to break the lawn more I had been eagerly awaiting for months). (more...)
In my excitement, I even managed to forget that things here always seem to arrive with a particular appetizer - an opportunity to stretch and grow and (sigh) earn graces. All was well as the lawn mower was easily attained at Ferreteria Americana (The American Hardware Store) - a poor attempt at a Lowes/Home Depot.
It didn't look to be the quality I was hoping for, and MTD was not the brand I was looking for. But it had a Briggs & Stratton motor - a 6hp B&S even! - and large back wheels even if they were plastic instead of the metal I had been dreaming of. (for the fairer gender, yes, guys do dream of things like this). But I focused on that B & S and took the plunge! WooHoo!
Success was short-lived. To my dismay after purchasing the lawn mower for the parish on my credit card, the cashier started ringing up my personal items and... my card was declined. 5 hours from home. The next trip possibly weeks or months away and my card was declined. I came to find out that even though I had more than enough money in my account, the credit card had a daily limit on it for international transactions. Eep! Make that grrrrr!
But wait, there was an ATM machine on the other side of the complex! So Lulun and I went racing over with our check-out lane shut down waiting on us. I pulled out cash in smaller increments until I hit the absolute ceiling. 10 minutes later, I was able to pay for half of my items. The cashier agreed to put the cart to the side and let us return the next day to pay for it. As much as I HATE this sort of "embarrassing" scene, I was somehow beyond caring about having my card declined in front of everyone, and having tons of items put back into a cart and pushed to the side.
The next day saw an encore performance. The cart was still there! I eeked all the cash out of my card that I could, then paid for the rest of my items. On to the PriceMart where they had American food in large quantities (think PriceClub)! I waited nervously as the cashier rang my items up. Lulun assured me I had enough cash in hand. I wasn't convinced. Boy was I happy to be outed as a worry wart! :)
The short version of the story (yes it could be much longer) is that we made it back to Banica!
The next day, I carefully explained to Manuel (realizing, of course, that he speaks less English than I do Spanish) that he was to be on sharp lookout for rocks. If he saw any protruding above ground level he was to stop, dig them up and toss them in the driveway. And if the lawn mower blade hit a rock, he better get it dug up pronto! I didn't care how much longer it took to finish the job this first time.
He said he understood perfectly and not to worry. He started mowing and I headed off for a meeting. I returned to find a good bit of the center grounds nicely mowed. Success!
How fleeting the good things often prove to be. The next morning, we started the lawn mower... the blade FELL OFF! As in, "Clang!" the blade hit the ground and slid out from under the mower!
What was I going to tell Father?!! He was in the US (his departure, the trip that got me to the capitol). He hadn't even seen the bill yet and the lawn mower was already in pieces!
Upon examination, the mounting bracket had broken, and the bolt had, in turn, snapped. I picked up the blade. After a single day of use, it was in the worst condition of any blade I have ever seen. After a mere single day of use, the blade was mangled by rocks.
Here the story splits a bit.
Part one: Samantha (a fellow missionary, who unlike me does speak fluent Spanish without having to play charades) teased Manuel a bit about breaking the lawn mower. Now realize that he is talking about a lawn mower with a 6hp Briggs & Stratton motor on it ( a typical push mower has a 2 to 3hp motore)... He told her that it is "not a good lawn mower". That it is "very weak because it does not..... pass thru the rocks easily...."
I didn't know. I still don't know. Someone please tell me, do I laugh or cry at that? Perhaps I laugh tears? Or Cry laughter? Perhaps you can cry and I can laugh? Wait! I want to cry!
Part two: Danni hopped on his motorcycle and took the broken part to Las Matas (the nearest "real" town). We followed a bit later with the snapped bolt. Amazingly Danni found us in Las Matas. He had been successful in getting the piece welded back together! One half of the problem was solved!
Why 2 trips for a 45 minute trip? Because I had to go to Las Matas anyway, but couldn't leave immediately. I had a large (100 pound) inverter to drop off for repair. And I was afraid that if the broken piece didn't get to Las Matas as soon as possible that it would not be able to be repaired the same day.
Why didn't I give the bolt to Danni? Because it was a "hardened" bolt and I was sure Danni didn't know the difference no matter what he would tell me. And I'd end up with a low grade bolt that would quickly snap in two again.
For our part, we visited 4 hardware stores and 3 auto parts store. The bolt we needed to secure the blade to the lawnmower is not to be found in Las Matas. That was Friday. Hopefully Wednesday when Lulun makes his "hospital run" to San Juan (about 40 minutes beyond Las Matas and a bit larger) on Wednesday, he will be able to find the bolt we need. If not, it will require a trip to the capitol (4-5 hours) to get the lawn mower repaired.
And so the saga of the lawn mower continues. Perhaps in a daze? Perhaps a bit like a mad man? I was heard walking around that day muttering "Una dia. Una dia". That is, "One day. One day" (all that was needed to break the lawn more I had been eagerly awaiting for months). (more...)
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Only 25 Miles To Go
As evening started to roll in, we pulled into Thomassique ending our six and a half hour journey. "How I wished we had a better transport vehicle," I thought to myself earlier that day as we had loaded up the huge old and long-retired army truck before embarking from Banica on what on what we expected to be a 2 or 2 and a half hour trip.
Banica resides in the Dominican Republic just across the border from Thomassique, Haiti. The actual distance is less than 25 miles. And yet the terrain and the extreme harshness of the road make the normal 150 minute trip seem like a life time. Two and a half hours in pelting summer heat as the truck bounces across the rocky road, slugs it way thru mud holes, crawls up hillsides that might make a mountain goat think twice. Part of the journey we travel the "International Highway". I can think of many names for that stretch of "road". "Highway" is not one of them.
This particular day the roads were extremely muddy after heavy rains. Since the roads are not properly engineered to provide drainage. Since they are dirt. Since they have no equipment to keep them level or to push mud off after a rain storm, bad things happen whenever it rains. We found out this day.
After going "off-road" several times to get around particularly treacherous stretches of quagmire the locals called a road, we met our match. We paid two locals to have them take down a section of their fence and let us drive across their property. And then we went back onto the road. And we sank. And sank some more. A good 3 feet of mud - enough that even our lion-hearted truck could not make its way thru.
Banica resides in the Dominican Republic just across the border from Thomassique, Haiti. The actual distance is less than 25 miles. And yet the terrain and the extreme harshness of the road make the normal 150 minute trip seem like a life time. Two and a half hours in pelting summer heat as the truck bounces across the rocky road, slugs it way thru mud holes, crawls up hillsides that might make a mountain goat think twice. Part of the journey we travel the "International Highway". I can think of many names for that stretch of "road". "Highway" is not one of them.
This particular day the roads were extremely muddy after heavy rains. Since the roads are not properly engineered to provide drainage. Since they are dirt. Since they have no equipment to keep them level or to push mud off after a rain storm, bad things happen whenever it rains. We found out this day.
After going "off-road" several times to get around particularly treacherous stretches of quagmire the locals called a road, we met our match. We paid two locals to have them take down a section of their fence and let us drive across their property. And then we went back onto the road. And we sank. And sank some more. A good 3 feet of mud - enough that even our lion-hearted truck could not make its way thru.
The locals tried to dig us out. We tried to winch ourselves out, but the cable snapped. Finally hours later, someone managed to get a tractor to come our way. After several failed attempts and several nervous moments as the tractor itself seemed on the verge of getting trapped in the muck, the truck was pulled free to a rousing cheer from the hundred or so locals who were watching.
"We are home free!! What more could go wrong after that?!!" I thought to myself. As we hurried along, fighting our way thru new mud holes, struggling up steep hills, and finally bouncing over brutally rocky ground we heard a loud clank and the bed of the truck sagged sharply to one side. We pulled to a stop to discover that one of the rear truck springs had "busted" and the rear axle was coming detached from the truck!
Fortunately, our driver is an resourceful fellow. He managed to wrap a heavy iron chain around the dislodged axle and secure it well enough that we were able to limp the final half hour into Thomassique! We were leaking brake fluid. Possibly transmission fluid. The right side of the truck was resting on the wheels. But our magnificent beast had refused to die until it had us safely to our destination.
The next day we took an alternate route home. We got dropped at a river crossing. Waded that river, walked a mile to a second and larger river. Once there, we paid local men to take us across the river on make shift rafts. Safely on the other side, we hired 4 motorcyclists to take us the rest of the way back to Banica.
I was so bruised from all the bouncing that I couldn't sit normally for days. But despite its lack of beauty, its extremely bouncy ride, it's belching engine, I came to love that ugly old truck that day. No normal vehicle could have made that journey across that particular 25 mile stretch of road. Not the finest luxury sedan. Not a 4-wheel drive pickup. Not the dump truck that we passed which was buried to its bed in mud.
But as much as I now love that old green beast, I dream! How life changing it would be for the people who live here to have reasonably passable roads. To have culverts in sections with poor drainage. To have fill dirt, gravel, stone to fill in low trouble spots. To have equipment to maintain and repair their road. What a lovely dream it is to think of a 25 mile trip taking less than an hour!
Note: I have photos from the trip in my album: Haiti Adventure. The photos of the muddy road do not even come close to showing just how bad they were in "real life".
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Me and my George Foreman
"Yes", I thought as I slid the grill into a huge ziplock bag and stuffed it in a suitcase, "me and my George Foreman will get along just fine on that little island!"
I don't cook much. Well I don't really cook at all - I leave the cooking to my beloved George Foreman grill. But even when I pull George out of the garage, my culinary talents are pretty limited. Though at my little house back in Virginia, I thought I cooked up a snazzy grilled chicken breast. I had visions of that as I packed for the Caribbean. Cooling breeze tickling across the lawn under serene blue skies as I sliced into a huge, juicy chicken breast.
Fast forward a little... a rooster crow... another rooster crow... perhaps the 30th rooster crowing... rudely awakens me... as I try to get to sleep... at night. At that's just the beginning of the problems of chickens here in this place! They cannot tell time. They crow continually. Those who went to school: err-err-err-err! Those who dropped out, a pathetic sounding: err-err-err! Day: err-err-err-err! Night: err-err-err-err! And even in between day and night: err-err-err-err! I didn't think there was such a time, but I am certain there must be now. Heck, they're crowing as I write this!
As much as they crow, you'd think they laid all the eggs. But of course they don't. Worse still, they do not come in clean, neat packages of plump, juicy Perdue chicken breasts - ready to marinate and throw to George. No. That same crowing mud-caked rooster that is strutting around, pawing the ground, leaving feathers and other gifts all over is the same rooster that might show up on my threshold a few hours later. This time making an appearance in a big messy package that I am supposed to slice and hack at only to salvage a puny little breast from that slab of bones and fat.
(sigh)
Somehow I have not yet made the trek to the local chicken lady's house. Just not quite ready for that conversation, "Yes... that one... he looks like he'll be delicious, don't you think? Thank you, but no. I'll come back. Seeing a chicken running around minus its head was a treat the first time. I don't think I could endure such pleasure twice... Oh thank you! But no, really... you keep the claws - my special gift to you. I really didn't feel like eating claw of chicken today."
So poor George has had to settle for some lesser cuts of beef (though I am not certain that some of that was beef), pork chops and ham. I am a bit worried about ol' George, I think he was addicted to those plump, juicy Perdues!
Speaking of food, I don't know if I am losing weight or not. But Caribbean Tom is definitely eating a lot less Strasburg Tom did. The big meal here is lunch. Everyone eats a large lunch - when it is typically hot outside. A large meal in the middle of a hot day? Are you kidding me?!! No wonder everyone takes 1 to 2 hour lunches. I bet they aren't even able to crawl away from the table sometimes before they begin their siestas. But no worries, I am sure that smashed yucca makes a very soft pillow! At least back in the day in East Texas, on the farm in Lufkin, the men of the family managed to get over to the couch before they dozed off! :)
Heat and eating just don't mix. Heat and cooking? As my Dominican friend Lulun likes to say, "Claro". But heat and eating? Ummm..... No. Many days, I just can't quite eat as much as I know I really WANT to. So I hardly ever feel quite full even though I don't often don't feel quite hungry either. I walk around feeling like I am hungry and thinking I am ready to eat. But once I sit down intent on tackling that hunger, I find I can't quite get the job done. And even as I am sitting there, I know that within an hour I am going to be wishing I could have taken a few more bites... of rice... and beans...
Life is so aMAZing here. Every day I wake up wishing for rice and beans for lunch. And so far my wish has been granted every day. Well every day except for maybe 4 or 5 - out of 60. Not that I am counting or anything. I am one of those boring people who can eat some things over and over and over without minding. Luckily for me, rice and beans are on the list of those foods. Sadly not as high on that list as Perdue chicken breasts.
Well at least I can still dream of eating scrumptious Perdue chicken breasts in the cool of my house... until the next rooster crows. :) (more...)
I don't cook much. Well I don't really cook at all - I leave the cooking to my beloved George Foreman grill. But even when I pull George out of the garage, my culinary talents are pretty limited. Though at my little house back in Virginia, I thought I cooked up a snazzy grilled chicken breast. I had visions of that as I packed for the Caribbean. Cooling breeze tickling across the lawn under serene blue skies as I sliced into a huge, juicy chicken breast.
Fast forward a little... a rooster crow... another rooster crow... perhaps the 30th rooster crowing... rudely awakens me... as I try to get to sleep... at night. At that's just the beginning of the problems of chickens here in this place! They cannot tell time. They crow continually. Those who went to school: err-err-err-err! Those who dropped out, a pathetic sounding: err-err-err! Day: err-err-err-err! Night: err-err-err-err! And even in between day and night: err-err-err-err! I didn't think there was such a time, but I am certain there must be now. Heck, they're crowing as I write this!
As much as they crow, you'd think they laid all the eggs. But of course they don't. Worse still, they do not come in clean, neat packages of plump, juicy Perdue chicken breasts - ready to marinate and throw to George. No. That same crowing mud-caked rooster that is strutting around, pawing the ground, leaving feathers and other gifts all over is the same rooster that might show up on my threshold a few hours later. This time making an appearance in a big messy package that I am supposed to slice and hack at only to salvage a puny little breast from that slab of bones and fat.
(sigh)
Somehow I have not yet made the trek to the local chicken lady's house. Just not quite ready for that conversation, "Yes... that one... he looks like he'll be delicious, don't you think? Thank you, but no. I'll come back. Seeing a chicken running around minus its head was a treat the first time. I don't think I could endure such pleasure twice... Oh thank you! But no, really... you keep the claws - my special gift to you. I really didn't feel like eating claw of chicken today."
So poor George has had to settle for some lesser cuts of beef (though I am not certain that some of that was beef), pork chops and ham. I am a bit worried about ol' George, I think he was addicted to those plump, juicy Perdues!
Speaking of food, I don't know if I am losing weight or not. But Caribbean Tom is definitely eating a lot less Strasburg Tom did. The big meal here is lunch. Everyone eats a large lunch - when it is typically hot outside. A large meal in the middle of a hot day? Are you kidding me?!! No wonder everyone takes 1 to 2 hour lunches. I bet they aren't even able to crawl away from the table sometimes before they begin their siestas. But no worries, I am sure that smashed yucca makes a very soft pillow! At least back in the day in East Texas, on the farm in Lufkin, the men of the family managed to get over to the couch before they dozed off! :)
Heat and eating just don't mix. Heat and cooking? As my Dominican friend Lulun likes to say, "Claro". But heat and eating? Ummm..... No. Many days, I just can't quite eat as much as I know I really WANT to. So I hardly ever feel quite full even though I don't often don't feel quite hungry either. I walk around feeling like I am hungry and thinking I am ready to eat. But once I sit down intent on tackling that hunger, I find I can't quite get the job done. And even as I am sitting there, I know that within an hour I am going to be wishing I could have taken a few more bites... of rice... and beans...
Life is so aMAZing here. Every day I wake up wishing for rice and beans for lunch. And so far my wish has been granted every day. Well every day except for maybe 4 or 5 - out of 60. Not that I am counting or anything. I am one of those boring people who can eat some things over and over and over without minding. Luckily for me, rice and beans are on the list of those foods. Sadly not as high on that list as Perdue chicken breasts.
Well at least I can still dream of eating scrumptious Perdue chicken breasts in the cool of my house... until the next rooster crows. :) (more...)
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