January 22, 2010Today we met with a group of women embroiderers. Some time ago, Sr. Rose found a trunk of yarn and gave it to a group of local women who either knew how to crochet and embroider or wanted to learn. The craftwork was beautiful and the women's stories touching.
Later we visited a woman making ground corn flour tortillas. Each member of our group had an opportunity to make a tortilla. We asked how much one tortilla cost and the woman who taught us said five cents each. I bought a bag of 6-8 tortillas and gave her $2.00. She didn’t want that much, but I urged her to keep it.
After that, we returned to Sr. Rose’s house for lunch. Sister had fixed sloppy joes with fresh fruit and vegetables, plus a few hot pupusas filled with cheese. The tortillas I bought, as well as the pupusas, were quite delicious.
They say no good deed goes unpunished. After lunch, the group departed to see the handiwork of yesterday’s service project, but they left without me.
I had to visit the restroom and knew it would take me a few minutes, so I held back until everyone else had an opportunity to use it. Even though I did my business very quickly, when I went out I found the house vacant except for Sister’s housekeeper. They had already gone.
There’s no one left except me and no way for me to catch up with them. I wouldn’t even know where to tell someone to go, as Sister just described it as a Mass in a canton after visiting Trini and Andres.
I walk up to the square by the church of Santo Domingo, sit down on a bench and watch what’s going on in the town. An old orange Datsun pickup truck loaded with cabbages and melons parks in front of the church. A young boy of 10 or 11 gets out, followed by his father. They pick out a pair of huge cabbages for sale to prospective customers. The lady who makes tortillas in the little stand across the square turns down the boy’s offer, but the father appears to have made a sale to another customer.
Vendors in trucks and vans with loudspeakers mounted on the roof go up and down the streets playing recordings to hawk their wares.
“Hot personal pizza with ham and mozzarella cheese, Italian style, one dollar!” crows the recorded voice repeatedly from one truck.
I need to find out why Santo Domingo de Guzman is shown with a dog. Both the large statue on top of the church and another statue I have seen both show him with a dog.
Local men stop outside the church to greet me, including the man I saw yesterday with a Webelos Scout cap on. He tells me his name is Luis and I think he’s waiting to go to the clinic. I think he says he needs glasses.
Luis wears worn black leather dress shoes, one with a piece of cheap aqua nylon twine as a shoelace. A thin cord holds up his trousers in lieu of a belt.
I walk the town, see a young kitten and make an instant friend. Two dogs see me as a threat on their turf and bark menacingly. I retreat to a little shop, where I buy a cold beer for a dollar.
From there, it’s back to Sister’s house, where the housekeeper, Luce, recognizes me. I share my story of being left behind through a mixture of English, Spanish and gestures. She says she understands.
I take a chair to Sister’s front porch and pass the time people-watching.
The lady who taught us to make tortillas comes down the hill with a big basket of empanadas con leche. I buy one for twenty cents and it is very tasty. The custard is warm and sweet, the dough warm and crumbly, like a shortbread cookie.
It is so peaceful here. Across the street, people in the small shop chat while waiting on customers. Latin music emanates from a loudspeaker. Dogs and cats wander past.
Roosters crow and turkeys gobble. In the distance—a block or two away—I hear pigeons cooing too.
Missionaries of another faith pass by, along with other foot traffic and an assortment of vehicles.
In some respects, the houses vary so much. In town, the main streets have pleasant adobe and stucco construction, handsomely crafted metal grates or grillwork over the doors and windows, and colorfully painted walls.
Just a block or two away, the quality of housing drops quickly. The tin-roofed shacks are mere hovels with dirt floors, yet they are home to very lovely people.
As I sit writing, two boys—Juan and Jose—stop to see me. Perhaps they intend to visit Sister Rose. Then again, it just might be that I am a curiosity. They tell me their names and ages—eight and nine—but quickly tire of this foreigner who cannot speak Spanish, so they move on.
Our group must be in Santa Lucia now. Mass will be over, but I’m not sure what they are supposed to be doing next. On one hand, it bugs me not to be along just because I was last in line for the restroom. On the other hand, though, I am enjoying the “silencio” of sitting and writing.
Chris and Terri will be working hard finishing the findings and recommendations for our client in Chicago, so I feel a small bit of guilt being here, so far removed from work. Still, I feel I’m learning a lot here and, in some small way, can take back what I learned and share it with people at home.
