8 — El Conquistador Cortés
‘Go and hurry, procure more like us! Gold is only happy with gold, and a jewel with another jewel.’ — Goethe
We encountered Cortés the day we arrived, during our grand tour of the restored irrigation system. The main road wound past his house — one of the few two-storey structures in the village of Guayabal and perhaps the largest. As we passed the heavy gate to a plaza-like area in front of this building, he came out to join our group. The barking dog stayed in place behind the gate. There was a large vehicle under a fitted tarp in a garage shed. Cortés was a tall, healthy-looking man who I thought rather fair for a Dominican. He was also dressed more finely than other farmers we had met. He looked like a man about to be chauffeured to his causal business luncheon. In fact, we were sweating our way down to the village electrical substation and pump house.
After the inspection, he invited us for a visit to his newly planted avocado orchard. It was on a hilltop meadow above his goat pen. There was a beautiful vista of Guayabal town in the golden afternoon sunlight. We could see the large pipeline snaking uphill in the opposite direction. Avocado saplings were planted in even, orderly rows. A single stalk of maize marked each sapling location, along with some type of vine with large leaves to shade the young trees. The engineers had a look at the grounds and the drip irrigation lines with their red and green heads. Something wasn’t adding up. Cortés had installed a booster pump at the small reservoir for his goats, but even that level seemed too high. Besides, the whole area wasn’t on EMI’s survey maps. It had not been cultivated earlier nor identified as one of the irrigation zones, so it wasn’t included. Jason checked some levels with his phone GPS, Lee installed a bicycle tyre pressure port. Cortés had stripped to his white vest undershirt for the hike. Even so, he lacked that particular farmer roughness and disheveled look. Instead, he just looked a wealthy, clean-shaven man in a spotless undershirt.
Waving both arms generously, Cortés completed the introduction to the newest frontier of his property. “It will be a beautiful orchard park for the whole community to enjoy,” he said flashing a set of milky-white teeth, “Thank you for all your help with this water project — we will take full advantage of it.”
‘Gaspar’, as Cortés was nicknamed, quickly proved himself a keen student. I was amazed at how carefully he listened to Lee’s agricultural training, and how attentive and inquiring he had been in Ricardo’s field. I followed Lee’s little group on their Monday afternoon field trip. Lee was teaching directly in Spanish, though the term ‘teaching’ doesn’t quite describe this interaction. Not wanting to distract them with translation to English, I listened silently, observing gestures and body language. If one didn’t know better, one might have concluded that Lee was discovering how irrigation systems work right that moment with his adult students.
Having worked with irrigation systems in the USA and internationally throughout his career as a consultant agricultural engineer, Lee certainly did know how they worked. He had done his third-year engineering course at a university in Mexico; he had served in the Peace Corps; he and his wife had been missionaries in Indonesia; he had been an aid worker in North Korea in the ’90s; he was a repeat EMI volunteer to Africa, Central Asia, etc.
In short, Lee certainly knew how to work with people. His style of instruction showed this. Lee would call to them in Spanish saying, “Mira lo, maestro! (Look here, teacher!)” He would point out certain marks on the soil and ask a question. They would explain that quite a lot of water had passed that spot. Then he would ask — if that were so — why the plants near those marks didn’t look well? There was, I thought, the faintest twinkle in Lee’s eye as he posed this innocent question. They would then explain their idea for this apparent paradox. And Lee would calmly carry on, eyes twinkling, poking questions into logic gaps until they reached the truth. It was something like Socrates in his dialogues. Lee’s thinning white hair and full white beard fit the part, as did his warm and friendly manner. The philosopher would have also approved of his muddy jeans and hiking boots; Gaspar didn’t look as if he had a spot of dirt on him. Somehow, he had walked in such a way that had kept his black leather shoes out of the mud. This hardly seemed possible, but there it was.
Martínez and J — , the other agricultural students, were satisfied with an introduction to Ricardo’s system. Tiring of the dialogues, they wandered over to the shade of a tree to chat with a few of Ricardo’s workers. This gave Gaspar the chance he was waiting for — precious time to query Lee without the others listening in. Lee knelt on the ground to point out particulars on Ricardo’s 5-mil drip tape. Gaspar crouched low as well, though his trousers did not contact the ground. Their heads were close together, Gaspar overshadowing the smallish Lee. It had the sense of conspiracy — albeit in broad sunny daylight. Gaspar wanted to know every error and deficiency of that system. He didn’t want to repeat a single one of Ricardo’s mistakes.
After a second look at Gaspar’s new orchard that afternoon, Lee, the irrigation philosopher, was intent on tracing out the system with his pupils. We would go back to discover the source of this water. Martínez was anxious to do this, jumping at the idea. He owned a field on the hill adjacent to Gaspar’s and had carefully observed his neighbor’s sapling orchard. We knew Martínez was vexed with Gaspar. The main pipeline passes through Gaspar’s farm property and Martínez wanted a little road — a public access like elsewhere — on which to drive his truck with the welder in case of pipeline repair. But Gaspar had refused to cut down any of his banana and plantain trees to make this access road. “The trees were planted for fruit,” we heard that he said, “not to be cut.”
Seen together, one would never have guessed these two were at odds. They walked together and joked down the hill to Gaspar’s gate. There was an unusual bulge at Gaspar’s back as the tall man stretched to slide back his gate. It was an object under his polo shirt, tucked into his pants. Unveiled today, a red Hummer SUV rested contentedly in its shed next to the gate. Gaspar couldn’t avoid commenting — it was so large, you see, and we all stared at it. It had to be the largest vehicle in Guayabal — excluding the mini-trucks used for hauling. “My brother’s,” he said, “He stays in Barcelona most of the year for business. And I am here at the farm.” Pulling us away, he skirted around to the rear of the estate house where ducks and chickens were wandering among the mango and sweet-smelling lemon trees. Striking a path deeper into his banana forest, Gaspar did not need to use his machete. In a short while, we met the pipeline. Then, some twenty paces to the south in a cluster of plantain trees, we saw it.
An old valve poking up from the pipeline had been converted into a kind of dripping pipe manifold. Bits of metal and plastic pipes had been fitted together with screw clamps and bicycle tubes, drawing pressurized water away from the main pipeline and up towards Gaspar’s newest plantation. A large mango tree to one side drooped green mangoes temptingly, within easy reach. The leaky valve that controlled the water line was chained shut. (We later discovered ASOPAGUA had chained this valve as secretly as Gaspar had installed it…) But this lockdown was either incompetent or halfhearted, as Gaspar demonstrated by opening the valve part-way. We could hear water flowing, and Lee’s eyes twinkled as he began a fresh dialogue while installing a bicycle tyre port on this illicit connection. There was no mention or discussion of the chain and lock, however. It was as if they were invisible.
Development projects restore or improve something or other. Though they are usually designed for parity among beneficiaries, people and nature and circumstance usually conspire to circumvent this.
Some Guayabal residents were using small electric pumps and hoses to draw water for domestic use right out of the irrigation canal in front of their homes. Why continue filling up plastic jerry cans down at the reservoir or up at the pipeline end-basin like others? Farmers with means were experimenting with drip irrigation systems in an attempt to make their farm work easier. Farmers with fields closer to the pipeline got quicker irrigation service than those with fields farther away, etc. But Gaspar’s secret innovation was different.
At one stroke, he had created a brand new class of ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’ in this village. He had put new territories within reach on Guayabal’s cultivation map. Yet how could ASOPAGUA regulate and manage irrigation water supply if farmers simply tapped into La Tubería as they liked? And the more water diverted in this way for the benefit of a few would mean less water in the canal above for the rest. Gaspar had spoken truthfully — he had taken full advantage of the restored system. In fact, the clever fellow had discovered a new way to take advantage of it, a new way of winning: Taking his own private access to a public service for the community. I understood why Martínez (and surely President Ricardo behind him) wished to cut off this connection and weld it over — killing all those avocado saplings — if only EMI had provided the pretext.
Now here we all were, smiling about it, jealous neighbors posing as agricultural engineering pupils among the shady plantain trees. Gaspar had invented a new way to ‘have’. It’s not greed, it’s advancement! Making best use of the energy — good engineering, one might say… Now, let’s measure just how much advantage full pressure in Gaspar’s unauthorised connection could give him! Martínez huddled close to the gage. He was warming to the idea.
9 — The Lost Brother-in-Law
‘There was no hope on earth, and God seemed to have forgotten us…’ — Chief Red Cloud of the Ogala Dakotas
The restless night finally ended and Tuesday was a bright new day. Full of nervous energy, and with nothing else to do with well over an hour before breakfast, I decided to photograph life in the public square across from the hardware shop. There was the d’India Colmado (Indian grocery) — a mango wood-panel building in green with yellow trim. I went inside but failed to see any Indian products. The proprietor seemed shy about being photographed in his dim shop. Instead, he brought me out back and gestured importantly to his chickens. I duly snapped a photo. A curious motorbike arrived. Its driver had plastic bags of bread and buns surrounding him, piled up over his back. These baked goods didn’t look particularly Indian either.
Across the street, half a dozen roosters were taking the morning sunshine and fresh air under wooden crates and wire cages. They were quite quiet now, having performed their noisy duty repeatedly in the wee hours. I had been awake for most of that. Now I liked seeing them sort of skittish and uncertain in cages, not making a peep. I wasn’t sure if they were for sale or if these might be the famous Guayabal sporting cocks — which (we were told) would be having a go for money the following night. A man in a knock-off Michael Jordan cap noticed my interest. He walked over, uncovered one of the cocks and posed, making a bold, proud face while cradling the bird against his chest. I snapped a photo and showed him the result. Perhaps this was Guayabal’s Michael Jordan of cock-fighters.
A pig had been slaughtered the previous evening with prolonged and heart-wrenching squealing. Now all its various parts were hanging from the branches of a tree, with the head and inside parts on a table. There was a brisk business at this grotesque scene; I did not take a photo and decided to sit. Soon I was absorbed in writing.
I didn’t hear the ‘Buenos días!’ until my journal was overshadowed by a figure. I looked up to see a smiling Felix, machete tucked into his belt, back from an early-morning visit to his field. That old EMI cap was on his head today. Apparently, he had already greeted several of the Haitian laborers standing around before making his way to me. Echoing his greeting, I took his outstretched hand with both of mine and held it the way we used to do in India, to show affection. There was room on the green metal park bench and Felix took a seat. And we sat together in silence, enjoying the sunlight.
Tuesday was Wil & Marv’s turn for Trainee devotions — they covered the birds. One of the Caesars — the louder one — was clearly preoccupied, talking on his phone. He later walked off during the Brothers’ message to speak to a woman walking along the path outside the compound fence. And this was of interest to some of the trainees. The distraction made our translator José a little cross, but I noticed how precisely it fit with this part of Jesus’ parable. Devotion ended with prayer.
Since Jason was in Barahona with the donors, Manuel, the present Operator, was to guide this particular Caesar and the other pump system trainee through the procedures. Wasting no time jumping on a motorbike together, Caesar and Manuel zoomed off recklessly to (as we later discovered) cook their breakfast at Manuel’s house. I followed the welding group. Yesterday afternoon Pedro had brought them petrol; this morning there was to be demonstration welding.
I saw that Nicolás had brought his homework and was dressed fit to weld with boots on. He was one of the quieter trainees, with curly hair and a set of braces that seemed too boyish for a 39-year-old man. The ingenious Brothers had created pencil-stingers for each welding student to practice with. This item was a short wood dowel attached to a strong plastic clip with teeth to hold a pencil as a mock-electrode. Yesterday the students practiced drawing little arcs, like a series of connected, cursive ‘s’ letters, while holding the pencil-electrode at certain angles. This imitated the actual welding posture and motion. They were to continue practicing at home and submit their work this morning. Though Nicolás’s paper was covered front and back with neat, vertical rows of these cursive ‘s’ marks, there was new ground to cover and the Brothers just drove on. Nicolás put his homework back in his pocket and attended to the lesson.
At the lunch tables packed into Felix’s truckport, we were waiting for the donors to come. There was to be a special lunch and a welcome function afterward. Because of this, the training groups only had half-day sessions. Felix was sitting with us, chatting to pass time as the clock strayed past the appointed hour. His daughter was down in the cookhouse with Elba, and it smelled wonderful. There was to be a pork dish, and a lovely big pot of rice and chicken cooked together tasty like an Indian biriyani. A middle-aged man was sitting at the cookhouse table waiting for his food. We had seen him there at most meals, but he never seemed to speak or interact with people. He always sat very still, gazing. Curious, we asked Felix about him.
“That’s Elba’s brother,” he said, beginning the story. Her brother had been in the Dominican Republic Navy at one point. He had married; they had kids. Later, Elba’s brother immigrated with his family to Spain. He worked at a shop in Barcelona — apparently a city with a large Dominican population. Unfortunately, his wife began to be promiscuous. Felix suspected she only needed him to get to Spain. She gossiped about him among Dominicans, mocking his size and performance in bed, comparing him unfavorably to her lovers. Finally she left him for a lover, taking the children with her. And people knew.
So he locked himself in his room alone in Barcelona and went dead to the world, slowly starving, not caring for himself. There was discovery and an intervention — it’s a mental disease, they said. He became violent; they treated him with drugs. Now he dribbles a bit around his mouth when he eats. He walks around aimlessly. He sits and stands and stares off looking at trees or things. “He’s been this way for seven years,” Felix said, “and he goes back to Spain twice per year for treatment and medication.” If he doesn’t have that medication, he can be violent… Felix told us that he once split Elba’s head open, hitting her suddenly and without apparent cause. He had also attacked Felix, hitting him in the mouth with a rock, bloodying his face…
I was dumbfounded by the simple way Felix shared these things, and by the depths of his brother-in-law’s suffering. The weight of shame and pain and anger he must be carrying was tremendous and my heart ached. People destroy people viciously and God seems to have forgotten His world. Elba’s brother was a shell of his former self; his mind was lost, swallowed up by shame, shattered and imprisoned. An enemy has done it. Now who could possibly find him again, free him, pull him out alive from shame’s gut? No one had. God had not. And seven years had passed. He was unproductive and unhelpful; he could be dangerous and had attacked them.
And yet Felix & Elba had provided and cared for this man for those seven years. It was incredible. Could I, a disciple of Jesus, ever do what this non-practicing Catholic was doing? Would I put my wife and family at risk to care for anyone so broken as this? And there was no hope, not a word from Felix about any improvement or future recovery. Seven years, a split head, a bloody mouth, and their care will continue indefinitely. I already admired Felix, but this seemed miraculous. No, God had not forgotten. Like the father in the parable, Felix had received his lost brother-in-law back home. He was still a broken man.
We asked if we could pray for him. The story had touched each of us. At first, Felix was hesitant, thinking we would need to approach his brother-in-law directly. I said we could talk to God sitting right where we were, in Felix’s truckport. “Only God knows what is going on in his head, so we just ask Him.” And we did. As José prayed in Spanish, Felix bowed his head, holding his hat in his hands. ‘Dear God in heaven, for Christ’s sake,…’
Beyond us at the cookhouse table, Elba’s brother sat frozen, like a doll, staring into space.
10 — Donors Defined
‘For services are welcome as long as it seems possible to repay them…’ — Tacitus
As if cued by the end of José’s prayer, a short caravan of vehicles pulled up outside Felix’s hardware shop. Soon a crowd formed as farmers, donors, charity reps, and the EMI team milled about greeting one another. Pedro was almost hysterical with tension, trying to smile and orchestrate everything and maintain command. Somehow we all needed to fit at the luncheon tables in the truckport but no one would sit down. Pedro couldn’t seem to get the group’s attention. Besides that, many of the guests were several levels his senior. His programme manager from Santo Domingo was there, as well as his manager’s boss, and his manager’s boss’s boss — the overall Dominican Republic Christian charity head. She was also arguably senior to the USA charity and donor agency reps who had come, and perhaps intended her aloofness to make this clear.
Behind the others was a rather sullen fellow, Pam’s Dominican counterpart. I supposed he already had a scolding for his inattention to Pam — who looked comfortable and satisfied by contrast. Another pick-up truck drove up — the Government utility company officials who allow the electricity to come to Guayabal free of charge. Now they had come for the lunch, and (I noted later) people quickly revised their speeches of praise to include them as well.
Two of the donors were elderly and decided to sit. Compared with their A/C mini-bus, the truckport was cramped, hot, and sweaty. Dressed for the field in khaki pants, sunglasses, and a broad-brim sun hat, the senior USA Christian charity rep was glad-handing his way round. He had visited the village with the donors several times before. Wearing the charity brand on his shirt, he had a brilliant smile and a vigorous handshake. It rather overpowered Felix. A desperate Pedro co-opted this senior rep into commencing lunch with the blessing. “Beautiful,” he said, and with a sudden kind of rodeo ‘yodel-whoop’ got the crowd settled down for a prayer.
Elba and her daughter had prepared a feast, but no one could eat it until they had filled particulars on the lunch attendance sheet. As it reached our table, the senior rep signed it with another ‘beautiful’, passing it to Jason seated beside him. There was a third ‘beautiful’ as someone produced hand sanitizer. To show respect, I took it from him and rubbed some gel on my hands. I dutifully passed the foreign little bottle to one of the donors, who sat at the head table as well. During the meal, Jason’s description of the project progress and what he’d seen of Guayabal’s fields and fruits elicited a few more ‘beautifuls’. They were of course happy with EMI and we were talking about wider engagement and partnership. The donor said, “I can’t imagine where we would be without EMI on this project — probably sitting at home without having even started…”
“Yes! It’s beautiful!” said the senior rep smiling wide, “We’re very satisfied customers — you can quote me on that.” There was discussion of a community water project in Africa begun by the charity years ago. That project had failed from the outset. Just as the charity was about to abandon it, EMI had set things right with survey studies and engineering skill. The donor said, “To me, it’s like any business with a legal department. There are things you handle in-house, but then sometimes you need to get a law firm involved on bigger issues.”
“Or,” I countered, “You can think about EMI like a dentist. Others do prep and cleaning, but afterward the dentist comes in to check each patient and give recommendations. That way, problems get identified when they’re still small.” Though an unfortunate allusion (few enjoy the dentist), it was perhaps accurate. We knew this charity had a number of projects that would benefit from an EMI visit. It even might have merited another ‘beautiful’, but for Pedro’s outburst:
“BIEN! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, Atención!” He was at it again. It was time to move on to the ASOPAGUA function.
Señor Edelmiro was making his concluding remarks as I arrived at the large pavilion next to the community pool. Some 40 people were seated for the function. An emergency charge for my camera battery meant that I missed most of the eldest ASOPAGUA farmer’s impromptu speech. He spread out his arms as if embracing his audience. Like an old-fashioned stage actor, he shut his eyes and paused holding this pose, waiting for and receiving applause.
Behind him was a table colorful with fruit. Plantains, various kinds of beans, sugarcane, sweet pepper, eggplant, maize, cabbage, avocado, and more. A sampling of all that had come to life in Guayabal because of the irrigation water project. On the red wall behind the table some historical facts, figures, bylaws, and an ASOPAGUA org chart had been pasted up. It was done with markers in an unsteady hand on slanty lines, like a middle-schooler’s science project. At lunch, Pedro had filled his tank with Elba’s sweet black coffee. This gave him the burst of nervous energy he needed as MC. He outdid himself in acknowledgement and praise of the Government electricity officials, who stood to receive their ovation. Privately, most were vexed with them — but this is what is done everywhere with such authorities. In English and in Hindi, we call this ‘buttering-up,’ and Pedro excelled. Tedious association meeting minutes from Juan Bosch, President Ricardo’s speech, and the Q&A that followed exhausted José. Pedro’s manager stepped in to translate for Jason, who was up next.
Felix was sitting to one side, next to Ricardo, on a plastic beer crate turned on its side. As ASOPAGUA Vice President, I suppose he could have given a speech but had elected not to. I should have liked to hear him — I wondered what a speech by Felix would have sounded like.
The Haitian boys at the pool to our backs were listening at first. By now they had lost interest and played happily in the shiny blue water. Jason must have been at least a bit distracted watching them jump and splash about in the background. We were closer to the pool than ever, but it was only for speech-making. Finally, one of the donors — the spokesman for the three — came up to the fruit table. His remarks were shorter than expected, perhaps even disappointingly brief:
“You call us ‘donors’, but I’d like to tell you what that word means. A ‘donor’ is someone who has been blessed and is now blessing others. You have been blessed though this water project made possible by donors. Now it’s your turn. Be a blessing to others.”
There was applause, the donor spokesman sat down. Pedro announced the next and final destination — to see water gush out of the pipeline. As people began mingling, Felix presided over the table of fruits, showing them off to people.
Overshadowed by the EMI cap, his cracked smile was priceless. He lifted two papaya fruits in his hands. I was trying to shoot this ‘Felix and the fruits’ photo when my camera battery died again.
Waiting for a second emergency charge at the government community centre across the way, I was mulling over the donor’s logic. Does material blessing — more money, more assets, a windfall — really make people more generous? This hasn’t been my experience. In fact, quite opposite.
Underlying Patron-Client cultural systems can produce unexpected results in charity programmes. Some wind up desiring gifts while resenting the giver. Of course, it is only good form to encourage the farmers to now — suddenly — become generous. Those words are nice for the ears (I would have said them too), and people applaud. And the gifts themselves — the water, seed loans, motors, welding machine, etc. — we can pretend they have some virtue for growing generosity. Then I thought of Ricardo and Gaspar. If anything, they are more ambitious for gain than ever before. Will they share that gain? Who are they going to help beside themselves? A generous person is generous regardless of what they have — great or small. And no amount of ‘having’ will make an ungenerous person become generous. It is spiritually motivated; it is from within the heart. Yes, the donors had set an example of generosity to follow, but why should anyone here want to copy it? What impact does a project expense ledger have on the human spirit? I am a miserly match to the generosity God has shown me; I would hardly call myself generous. Ricardo, Gaspar, and I are all of a kind. But I know Christ’s patient, gentle nudging. He is the master example — the only one that can transform a person. And when Jesus speaks, ‘Now it’s your turn,’ His words penetrate the heart.
I returned to the pool area in time catch a ride to the pipe basin. I jumped in the back of a pickup next to Felix. The senior USA charity rep was signaling stragglers to get into their vehicles with more rodeo yodel-whooping.
This time he did it with an arm-waving action as if he were twirling an imaginary lasso.
11 — The Spaniard’s Heart is Pure
‘I have lived without a single remark being made against me, all my life.’ — Gateman’s Gift, RK Narayan
A tremendous flow of water was coming from the end of La Tubería when we reached the basin. Both pump motors were running for the display, so basin and canal filled quickly. A few boys were thoroughly enjoying themselves at the scene. I managed to photograph one of them as he ran along the canal for a flying leap into the basin. He must have been six or seven years old. It was a truly fantastic jump, his arms spread out and his legs climbing the air. His splash got me and I smiled back at him. This boy’s joy and total abandonment to the pleasure of water was as strong as gravity, but I was an adult and used to resisting.
Like other adults standing around, chatting and paying no attention to children’s antics, I was waiting for the donors to come up from the pump house. The white van eventually trundled up. They gathered around the basin for a group photo as the water poured on. Separated from the group by the gushing pipe end, Felix crouched on the basin wall. Smiling for the photo, his hand cupped the falling water. No one else felt the need to touch the water — not even the donors who had spent hundreds of thousands to make it flow here again. I wondered if Felix had noticed the little boy’s jump too…
There were congratulations and handshakes. The Government utility officials drove off. The senior rep intoned another ‘beautiful’ as Jason pointed out the flow measurement scale bolted to the canal wall at the first weir. Water flowed by smoothly — nearly 3000 gallons per minute. The visit was ending. One of the donors climbed back into the van; Pedro was noticeably more relaxed.
Attempting to break off final greetings, blessings, and goodbyes, the senior rep performed his lasso action and whooped repeatedly. It wasn’t clear this had any effect, but the van doors finally shut. It drove off, leaving a thin cloud of dust hanging in the air. It was just us again — EMI in the village of Guayabal.
I soon gave up any hope of taking photos from Pedro’s company truck. José and I were sitting in the pickup bed with farmers Negrito and C — . As we bounced along the road up the mountain, I focused on hanging on. Pedro had suggested this joyride to a nearby mountain village; he was driving like mad. We would get a view of Guayabal from above and enjoy cool, crisp mountain air. The tension of the donor visit was broken, but the truck didn’t seem to know this. So Pedro kept his foot on the gas to keep the truck from stalling out. It was (unnecessarily) set in high-gear four-wheel drive. We stopped at a certain place and got out to enjoy the vista.
Looking down on the village, you could see the town, the baseball diamond, and the green fields. Jason tried to remember the spot he had taken an ‘aerial’ photo on his first visit. Back then, he had looked down on a yellowish, brownish Guayabal. The new photo I took was far different. We got back in the truck and Pedro gunned the engine again. Between slams from the metal bed and tailgate, José learned the two men sitting with us were brothers. This seemed incredible because of the differences in their appearance and complexion. “We’re Edelmiro’s sons,” C — said, “our mother was Haitian. I came out white, and Negrito here, well,.. he came out black.” The elderly Señor Edelmiro was quite fair — of Spanish descent. The brothers had grown up in these hills on their father’s farm. We were headed to visit an old neighbor, another old Spaniard who was farming by drip irrigation. The engineers had managed to convert our joyride into a work trip.
They took so long walking around inspecting the field I eventually decided to join them. Ilario’s short white hair was styled by neglect with results people might pay handsomely for in a salon. Black frame glasses and a doubtful expression completed his modern look. This face clashed badly with the stretched t-shirt hanging sadly around his neck, and the well-worn machete on his belt. Here, in 2018, was a modern man in his 60s, living without electricity on his mountain farm, causally entertaining a small audience of unexpected visitors. The tour of his gravity drip irrigation system had finished. Now, as I caught up with the group, Ilario was bemoaning corruption in the Dominican Republic.
“We need a dictator here, like in the old days. Someone to kill the corrupt people,” he said.
The Dominicans with us smiled and laughed in mild agreement at this wild solution. I was interested and said, “I think every country of the world has corrupt people, not just here in the Dominican Republic… But how can you tell which people are corrupt?”
“I’m Dominican… I know.” He grinned, but this response was not in jest.
“If you know, then tell me, where do you think corruption comes from?”
Ilario paused a moment, becoming serious. The shadows were lengthening on the mountain fields. He gestured with his hands, “The heart. Corruption comes from the heart.”
I was not expecting this answer. I remember asking this same question from time to time in conversations in India. I never received a reply like this. Normally, a person might smile or laugh and then redirect the conversation. Most people like to think they are pure, and that corruption is an activity one may purposefully or accidentally get entangled in. Or else that perhaps corruption comes from an external, contaminating source — like a virus one gets by not washing one’s hands. Less scientifically, one might become infected by contact with a certain species of bank note: ‘black money’. Pure people catch a bout of corruption, and then they may need a steam treatment or bed rest to shake it off, like a cold. But corruption coming from the human heart! It was a damning statement — especially from a man pleasantly espousing execution. I paused.
But Ilario went on to answer the question I was hesitating to ask. “Do you know I used to live in America? I lived in the state of New Jersey. During the years I lived there, I was called as a witness in an important court case. Now, do you suppose they would call a witness into an American court who was not honest and trustworthy?”
Expecting a wild truckride down the mountain and fearful of hurting my back sitting in the bed, I was awarded the front seat. But Pedro was very mellow now and the truck crept cautiously down the steep road. This pace facilitated conversation. In the truck bed, José found an opportunity to begin sharing the gospel with Edelmiro’s black and white sons. Jason enjoyed the challenge of following their Spanish conversation. In the back seat, there was some discussion over the manner of ranking the welding course certificates. In the end, it was decided that only three ranks (highest being rank ‘III’) were required, and that perhaps only Ángel merited the highest rank. Evening approached; Pedro looked completely exhausted. I thought it would be better to get him talking lest he fall asleep at the wheel.
He told me about his life, splitting time between Guayabal (3 days) and the office near his home (4 days) each week. His 3-year-old boy misses him badly when he is away — as did mine, and we commiserated about this. His wife is from Nicaragua. They met in college in the USA — in Wisconsin — in an education-sponsoring programme. Pedro said it took him over a year to persuade his wife to be with him, and it seemed he felt this waiting period was inordinately long. The remark meant something particular, though I did not quite know what. They had moved to the Dominican Republic five years ago.
As for himself, he is a non-practicing Catholic, which is just part of his cultural identity. His wife takes religious things more seriously, but they get on fine. They got married two years back. He’d like to go back to the US for further studies and improve his English. Ideally, if possible, his family would join him too,.. but that would be expensive. The Guayabal project has interested him in farming. So maybe he would study agronomy or agricultural engineering. That might open up more opportunities for him. I wondered if he was nervous about his work in the village. It’s not easy to go nonstop for several days, running around, entertaining donors and big bosses, wanting to impress, anxious they have a good experience, feeling every second that your job is on the line.
“Promises, reports, accountability all need to be kept,” Pedro said, eyes to the road ahead, “If you exaggerate on the results, it won’t match up when they come to check. And then it won’t be good for you…”
Since the departure of L — , Pedro had been the point-person for the Guayabal project. Now he was carrying the load alone. He added, “Those donors ask very simple questions… You need to be careful to give them the right answer.”
“Is it hard sometimes? To think of the right answer?” I asked. There was a pause as Pedro steered the truck around a curve.
“Not so much — I just tell them the truth.”
12 — An Invitation
‘…Figs are never gathered from thornbushes, and grapes are not picked from bramble bushes.’ — Luke VI.44 (NLT)
What does it take to start a fire? Where does one start? You need tinder, arranged in some such way that air can circulate, a spark, a little flame held long enough against something to catch. After that, everything needs to be in balance if that start at a fire is to keep going. It takes maintenance, more fuel, some adjustment of the pieces. An ongoing project. We also have to think about the wood itself. If there’s no dry tinder or small pieces, lighting the fire is harder and takes greater skill. The wood may be soaked or damp; it might be so rotten that fire is near impossible. Or, it could be in big pieces which need splitting and drying before anything could happen. Splitting and drying for months, for years… unless lightning strikes. Other fires you might work on have burned already. In fact, maybe there are still some live coals, glowing inside yet appearing dead and cold on the outside. Then the work is different. Gently, you blow on the coals, like the angels in The Great Divorce, coaxingly, lovingly, you draw flame once again… If there really is any fire left below the smoke.
A cloud of flying bugs circled the streetlight in front of Felix’s hardware shop when we pulled up. A group of youngsters were playing a noisy game by the park bench. They shouted, ‘Jefe! Capitán! Americano!’ etc., back and forth to each other up and down in a line. We went behind the house for a late dinner — Pedro went straight upstairs to bed. The food had been set for some time, but Elba still smiled at us. We settled in to eat the leftovers from the donor feast. Partway through, a teenage girl entered the veranda from the darkness. She greeted us in English. After a few moments, Maria said, “On the behalf of our church pastor, I would like to invite you tomorrow to come to our church, on Wednesday seven o’clock.”
Jason replied that we would be happy to come, and thanked her for the invitation. He knew Maria from earlier trips to Guayabal; he had visited her church once before, as had Lee. Maria smiled and said ‘thank you’, but remained standing there. There followed an awkward period as we were unsure whether we should attend to her or to the feast leftovers.
“And also,” she continued abruptly at last, “pastor has invited one of you to share the Word of God with us.”
Maria smiled sweetly. Naturally, this was a question requiring some consultation. It soon became apparent that the entire team believed Maria’s pastor had invited me. I, however, had confidence that pastor had in fact invited Jason, and I had several reasons for this belief. Our ‘discussion’ did not confuse Maria in the slightest. She kept standing there watching the progress of our friendly deliberation over her invitation. Elba brought in a heaping platter of sliced golden mangoes. Eventually it was confirmed that one of us would gladly share the Word of God. Satisfied, Maria turned to leave. I called her back. She smiled patiently as I delayed her with questions about her church, the pastor, etc. When I asked her what she thought it meant to follow God, she quoted without hesitation from two passages in the New Testament. Interrogation complete, she bid us goodnight.
It could not have been more than a minute before Felix came out of his house to sit with us. He had his black-framed reading glasses on. Perhaps he had been eavesdropping from inside. Once she’d gone, we began reviewing the main arguments — over the glorious platter of mangoes — regarding whom we believed the pastor had invited to speak in church. The issue was bouncing between Jason and I; we kept deferring to each other. I would of course be happy to do it, but it was Jason’s prerogative as our team leader. I popped a piece of mango into my mouth. Jason was saying he would be glad to hear me speak, provided it wasn’t too much — I was sharing on the stones in devotions the next morning. Jason reached for another slice… Now that Felix was here, I turned to him and asked, “Who do you think should preach in the church tomorrow?”
Felix took a wedge of mango for himself. He considered the translated question, slowly enjoying the delicious fruit. Several members of the team tribunal indicated their idea to Felix silently, with less than subtle gestures towards myself.
“Marv.” he said, like a judge, “Because he won’t talk for long.”
This made us all laugh — Marv included, who was indeed a man of few words. His brother Wil attested to this. Marv’s role as welding instructor was pushing his normal daily word-count to new levels this week. He had no intention to become the invited preacher. But Felix went on, explaining to us the difference between a quiet leader and a shy person.
At ASOPAGUA meetings, Felix told us, he is usually silent like Marv. However if there’s something going on that’s wrong, he’s not afraid to stand up and say so, whatever anybody may think. A quiet person certainly can be a leader, he argued, standing for what is right and saying what is wrong. I enjoyed hearing Felix share these insights — it was surprising to learn how discerning an observer he was. Felix was enjoying our audience as well.
“Some people,” he continued after another piece of mango, “have hearts from God but speak like the devil.” We nodded around the table. “Others have the faces of angels, but their hearts are of the devil.”
“How can you really tell the difference?” I asked. Felix looked away and made a short remark that José did not translate.
“Do you know Jesus talked about this too?” I continued, “He said people are like fruit trees.” I paused. Like the sour orange, plantain, and avocado trees on Felix’s farm. “Jesus said, ‘a good tree produces good fruit. And a bad tree produces bad fruit. By their fruits you will know them.’”
There was a silence. I reached across the table and took Felix’s hand. It was calloused, rough, and hard from working the soil. Then I said to him, “Felix, I’m going to miss talking with you. You are wise, you live in the very centre of this town, your fields are rich, your heart understands people, and you are generous. God has blessed you.”
Pedro was snoring as I entered the apartment above the hardware shop. He had left the light on for me. As a result of his consideration, some of the flying bugs had found a new party zone. The blue water barrel in the toilet was nearly empty. I was thinking over the things Felix said and what they revealed about his character. How God could use a man like Felix here, and use him powerfully! If others succeed or lead, people will only envy. Felix was different — modest and considerate, wise and discerning, willing to work hard. Yes, I thought, people would follow Felix gladly.
13 — Caesar of the Shotgun
‘But he has absolutely no idea how to behave…’ — Cicero, The Second Philippic against Mark Antony
He is talkative, he is loud, his mouth is always working. He is polite — but with a touch of mockery. Will you give this man the responsibility to operate expensive, brand-new pump motors? Will you put this man at the controls of an asset affecting the livelihood of the entire village? Impossible!
Pedro being absent, Jason was trying to communicate, translating word-by-word into Spanish with assistance from his smartphone. José Luis, the other trainee, was listening patiently — taking pains to understand. This man, however, where was he? Was he in earshot? Yes, he was standing at the pump house door. Doubtless, he heard these words as he pinched the nipples of a Haitian woman half his age who peeked in to see what we were doing. She had just finished her swim-bath in the reservoir nearby, having preserved her modesty by keeping her t-shirt on. It was soaking wet. Caesar did not miss even this momentary, chance opportunity to invade the female person and carry on like a jackass. She giggled and looked back at him once or twice as she walked off. His eyes, however, remained fixed on her dripping body. Caesar’s narrow-set black eyes gleamed as they followed her movements up the rocky road.
And are we expected to believe his ears were all the while attuned to the tortured Spanish sentences Jason was building with José Luis as they reviewed the operator’s info cards?
Caesar’s friend, one of the many sons of Juan Bosch, has a body language almost as loud as his motorbike. Yesterday, he cut the silencer off the exhaust pipe. By appearance, one might think he was auditioning for a part in a gangster movie… Just auditioning because, in fact, he’s the kid who drives the village tractor. I suspected he felt this a waste of his talents. Well, he parked that tractor across the street and plowed that noisy motorbike as far into the welding shed as he could manage. (To arrange for it to be in the shade, you see.) A dramatic entrance — one might say a Hollywood entrance — into the middle of Marv’s welding training. He does this because today — right now — he wants them to weld the silencer back on… But class resumed in spite of the spectacle. So he rammed a steel bar into the exhaust pipe, clanging and banging stuff, with his punky hair highlights and shiny earring jiggling with the effort. Marv didn’t know how to proceed with all the racket, Wil was taken aback, José was visibly vexed.
Now Caesar appears, having taken leave from his pump-training class, shotgun in-hand, dressed all in camouflage. He had gone off into the jungle to hunt guinea fowl an hour or so ago, but he had seen none. He returned at this precise moment to relax with his camo shirt unbuttoned, so as to air out his belly. Thoughtfully, he brought a handful of white wafer biscuits to give to the white people. It tasted stale.
The comedy mounted further when a shouting man with a baseball bat appeared. He was ready to club earring-boy to death — nearly swinging already — and there was a row, an uproar.
In all the sparks and shouting and wild gesticulations, Caesar took the role of earring-boy’s advocate in the glaring sun of street court. I could not determine who acted as magistrate, nor how the jury formed. Indeed, it was hard to attend to anything besides Caesar. He distinguished himself not only in word-count and speed of speech, but also in making himself alone heard above the din. Marv & Wil tried repeatedly to get class going again without success, José quietly advised me to stay out of the way. In any case, the drama was far more interesting for the welding pupils.
It became clear that earring-boy had repeatedly noise-bombed shouting man’s house, blasting his motorbike engine with its exhaust trumpet. A naughty habit of his and other Guayabal gangsters. Consequentially, the shouting man was praying the street court to permit him to beat this kid’s brains out with an aluminum bat. Though people said later the shouting man was a bit crazy, his argument seemed natural to me. Though by all appearances he remained fearless, unrepentant, the village tractor driver lived to plow another day. In what must have been the 17th or 18th year of his life, he escaped this doom (seemingly) by the sheer volume and torrent of words which proceeded from the mouth of Caesar.
It was a fact that ‘Galo,’ as Caesar was known by nickname, was assigned by ASOPAGUA to be part of the pump-operator’s training. I verified this. But such a man would probably be in jail in America — or perhaps beaten within an inch of his life in India. Probably, he would be long dead in certain other countries.
I thought this while watching him flirt with pre-teen schoolgirls in their blue uniforms. They were sitting together on the metal benches in front of Felix’s hardware shop. It was a sunny morning and Galo was sitting in the bed of Pedro’s pickup truck. We had stopped for a few minutes to buy a can of yellow paint. He must have felt hot. So he got out, walked over and jostled an overhead tree branch to sprinkle yesterday night’s raindrops on the girls. This was done so that one girl would get up for him to take her seat. Girl extracted, he sat next to another girl and put his arm around her. They seemed used to this harassment, perhaps embarrassed, but they smiled and laughed, or perhaps… perhaps what? They actually waved to him as he whistled and catcalled from the pickup bed as we left.
We bought the yellow paint can and paintbrush. But I couldn’t help feeling that Galo had stolen something.
Today’s pump-operator training exercise was a walk down the pipeline. One of the key tasks is a routine inspection of ‘La Tubería Principal,’ but Galo does not attend to Pedro, he does not attend to Jason, he does not stop talking. Watching the painful effort he made to sign his own name that morning on the roll-call sheet, I guessed he might have been this way as a schoolboy as well. We walked along the steel pipe to look for signs of leakage; he shook the can of yellow paint. He stood in the shade under the tamarind tree and shook down fruit. Now, tamarind from the tree is delicious, like God-given candy. In fact, I had been searching for low-hanging pods to pluck for myself. We all enjoyed some of the sour-sweet brown fruit. To satisfy his protruding belly, however, Galo kept on shaking and shaking the branches of that poor tree.
At a wet spot along the ground, Jason searched under the pipeline with his fingers for the leak. Jason was on his hands and knees with his head underneath the pipe. Meanwhile, Galo cracked jokes about a fruit of a particular shape and colour. Pedro was too embarrassed to translate, acting as if he could not hear my requests. At the spot where the jungle encroaches the pipeline, Galo entertained us with the call of a guinea fowl played on his mobile phone. He described how he attracts them while hiding with his shotgun when he goes hunting.
In short, he is a person so loud and talkative that others cannot help but attend to his antics, smirk or laugh at his jokes. He must have been the class clown. Now this man is 42; Caesar was my age. It seemed impossible.
Down in Gaspar’s orchard, among the fertile banana and mango and lemon trees, Galo ate a mango. He ate it in such a manner as I had never seen anyone do before that day. Mango season is special in India and I have eaten many, many mangoes in different ways and different places.
For instance, there was that oval-shaped, green one which you gently mashed with your palms, turning the flesh into a pulpy juice. Then you bit off the top and sucked out the golden liquid like it was God’s original juice box. There were distinctive reddish yellowy-green ones we would buy in early summer. My boys knew these as ‘mommy-kiss’ mangoes. To me, that was the perfect description of their flavour. In rural Andhra, I saw people eating huge yellow ones like apples — skin and all. And that was okay, though a little bitter. Hard, raw, speckley-green ones would sometimes drop on EMI’s side of the wall from our neighbour’s tree at the office in Delhi. We would eat slices of the crunchy tart fruit with red chili and salt. That was delightful.
However, to call what Galo did to that mango ‘eating’ is a mistake. I picked the wrong verb — ‘consume’ would be better. Yes, he consumed the mango he plucked off someone else’s tree, in someone else’s orchard. The way in which he stripped it and the speed, the sucking sounds he made as he hastily got it almost fully into his mouth, the need, the pressing urgency to engorge himself… Then suddenly he discarded it — half-eaten — ejecting it from his mouth. It didn’t please him. And the ripe, golden fruit rolled stripped and bitten in the dirt and the dead leaves.
This visual burned into my mind. I wished I had not seen it. I wished I could unsee it. I wished I had instead been watching José Luis carefully paint the yellow circle around the leaky steel patch in the pipeline, like Jason.
At the reservoir after his strenuous downhill walk shooting off his mouth, talking perhaps thrice as much as Jason and twice as much as Pedro, Galo needed a bath.
Stripped to his underwear, he swam around splashing like a duck. He lathered himself up with another woman’s soap and refreshed himself thoroughly. This while Wil worked on the power meter and Pedro got a ride back to town to collect the pickup truck. Once he got his pants back on, Galo just couldn’t resist intruding another Haitian 20-something’s personal space. He bent in close over her back while she sat on the reservoir ghat, slipping his hands in to introduce himself with a squeeze to her midriff. She started at his touch, looked up at him and giggled.
Jesus, I thought. I know nothing at all about the norms of this sex-crazed, Dominican machismo culture. Jesus, I thought, how I wished we were in India now! And I could make a scene; I could call on the uncles and the street police with their wooden lathis! In no time, we would have a crowd of fifty men or more who would beat this jackass nicely, who would break all his pretty teeth. She’s not their daughter; she’s not their daughter-in-law; it wouldn’t matter… Afterward, of course, they would take his limp, unconscious body to the police station to fill all proper forms in triplicate as he bled on the steps.
Infuriated, almost in a rage, I prayed: Jesus, You know. Jesus, You see. Jesus, You… but I didn’t know what to ask for. Father, I don’t know how to pray about this. Felix says You will forgive those who confess. I would see this man thrown to the birds. I think Felix is a better Christian than I am.
14 — Elias Medina
‘…but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper.’ — Melachim Aleph
We hear plenty of words all the time; they blow like chaff all around us. At morning devotions in the village of Guayabal, our idea was to repeat and focus the words of Scripture — Jesus’ wheaty words, the seeds of the gospel — to speak them into the ears of our captive, non-practicing Catholic audience. Those who had motorbikes brought them. Those who did not tried to hitch a wild ride with those who did. In fact, our trainee audience was not literally captive. They could have zoomed off right in the middle of morning devotions if they didn’t like them. Less indecorously, they might have skipped and signed the roll-call sheet quietly later in the day. Yet here they all were.
They all knew they ought to hear such religious stuff; they all knew they ought to attend to it. The Christian charity knew they ought to begin such meetings with religious stuff; they knew they ought to be saying it. It was fitting, auspicious. All we had to do was simply enter this pre-labeled, unused, unlocked door. We would speak a different kind of word… ‘Whoever has ears to hear, let him hear.’ Then we’ll see what God might do. Or perhaps we would not see.
We read the parable again stopping with the part about the stones. It is difficult — if not impossible — to know what is really going on in the heart of another person. My captives sat in their cheap plastic chairs — some listening, some toying with their smartphones, some fidgeting or picking at their clothes. I doubt they had ever heard of ‘life with God’ framed in the imagery of a classroom and teacher with its rules & grades, though I was confident they understood it this way. I did not think they had ever heard of ‘life with God’ framed in the imagery of soil and seed with its life & fruit. This though they lived in a place surrounded by fields, soil, plants, fruit, and thousands upon thousands of white rocks.
Here was Jesus’ very word spoken to them, relevant, down to earth, memorable, rich with meaning, ready to unfold itself, full of power and life. Does anybody sow rocks? No — we take them out of the soil and it is hard work. We wish they weren’t there. Is there any use of soil itself? Does soil alone produce any life or fruit? No — we need the seed. The life and the fruit is in the seed. Jesus’ word brings life; His word is the seed. His life comes into our life and causes it to really live and bear fruit. But there are stones in the way — there are things about our life that stop Jesus’ life from growing deep roots.
I saw that Caesar was sitting very still. His head was up and his eyes were open. They were fixed on something a little away and off into the distance. There was no expression on his face — as if he were in a trance. Nicolás was concentrating on José’s translation, hanging on the words, glancing between him and me as if to verify that what he heard in Spanish was what I was actually saying. The day before we had asked for a volunteer to close in prayer. No one ventured to do so — someone (I think Gaspar) had said, ‘we don’t know how to pray.’ Today I was determined to exercise their mouths. Pedro had to take an urgent call and walked off. The rest of us stood to pronounce a prayer in Spanish. I closed my eyes.
“Father in heaven,
thank you for this life you gave me.
Help me to know and follow you,
as a child knows and follows his father.
Show me the stones in my heart,
I pray in Jesus’ name,
Amen.”
Some Bibles are too holy. This was the situation José Luis was telling us about in the bed of Pedro’s pickup truck. The great big holy Spanish Bible at his home belonged to the family. Rather, one might say it belonged to the furniture. It had a Christianizing influence in that it was there — perhaps even open — as a physical token of the kind of faith the family should have in God and in His Word. That was positive. That was good.
However, to touch it, to read it, to pick it up, to remove it from its place… well, there was apparently no specific ritual or superstition forbidding this. It was not as if José Luis thought he would defile the holy book by handling it. It isn’t wrong, but we just don’t do it. In other places, this hesitancy is stronger and the stakes are higher. That holy book can be dangerous. Having it in one’s hands could mean banishment in India. It may mean death in Afghanistan. Fortunately, the modern age has provided a remedy for this. We can get around Bibles too holy for idle curiosity. We can come to know the contents of all those gilded pages. We have a new, secret backdoor to discover what Jesus was really like, what He said about Himself.
Now that holy book becomes unholy in the sense that it mixes with all kinds of things: Games and emails and trivialities, maybe pornography or other garbage. Yet the Word remains holy in itself, latent with God’s power to make all else holy. And no one need know of or see this book, no one else has the password. They just think you’re spending too much time checking Facebook… I got out at Felix’s hardware shop. José was busy helping José Luis download the app.
I was sorting photos in my camera before lunch at Felix’s table. José had come in sweating and was refreshing himself with some cold juice. We were getting tired and it was starting to show. Felix came out of his house to talk with José. A few moments later José said, “Felix says you took a bunch of plantains?”
“Yeah — I put them where Elba showed me…” Gesturing lazily towards the cookhouse, I didn’t look up from my camera. José translated and they kept talking. José spoke again:
“Ok — he’s not asking where they are. Felix is telling me you lifted a bunch of plantains off his back… Did you carry plantains for him?”
It was earlier that morning… or was it yesterday afternoon? The days and these happenings were beginning to run together in my mind. I remember watching the motorbikes go up and down the main street in front of Felix’s hardware shop. Every once in a while, a teenager would pop a wheelie on his little 90-cc motorbike. It always happened suddenly without warning. I was hoping to catch them in the act with my camera, quietly… It wasn’t something I wanted to encourage or glamorize by staging a photo or letting on I wanted the shot. I missed and missed again and was always ready at the wrong time, ready when it didn’t happen.
After at least an hour of sitting and waiting, deleting unneeded photos, missing wheelies, etc., Felix came trudging up the path. He had come from his fields with a large, green plantain stalk across his shoulders. Well-worn machete at his side, he had a sack of sour oranges in his hand. He looked slow and tired and sweat dripped from his bowed head. Of course, I got up and took the plantains off his back. I carried them to the back of the house and Elba smiled and laughed and showed me where to put them under the counter in her kitchen. I don’t remember them being particularly heavy, but I only carried them for a distance of 150 feet or so. Felix had carried the load for the better part of a mile at the least. It was a small, unpremeditated kindness to a tired farmer. I thought nothing of it.
“Yes, I did that,” I said, looking up.
“Well, Felix wants to thank you.” Felix was looking at me. His smiling face had such a look of tenderness, of kindness. His eyes were clear — they looked at me warmly, even lovingly. I was surprised and his expression moved me very much.
As he said, “Gracias Mateo,” I thought Felix might become emotional.
Then he said it again and in a different way. José translated, “Thank you, Matthew. I, Elias D — Medina, thank you.”
God works in strange ways we don’t know. We talk, we persuade, ask questions, quote scripture, etc. Or else we do things hoping people will get a message by it. Or else we pray. Or else some combination of the three. We think we understand His ways so we imagine a method. And it is usually grand.
But then Jesus tells Peter to go down to the lake and cast a line and catch a single fish and take the coin that he finds in its mouth and use it to pay the temple tax for them both… Now the thought occurred to me that this affair with the plantains would be very much like the Lord. There was still a language barrier between us, but something had changed in Felix’s face.
I almost forgot I had been looking for an Elias Medina. He had been in front of me the whole time: Elias the non-practicing Catholic who cares for a broken man. Elias who follows the Commandments and believes God will forgive those who confess. Elias the quiet leader at ASOPAGUA who isn’t afraid to stand up for what is right. Elias who understood the parable but left the table. His name itself was significant to me. But why? Was it all just my insatiable curiosity? An assumed spiritual significance? Because of the woman pastor named Medina?
Likewise, lifting the plantain burden was evidently significant to Felix. But why? Had I broken some obscure Dominican taboo? It wasn’t because those last hundred-odd feet with the load were too much for him. Surely Felix’s sons and grandsons had lifted plantains from his back? Surely. Doubtless his Haitian field workers would have done so many times. And I thought, how very much like the Lord. It would be just His way to work powerfully through a momentary, thoughtless kindness. My unintentionality giving Him a space to work directly and intentionally.
As if mighty things in heavenly places and deep things in Felix’s heart had just moved — all through a casual, banal action: Lifting a stalk of green bananas off an old farmer’s shoulders.
And I prayed, “If that is really so, Lord — if that was all You needed me to do here in Guayabal — if that was the ultimate purpose of my being here — it is well. Blessed be the LORD God Almighty whose ways are not our ways.”
