The Miracles of Elias, Part 3

a novella in three parts

15 — El Pastor

‘When I hear a man preach, I like to see him act as if he were fighting bees.’ — Abraham Lincoln

We were escorted to church that night by Maria. The sound system was emitting the familiar squeals at painful frequencies audible from a distance on the village main road.

We entered the small, square hall with its white plastic chairs set up around a microphone and podium. There were three or four young people already there, plus El Pastor. We took seats to one side. A few others trickled in — a family with a few kids, several Haitian laborers. Watching them enter, that familiar feeling returned. It is perhaps common to preachers or any public speaker: You want to have a big audience; of course you want to see all the chairs filled. It makes you confident, it makes you feel validated; that what you have to say is worth hearing. Reminded of these vanities, I prayed silently: “Lord, it doesn’t matter at all — the pleasure of speaking or being heard, the size of the audience. Please help me speak Your word faithfully.” Though Wil had invited Felix to join us, he declined. Instead, he’ll pass the time in his rocking chair on the verandah of the hardware shop. Secretly I hoped to see him peek in at the door to listen.

Sound check resumed suddenly while I was showing José my sermon outline. We both jumped. Marv clutched at the hearing aid in his ear. In choosing our seats, we failed to pay attention to the location of the speakers. It was a mistake I made many times in India. Cross with myself, I looked over my shoulder. A big speaker stood in the corner directly behind us; we were about to be blasted by soundwaves. El Pastor was standing at the podium. It would be very awkward for us all to move now. The church meeting commenced with a final squeal as he picked up the tormented microphone.

Earlier that evening, El Pastor came to meet us. He was a single man of 26 years and of a formal and serious demeanor. Or perhaps he was simply nervous. We had been told he was relatively new to Guayabal — he had come from outside the village to pastor here. He saluted Felix and chatted with José for a little while. Then José called me for introductions. I told El Pastor a bit about myself, my family, and he conducted a bit of an interview there on the spot. He asked whether I was a pastor, which denomination I came from, if I spoke in tongues or planned to do so this evening. I had never been vetted so directly before and began to have an awkward feeling, suspecting there might be certain expectations I could not satisfy.

“No, I’m not a pastor,” I said. Not wanting to disappoint him, I added, “But I have spoken at churches and given sermons on many occasions…” This seemed satisfactory. In fact, I was confident I had been doing so far longer than El Pastor himself.

“As far as speaking in tongues,” I continued, “If you want, I could preach in Hindi tonight… but I don’t think that would be much use to your people. And my Cantonese would be a total disaster, I’m sure…” I smiled, hoping to lighten things up, but he didn’t give much of a response beyond a nod. Interview concluded, El Pastor took our leave. I returned to the dinner table wondering if José had translated my witty remark properly.

Outside it began to rain — Wednesday night cock fights would be canceled. Inside the church hall it was warm and stuffy. We failed to notice the positions of the fans as well. José and I were sweating in the front row. Under these circumstances, a loud, lengthy worship time in a language you do not understand does take some experience and effort to enjoy. Marv had switched off his hearing aid early on. Eventually José gave up as well, frustrated by the overpowering volume. It served as a kind of public ‘call to prayer’ though, emanating from the building. Attendance had roughly doubled since worship began. I noticed Pedro had come in. He sat near the door. Before congregational prayer, the service moved into ‘espíritu de Dios’ phase:

“espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios,…”

It is hard to say how long the congregation chanted this phrase. Sometimes a low murmur, sometimes rising to bouts of shouting, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, ‘Spirit of God’ was repeated over and over again innumerable times.

“espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios,…”

At first I tried to join in, but soon it felt too much like the ‘vain repetitions’ that always disturbed me about Hindu chanting in India. Certain bhajans and mantras would get in my head.

“espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios,…”

Before long, I would find myself reciting praise to the name of a Hindu god in my mind. It was involuntary, unwelcome, invasive. I hated it and learned to either get away or try to mentally shut it out. I couldn’t picture Felix here, doing this. Perhaps this is why he did not come.

“espíritu de Dios, espíritu de Dios,…”

I sat down next to José and closed my eyes. Lord Jesus,… perhaps I would do the same.

“espíritu de Dios,…”

I listened to the rain falling outside.

I once heard a statistic that most people remember only 10% of what they hear in a sermon. Whether it is true or not, this idea has had a definite impact on how I learned to share God’s Word over the years in India. I prefer not to use a mic if I think my voice can carry. It is enough if people can hear — extra amplification (I have noticed) does not aid retention. After prayer, you need attention. This is best done with a story. Not just any story but a parable: A vehicle designed and invented specifically to carry (and help the human mind retain) a kernel of God’s truth. Since my sons were born, I have had no end of material for such illustrations. Though this is now beginning to embarrass them, the father-son or child-parent framework is many times God’s own choice in the Bible. Tonight’s story was about my younger son and his gan-gan, or cotton blanket. When we give him a gan-gan, we have noticed that he will often come back later to ask us where it is.

Though my head scarf was wrapped on my camera bag beneath my chair, I had forgotten this in the moment. Instead, I was using a plastic water bottle to demonstrate this giving, receiving, and possession of the gan-gan with José. Then I asked, “Once I give the gan-gan to my son, who is responsible for keeping it?”

Silence. Which is fine — I enjoy it. But it disturbed two guys in the back, who looked up from their mobile phones. I repeated, “Who is responsible to keep the blanket I gave my son?”

José looked over, unsure if I planned on answering my own question, but I kept waiting. The podium received ample coverage from a fan. The sweat trickling down my back felt cool. Finally Maria volunteered, “Your son — he is responsible to keep it.”

“Well, that’s what I think too!” I said, “And when he asks me, ‘Where is the gan-gan you gave me?’ Do you know what I say? I ask him, ‘Where is the gan-gan I gave you, little man?’ Now, which question do you think is more logical, more reasonable? My question or his?”

“Your question,” José said it before the congregation had a chance.

“I agree,” I continued, “And I wonder if Jesus isn’t in just the same situation. We keep asking Him, ‘Where is the peace You gave me?’ But is this a reasonable question? Instead, maybe Jesus is asking us, ‘Where is the peace I gave you?’” Only a few people had brought a Bible, so I offered to paraphrase one of the scriptures for the message — John 14.27. I began:

“And Jesus told His disciples, ‘I’m taking peace with Me, My peace will stay with Me…’” José hesitated and glanced over at me — I whispered to go ahead and translate exactly as I say:

“And Jesus said, ‘Bye guys! I’m taking peace with Me, My peace will stay with Me; just like the world gives, I’ll let you have some when you earn it. So, let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”

I think everyone in the room had their eyes on me. El Pastor was sitting to the side and a little behind, so I couldn’t see him. But I have no doubt he was looking at me intently. I wondered if he was still feeling nervous. I let the silence continue a few seconds longer; we could hear the rain.

“Is this what Jesus really says in John 14:27?” Bible open, Maria looked ready to jump to her feet to quote Christ’s words truly and correctly. Several others were shaking their heads ‘no’, Pedro looked uncertain, curious. Lee was smiling at me through his beard.

“Maria, would you please read what Jesus says in John 14:27?”…

16 — The Road

‘We walk about under a load of memories which we long to share and somehow never can.’ — George Orwell, Burmese Days

Sometimes I walked alone through the village of Guayabal.

Lee gave José a break by speaking in Spanish at devotions that morning. Though soft-spoken, he held the attention of our motley crew as he got into the weeds in the parable of the sower. After prayer, I declined an offer to ride with Gaspar and Martínez in Gaspar’s pickup. This morning they had arrived together. The government vocational center where we started each day was just beyond the pool on the opposite side of the road. It was going to be a hot, sunny walk down to the pump house. Though it wasn’t even 9 o’clock, the cool blue water beckoned like paradise.

The old church house — where Felix’s relative was pastor — was set back from the road, across from the pool. The grounds were now filled with little sapling plants of some kind. That gave the place a happier, unabandoned look. I had learned that Felix took issue with this church. The pastor had criticized the farmers about their use of Haitian workers. A little farther along was the disco hall. Quiet now, it was the main source of our nightly audible entertainment. Perhaps that had something to do with why the pink house next door prominently displayed the damning verse from Apocalipsis.

I walked by the small ASOPAGUA office. Jason had managed to mount the white weather station on a pole. It stood proudly, wind cups spinning gently. To a scientifically-minded farmer, this device offered a veritable treasure-trove of data. However, its data receiver was locked inside the office. Not to say there was data to be had — the electricity wouldn’t be back until 2 or 3pm. Science foiled again. Next door was a lottery ticket shop. Lucky new numbers were chalked onto a series of black squares painted on the shop wall: 18, 38, 48. Pedro said there was a large traffic in lottery tickets here. Salesmen were equipped with mobile devices to issue tickets while doing rounds like postmen.

A few Haitians were selling a fried breakfast to passersby in front of a ramble-down building. They were set up in a welcome bit of shade along the road. At first, I had guessed the pastor’s criticism was that the farmers treated Haitians too poorly. Instead it seems her sentiments were more patriotic. She felt the renewed agricultural work attracted too many Haitians to the village. They were unwelcome because they’re willing to work in the fields all day for much less than Dominicans. Felix disagrees and doesn’t think he could go to such a church. To him, all of it is good for the village economy. From what I could tell, Haitians generally intermingled in the community, used the same water sources, swam in the public pool with Dominicans, went to school with Dominican children, etc. But sometimes social boundaries, resentments, or prejudices aren’t perceptible.

Across the road, just before Felix’s home, the table where the pig parts had been laid out still attracted clouds of flies. Behind the table another ‘Cristo viene ya!’ sign was nailed to a large, shady tree. At Felix’s lime-green building, Pedro’s company truck was ready to roll out. I declined another offer for a ride even though we had the same destination. Felix was inside his shop — the hardware shop of the four brothers — wearing old capris and his camo hat. I waved, but he was busy with a customer. There was a Catholic church somewhere in the village, but I hadn’t seen it. It wasn’t on this main road. In any case there were too many ‘non-practicers’ like Felix to warrant a full-time priest. So he comes and goes, giving Mass once in a while. The hardware shop — and Felix’s father’s house next door — stood across the road from Guayabal’s square park. The red and yellow concrete gazebo in the middle was empty. Under a low tree branch at the corner, the same group of guys were loitering on a bench next to their motorbikes. They seemed to have nothing to do most days. How many of our trainees would be parked there with them if they hadn’t been selected by ASOPAGUA?

I kept on walking from shade patch to blessed shade patch. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Reaching Ricardo’s home, the welders were gearing up towards the main event: Patching leaks in the pipeline. They were all taking turns at practice welding now. Nicolás had just finished a nice job on a horizontal fillet weld — Marv was pleased with it. As translator, José learned the material right along with the group. They all put their welding shields down, watching him try to weld an even bead. Current hummed as blue sparks danced on the smoking metal. Before continuing, I tried again for a good picture without hurting my eyes or the camera.

A number of houses down the way was the place where El Pastor’s church meets. The white building was now quite innocent of all the noise and excitement of yesterday night. Not a peep or squeak of church was left. This, I thought, was a basic virtue of a Catholic church: That one might recognize it if one saw it. And its doors might be open. Passing by, I wondered where I would go to church if I lived in this village. Considering the three options I knew of, I wasn’t at all sure. Options, choosing — Lord! How many shepherds, how many flocks we have! When Christ comes, He will have quite a job. And we keep making it bigger. Do we even want to be one flock? The idea of Felix as pastor — Pastor Elias — came back to my mind. Another shepherd; another little flock.

Yes, I decided. I would go to his church. It did not exist, but that did not stop me from imagining what it would be like if it did.

A few kids were playing in the channel which ran along this stretch of road. The effect of the weir on the water flow added play interest for them as they splashed around, letting the water push them.

I turned away from the village to follow the road leading down to the pump house. The Christian charity was entering project wrap-up mode. Jason had gotten that signal from Pam and the other officials over private meetings during the donor visit. Water was flowing, crops were growing, the training was happening — time to hand over and get out. The repayment bill was high enough already — other projects, more investments here were not on the table. They have a policy about limiting the indebtedness of beneficiary communities. Guayabal had already crossed the line.

I saw agricultural fields in different stages on either side of the road. Some brown ones were still strewn with white rocks, some were green with young crops. Some were being tended by laborers manually moving water around from furrow to furrow with a hoe. I walked along one of the ASOPAGUA farmer’s fields. He was out there in the sun working with his Haitian laborer. I’d seen Felix do this too. And at 64 years old, I was impressed that he still carried his own loads. A motorcycle dusted me as it zoomed past — a tad reckless for the gravel surface. Manuel and Caesar were speeding down to the pump house. They must have finished breakfast. The camera was feeling heavier and heavier. I covered my head with the scarf for relief from the sun. For some reason, I imagined it helped me pray as I walked.

After a few minutes, Ricardo buzzed up on his motorbike. Radiant as ever, he smiled and nodded to me. His baby onions were following papa in a truck. I got out of the way to salute this happy procession. La Tubería crosses the road at a certain place — you can see the top of the pipe. The downhill side passes through Gaspar’s farm, where Caesar had raped and discarded that mango. Beneath that same tree, Gaspar had made his secret, pressurized water connection. The tension this action caused had diminished over the week. No doubt through lengthy offline discussions, Gaspar’s idea was to be normalized, engineered, and monetized for ASOPAGUA. Martínez was downright cheery now. Wil and Jason were searching for the most advantageous spot along the pipeline where these pressure connections could be taken officially. It would only benefit certain farmers and fields, but they would pay higher rates.

The cluster of houses farther along and around a bend forms a kind of ‘lower Guayabal’. I passed a lottery shop with a queue crowd. Several men cradled their fighting cocks, petting them, smoothing their feathers, showing them off to others. A pair set theirs down for a moment, and the cocks jumped about beginning to skirmish — wings flapping, claws forward to their opponent. It only lasted a few seconds before their owners scooped them back into their arms. A pre-fight introduction, perhaps?

I reached Gaspar’s manor house with its large gate. Across the road, I discovered Lee, Martínez, Gaspar, and a few others. They were enjoying homemade lemonade as they sat in the shade of their host’s home. They looked relaxed, though Gaspar’s handgun was still tucked beneath his shirttail. Lee invited me to join them — they were heading up to look at Gaspar’s orchard again and its drip irrigation system. Afterward, they would go across to Martínez’ upper field to talk over an idea for an irrigation plan there.

Just then, a little red truck arrived on its way down to the pump house. Wil was in the cab with José. The welder trainees were sitting in the bed, whistling and waving and enjoying the joyride. Their mission was to fetch an old section of pipe for more practice welding. Declining invitations from both groups, I continued along the road. I’d catch up with them all soon enough. The little truck bustled on a short distance before turning down the rocky track leading to the reservoir.

17 — Pedro’s Confession

‘If it were a gospel that would let you live in your sins, you would say, “All hail.”’ — Robert Murray McChenyne

The scene at the pump house had all the noise and frenzy of a circus act. The welding trainees had propped up a section of rusty steel pipeline on bed door of the little truck. They slid it screeching forward until it reached the cab. The pipe section was more than twice as long as the truck bed. They didn’t need it all but had no means of cutting it. The pipe end was chained to the bed loosely, half-heartedly. In a performance at a real circus, the red clown truck would have bucked up into the air at this point, pivoting on its hind wheels. I half-expected this, but the guys holding the upper end didn’t let go. Their next idea was to counterbalance the pipe weight for the ride up to Ricardo’s. One by one, pipe supporters left to sit on the bed end. Wil, worth perhaps two trainees in weight, was pressed into duty against his better judgement. Operation complete, the little truck growled and crawled away, six men sitting or standing on the pipe end in the truck bed.

Oh, the things we do on project trips! The trainees cheered. José gave a thumbs-up from the cab. I expect Wil had ample time to calculate what would happen if they were all catapulted off by an unforeseen lurch or bounce. I waved back at them — bon voyage! — and may God have mercy on us all.

At the pump house, Jason was practicing adjustments to a fixture on the pressure-relief valve with the trainees. This little thingy had far greater value than its trivial price. The pumps were turned on and off, allowing the water in the pipe to slam back down against the valve with an ominous underwater sound. Each time it did, water-spray jetted from this fixture, as from a whale’s blow hole. This dampened the pipe pressure, reducing the risk of La Tubería bursting its bottom. He showed them how to get the little red pressure needle to swing as low as possible. Pedro translated Jason’s demonstration for Manuel and the other pump operator trainees. Caesar was unusually quiet and a bit sullen — he was distracted and busy at his phone. After a while, Wil returned to join us; the pipe and welders had made it up safe and sound. Jason dismissed the trainees early — there were other problems to deal with.

The float sensor in one of the pump wells had failed. This sensor ensured there was water to pump before the motor turned on. Without replacing the sensor, the circuit had been bypassed to get water moving uphill. But without this protection, the whole system was in danger again. Truthfully, with a direct intake from the reservoir, it was unlikely that water would suddenly run out. What Wil and Jason were more worried about was the cavalier way in which the circuit had been bypassed. They were convinced this ‘jerry-rigging’ practice could wind up killing people or killing the system. The installation contractor had done it, we were told. Pedro placed another call to him — it rang and rang without success. For several days now, they had been expecting the service technician from the pump supplier to arrive with a new sensor. Pedro dutifully placed a call to him too — also without success.

We had visited this supplier to buy the fixture thingy and other parts before coming to Guayabal. It turned out that the Christian charity had accumulated arrears to the tune of eleven thousand USD. Of course, this was just a small portion of the overall Guayabal equipment purchase — but still, they had mentioned it. The payments were held up by paperwork somewhere in the Charity’s head office — also in Santo Domingo. Pedro told us later there was some issue about billing terms and conditions with the accounting department. All this made me skeptical of the supplier’s service technician picking his phone or coming to our rescue with a new float sensor. Not until the arrears cleared anyway. I guessed this would become another urgent action point in a memo between EMI and the Charity.

Transformer data readout was another issue. The voltage fluctuations which had taken out the first pumps years ago were still a threat. Special gear had been purchased and installed at the transformer as part of the project. This electrical gear was meant to tame all wild variations in the free power supply from the government. EMI’s measuring apparatus was plugged in and wrapped around certain cables — it had been recording data for the last few days. Having reviewed the readout, Wil suspected a fault in the new normalizing gear. More voltage fluctuation was getting though than he expected. He went out with Jason to inspect the transformer again. Some trainees were afraid to enter that fenced area which bristled with the noise of electrical current. Even as an engineer, I more or less shared their sentiments. I decided to stay out of the way.

A few Haitian boys were making synchronized running leaps and summersaults into the reservoir. After trying for a few photos, I sat down to write on the reservoir ghat. Tiny minnows helped themselves to whatever they were finding on my dusty feet.

“Do you know where you are going?” Pedro asked cheerfully. He was driving us back up the narrow reservoir track in his company truck. I was most definitely going for lunch — Elba’s fried cheese and salami with boiled plantains, I hoped. After the long walk down, the lift back up to Felix’s house was very welcome.

“Yes, sir,” replied Wil, leaning forward in the back seat, “I’m going to spend eternity with the Lord Jesus in heaven. What about you, Pedro?”

“Me?… Well, I’m not, aah…” Pedro had not meant to open up this kind of conversation. He sped up appreciably as we reached the road.

“It says in Romans, ‘The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Jesus Christ our Lord.’” Wil quoted again, “And, ‘If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.’”

“Well, yes… of course I believe in Jesus. It’s Dominican culture. But, aah… I’m not really religious, you know… Though sometimes I have felt it like God was, aah… calling me or something — I’m not too sure. But I like this kind of work — helping people here, and I would love to learn more about farming, maybe study agricultural engineering…” Pedro was Dominican; he was ‘cool’ with Jesus; he was keen to digress.

“Believing is one thing, Pedro; we’re also called to be disciples of Jesus.” Jason wanted to keep on the track — he was in the front seat. Pedro didn’t make any reply. The agricultural fields, seed, soil, rocks, weeds, and fruit were all a blur in the truck windows.

“Did you ever know a family with adopted children, Pedro?” I asked as we passed a guy on a little motorbike working his way up to Guayabal. We came pretty close to him at a much higher speed, but he kept his nerve and stayed steadily on course.

“Sure — I know a few,… why?”

“Well, sometimes it happens that an adopted son wants to stay in the house and eat the food, but he has no interest in his adopted family. He doesn’t wish to be part of it. Somehow he doesn’t feel he fits in — even though he belongs there legally, even though his adopted parents chose him.”

“I think I’m like that,” Pedro said simply, quickly self-identifying with the story. Maybe he thought this was the answer I wanted to hear. We still had time before reaching Felix’s hardware shop. I continued:

“I think that adopted son has some problem in his heart. He doesn’t want to learn or follow the family style. He doesn’t want to be like his big brother, he doesn’t want to be like his father. He doesn’t follow their lead. Instead, he tries to make them prove they love him by purposely going his own way. He says, ‘If I do this, will you disown me? What about this? Do you still accept me now?’ It’s a sad thing, really…”

“That’s true,” Pedro said. We were all silent a few moments.

“Maybe he doesn’t know them or understand them; maybe he doesn’t really believe they want him in their family. Whatever the reason, something is in the way, something is blocking. Somehow, their love for him just hasn’t gotten through… but that doesn’t mean they will ever stop.” The truck lurched to a halt as Pedro pulled up in front of Felix’s place. The road dust caught up with us.

“Jesus is a good big brother, Pedro — He cares for you, He loves you,” I said, opening the door. Wil and I got down and went to lunch. Jason and Pedro stayed together a while in the cab.

18 — Powerlessness

’Tis all I have — smoke, failure, foiled endeavor, coldness and doubt and palsied lack…’ — George MacDonald, Smoke

Friday dawned at last — our last day in the village of Guayabal. To celebrate the week of training, we were having a barbeque at Edelmiro’s house. This evening the trainees would receive certificates acknowledging their attendance and (in the case of the welders) skill level demonstrated. Morning devotions would bring the Parable of the Sower to the climax we had been moving towards all week. I felt excited, exhilarated no doubt by the extra black coffee I drank that morning at breakfast. I was getting used to Elba’s thick brew. Though tired from the cumulative exertions of our programme at Guayabal, everyone was in good humor. There was a new lightness, a fresh energy as we walked to the vocational centre together. The end was in sight.

José was the man bringing Jesus’ parable full circle, covering the good soil. This was a deliberate choice. As our only native Spanish speaker, he could dispense with translation. Beyond this, his personal faith as a Dominican follower of Christ was a natural bridge to the gospel message of the story. And we felt this would be most impactful. José had been looking forward to the opportunity. The trainees were used to listening to him translate for us — now he could speak his own part. Bible student as he was, he came prepared. He was grinning with expectation in his black Islamic-style beard, joking with Wil and Marv — ‘Los Pollos Hermanos,’ or ‘The Chicken Brothers,’ as he had affectionately dubbed them. It was a reference to some Netflix show I knew nothing about, but the three of them enjoyed it. The sweaty bonds of close quarters in a welding shed. But the last day gave José another cause for cheer: Tomorrow night he would be back home with his wife. She was in the early stages of pregnancy — the first of their young marriage. These long days of separation had not been easy.

About half the trainee group was already waiting for us at the centre, which was encouraging. Because it was the finale devotion, we wanted the full group to be present. So there was some delay before we began. Caesar had arrived early and started chatting up the others. He became animated and excited, showing people something on his smartphone. Gaspar, another man, and a few of the younger welding trainees attended to his antics. They smiled and suppressed laughter. Gaspar seemed to offer some advice and Caesar paid heed a while before resuming his bluster. Curious, I asked José quietly, “What is he talking about?”

“You don’t want to know.” José’s mood had soured. He did not look quite as inflated as he had been — not as eager, perhaps, to relate the climax of the parable. Clearly, he wasn’t enjoying what he couldn’t avoid overhearing. In fact, he was nearly scowling in disapproval.

“It’s ok, just tell me.” I said. José was growing more upset.

“This guy is unbelievable… It’s disgusting. He’s talking about a woman he’s in contact with on What’s App. She lives in a different town. He says she flirts and chats him up, but whenever she comes to Guayabal, she always has her husband around with her… He’s annoyed and he’s trying to think of the best scheme to separate them so he can get to her alone; so he can have her…”

That afternoon I found myself at the basin end of La Tubería. The agenda of welding repairs had started here in the morning. The engineers’ idea was to try covering the bottom half of the pipe end with a steel plate. They wanted to see if this would reduce air and water-sloshing in the pipeline, thereby bringing the pipe pressure at the pump house even lower.

Ángel had performed the required tack welds at an awkward, upside-down position so expertly that Marv smiled and shook his hand after the inspection. Ángel was definitely getting a Level III certificate tonight. After this operation, they left to make in-situ welding repairs to pipeline leaks flagged in yellow paint. Once again, all standing water in the pipe had been drained the night before. No use welding cold, moist metal. They finished by lunchtime and most trainees were dismissed until the barbeque. All that remained now was to test the effects of La Tubería’s new weir end. The engineers needed an observer at the top as they switched on and off the pumps. I wanted a photo of water bursting out of the pipe end. So I went to the basin to wait. It would only take 10 or 15 minutes.

After an hour, the engineers told me over the two-way radio there was no power at the pump house. This was unusual. While electricity supply to Guayabal village was cut for five or six hours each day, the pump house had power full-time since we arrived. Today, it seemed, would be different.

By the second hour there was still no power, as I was informed over the crackling radio. The engineers had certain protocols and mannerisms for speaking through the device. ‘Matthew, do you copy? — over.’ I kept responding ‘yes,’ or ‘OK,’ when the correct thing was, ‘I copy — over.’ They had to repeat themselves a few times before I got the idea.

‘Yes, OK, roger that, I copy — over.’ Today was turning out rather frustrating.

I got to thinking about the morning. Here we were hoping, praying, expecting to sow God’s living Word among our non-religious Catholic trainees like seeds in a field. We had been going at it all through the week. We wanted encouraging signs — signs of growth, signs the seed was alive, taking root. But the small talk, the time-pass chatter among them as we completed the effort made our ears ring: A man planning invasion into another man’s marriage. Male conquest of female, (to us) repulsive and forbidden.

That Caesar was the sort of guy who would undertake such a campaign wasn’t so surprising. What was disturbing was the way the other trainees had humored his bragging — listening in, goading him on, offering tips — as if he needed them! Seemingly, this was a common problem, one to commiserate about with friends and take counsel. And from that subject matter, from that mental preoccupation and imagery, let us ‘switch gears’ to the holy gospel, to Jesus talking about the good soil, where the Word of God bears fruit 30-, 60-, and 100-fold… What kind of field was this? Who were we kidding? Was anybody listening?

We were at the end of the course, leaving tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, each of them would go back to what they were doing before we came. What will have changed? From tomorrow, Caesar will have more free time to plan his approach for committing adultery. We might have impeded his progress for a week. Confronted with this reality, I felt very discouraged. Our influence had been insignificant, apparently, so our impact would be nil.

Then I thought of Felix, that dear, dear man…

After lunch, I sat for a while with Felix and Elba on the hardware shop veranda. Felix was creaking away in his old rocking chair and Elba had her feet up as they watched the road. A schoolgirl came in. Immediately, Felix’s eyes lit up as he stretched out his arms. The child gladly entered his rocking chair embrace. A niece or relation? I hadn’t seen her before, but the moment was so warm, so loving, and Felix glowed with fatherly affection… How I admired this man! How badly I wanted Felix to know and follow Jesus! How I longed for him to encounter Christ and know His life and be used of Him in Guayabal! It made my insides ache and I struggled with the emotion through tears. His character, influence, maturity, his gentle kindness — if only he would lead here, if only he would be the example others followed… Something new, something wonderful might happen.

30-, 60-, or 100-fold? If the Word of God does not bear fruit in this man, is there another man here where it could? If only Felix would discover who Jesus is and be fully His in this village of Guayabal! In short, Elias Medina seemed to me the key figure of the whole place.

Yet what will have changed for him tomorrow? No more EMI guests for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No more introspective questions or Jesus-talk. For the Catholic Church, he’ll still be a non-practicer. To his relative’s church, he’ll remain a conscientious objector. Maybe espíritu de Dios will nudge El Pastor to nudge Felix towards Jesus? What else? The Christian Charity’s only effort was the personal testimony of its workers. But Pedro didn’t have a testimony — he wouldn’t be discipling anyone. So after two years, it all came to a sum total of zero. We had done and said whatever we had for six days. Maybe it was already too much? Maybe it was not enough? And now I was here — alone, stuck waiting, foiled, powerless, and frustrated — in a kind of childish time-out, like I give to my boys.

At this point, over three hours into a 15-minute wait at the pipe basin, my prayers took on a certain vexed and accusatory tone. I was cross with the empty pipeline, cross with the empty basin. I hadn’t brought water to drink and was very thirsty. The coffee seedling farm and other fields down the way were green with new life. I was cross about this too: All the physical seeds were growing fine, just fine. Spiritually, where were the results? ‘Why isn’t Your Word bearing fruit in him, Lord? One single man in this entire village — won’t you work even in one single man? Jesus, if the seed won’t live and bear fruit in Felix, what chance do these others have? We lived in his house, we tried to be witnesses of Your life, Your way, but now we’re leaving. If only You would cause Felix to respond,…’ And so on.

Yet even while praying this way, I was aware of my own arrogance in assuming God could not bring others, use others to reveal Jesus to Felix… as if we were the only ‘real Christians’ in the village of Guayabal…

“Matthew! Matthew! Are you still there? Do you copy? — over.” I hadn’t been paying attention to the radio. I’d left it on a rock while pacing around, kicking up dust about the basin. I went over and picked it up.

“Yeah, I’m here — any news?”

“Please repeat — over.” They simply insisted; after all it was their radio.

“This is Matthew. Affirmative, I am still at the basin — over,” I said, feeling like a boy playing soldiers.

“Roger that. We expect power in the next 15 minutes — repeat, one-five minutes — over.”

“OK — aah — roger that — over.” Roger that indeed!

Eventually, power came as promised. Pedro had been putting in calls to the Government utility company, pleading. Water filled the pipe again causing the pipe end to emit eerie echoing sounds for nearly half an hour. People gathered during this time, and I had plenty of company at the end of my waiting. Water finally appeared — first dribbling over the plate, then cascading out some distance into the centre of the basin like a fountain. I took more than enough photos while a group of boys jumped in and splashed around.

No matter how beautifying up top, however, the steel plate weir did not have the desired effect down at the pump house. I noticed it also made the collection of water more difficult for people who didn’t care to swim. They had come with buckets and plastic jerry cans and other vessels to fill at the pipe end. So Marv returned to grind and bang furiously at Ángel’s welds (he was positively locked-in for Level III) to get the plate off again. By the end of it all, the time had nearly arrived for the party at Edelmiro’s. The engineers formally signed off the two-way radio. I guessed they might proceed directly there. As I walked back, I wondered who would help me locate ‘la casa Edelmiro’. Turning the corner near Ricardo’s house and the now-empty welding shed, I saw Felix.

19 — Cristo viene ya!

‘…of reason’s icy observations, and records of a heart in pain.’ — Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

“Edelmiro’s casa?,” I asked after greeting Felix, pointing with uncertainty up and down roads in various directions.

“La casa Edelmiro? … …” He answered, saying more than I could understand.

“Si,” I nodded, smiling. He held out his hand, beckoning me to follow. I didn’t know what Felix’s own evening plans were, but he seemed happy to lead me (I presumed) to Edelmiro’s house. Doubtless he was aware of the BBQ and little function planned for our trainees there. He turned and began walking back in the direction he had come from. Felix walked slowly, deliberately, without any haste. His relaxed pace quickly dispersed the nervous tension I felt while wondering how to locate the party house. And I was glad to walk with Felix.

Once Lee and I had walked together back up to Guayabal from the pump house. Near Gaspar’s mansion, Felix suddenly appeared around the bend. We saw him and paused so the three of us might walk together. The two of them quickly fell to chatting in Spanish and we took a diversion off the road to walk along La Tubería through the green fields. Once in a while, we stopped as Felix went out into someone’s field to pull a weed that caught his eye, or to tidy some bit of debris, or to check on the growing plants. They weren’t his fields, but he enjoyed seeing them thriving nonetheless. He bragged about the success of someone’s watermelon patch over there, cracking a smile in his EMI hat as he indicated the melon size with his arms. He showed us someone else’s big green sweet peppers with pride, carefully lifting the fruit into view from beneath its covering of leaves, then gently resting it to hang again…

Now Felix stopped by every home where people were seated outside in the cool of evening. He turned to approach their verandas to greet each person and press hands. This activity slowed our progress considerably. At first I stood awkwardly in the middle of the street, waiting for him to return and resume our journey. After a few times, I tried following behind him, smiling and waving as he greeted people. The whole village were his neighbors. Everyone seemed to know Felix and Felix seemed to know everyone. He had no object or business to discuss — he was simply expressing kindness. This impacted me strongly, and as the daylight dimmed, I felt that this chance meeting and experience of simply being with Felix was worth every minute of waiting at the basin.

Eventually we reached the main road, passing the square and Felix’s hardware shop. There were less pauses and greetings on this road. Loud music and noise echoed in the distance — I wondered if it originated from the party. Motorbikes blazed past as we slowly made our way past the ASOPAGUA office, past the new lucky numbers chalked up at the lottery shop. How odd a couple we must have looked while passing the pink house with the apocalyptic verse about liars and fornicators burning in the lake of fire, which is the second death! The music echoed from the public pool area, and the volume increased as we approached.

Eventually I realized that there was another element in the cacophony: A man’s voice was trying to out-shout the music. A microphone squealed in pain. The music rose higher to drown the man’s voice. The strain on the sound equipment was massive on both sides. I wondered what Felix thought of all this racket. Nearing the site of the duel, I began to identify what the shouter was saying:

‘JESUCRISTO… … …, EL DIABLO… … …, EL DIABLO… … …, JESUCRISTO… … …, JESUCRISTO… … …’

Each was a short sentence in Spanish. They began with either ‘Jesucristo’ or ‘el diablo’ and were shouted in alternating order. Sometimes there would be three ‘Jesucristos’ in a row, other times ‘el diablo’ would get a long back-to-back streak. The intensity of the shouting was incredible — I doubted I was capable of matching it even once. Walking with Felix, I began feeling awkward and uneasy about these messages. The volume was so high I felt like covering my ears. I had no idea what the shouter was saying about Jesus Christ and the Devil. I had no way to communicate with Felix to learn his thoughts about these messages or the method of their broadcast. This, I thought, would be a perfect time for a power cut.

At last we reached the turning where we could see what was going on. A man in a white shirt was standing in the open space beside the church where ASOPAGUA had received us earlier in the week. A second man was positioning the blaring speaker set for maximum effect. The man in the white shirt was shouting into the mic — his whole body was involved in this fierce effort. He leaned forward stretching out on tiptoe as each sentence exited his body. As if the words were too big for him, as if the words were expanding inside him like air in a balloon. As he let them out, one arm gesticulated while the other kept the mic from being swallowed down. One woman in a Sunday dress was seated in one of the 20 or so white plastic chairs set out in neat rows on the ground. Besides these three persons, no one else was in the open space or sitting in any chair. The discrepancy between human volume and human presence gave the scene an eerie sort of look. The woman calmly watched the shouter with her hands folded in her lap. I don’t know if she was listening — or even if she was capable of hearing. Were I seated in her place, I feared I would become deaf within minutes.

A few Haitian field workers loitered at the corner of a building across the road, watching the shouter from a distance. They snickered with each other, enjoying him — it seemed to me — as a kind of free entertainment.

Then Felix turned to head up that street — I realized we were going to walk right by the shouter and his deafening staccato preaching. But Edelmiro’s home was that way, apparently, and Felix continued slow and steady. He made no sign, or indication, or gesture as we walked. I began feeling intensely uncomfortable, my stomach twisted in knots as tremendous soundwaves of ‘JESUCRISTO… … … EL DIABLO… … … JESUCRISTO… … …’ crashed into my helpless ears. I wanted to run but Felix kept his pace. And I stayed with him. At one point I turned to look at the shouter. His face seemed angry as it contorted with the incredible effort of sustained shouting. I noticed he had a white signboard hung around his neck. On it were written the red words I recognized very well by now: ‘Cristo veine ya!’ — Christ is coming.

At last, we moved beyond the firing-range of the huge speakers. My ears were ringing. Long shadows of trees fell across the street. As the shouter’s voice faded away, Felix turned to look at me with those thick black-framed glasses. For once, I wanted to look away. He gestured casually with a nod back towards the shouter and said, “los cristianos” — the Christians.

I could not speak. Even if I knew Spanish, I would have had no response or answer for Felix. My eyes filled with tears. I thought my heart would burst as grief and pain flooded in. I reached out and put my arm around Felix as we continued walking together. Looking down at the gravel on the street, I began shaking my head slowly. The kind shadows of evening veiled my crying face.

20 — La Casa Edelmiro

‘Yes, my good friend, I could tell you things that would make your mouth hang open, and you’d stay with your mouth hanging open till the Second Coming…’ — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Village of Stepanchikovo and Its Inhabitants

“Buena noches señor Mateo! Wel-come la casa Edelmiro! I wish you looking well, no? You are very tired, no? Today very hot — muy calor! You come — yes, si — you come! Just you come with me,” and here Edelmiro poked at his chest with both thumbs, “…and Señor Edelmiro will refresh tu corazón with wonder-dulce and beauteous sabor de frutas de mi jardín — si, señor Mateo — el jugo delicioso squeezed by these two hands from fruto del árbol bendecido, which men know as el limón!”

Edelmiro was giddy with excitement as he approached us from his front porch, jumbling words of welcome. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top revealing a flashy gold chain and he wore a stylish black hat. He was dressed to party.

As it happened, I was the first to arrive from the EMI team. As such, I had his full attention. Some of the trainees were already there. Ángel, Nicolás, José Luis, and others were helping prepare the meat — the smell of which made my mouth water — or setting out things for the feast. Felix went on into the garden to sit with a group of older men. Cortés, a.k.a Gaspar was there with Martínez the welder and a few others. Edelmiro’s son Negrito was in command of the barbeque. He smiled at me, waving a piece of kebab with metal tongs.

Suddenly our host grabbed my wrist — he was a lively old man, and rather playful. He pointed to his nose, then to my nose, nearly touching it. Then he sniffed deeply, “Aaaah!!” and sniffed again, “Aaaah!! Si, señor Mateo! La fragrancia mi jardin!” I sniffed a few times halfheartedly. This was unsatisfactory. Still holding my wrist, he guided me beyond the barbeque area to the edge of his garden. There were many trees there, and he again pointed to my nose. This time I understood — the scent of lemon trees mingled with honeysuckle in blossom. The subtle, sweet aroma was heavenly in the heavy night air.

So we stood there a while, holding hands in the gloom — me and this 80-year-old coot — enjoying the fragrance of his garden.

Like an excited child, Edelmiro just had to show me everything in his home. He took me by the hand, speaking Spanish with a sprinkling of English words. We visited each room of his casa, including the toilet.

He showed me the beds, lifting their drooping mosquito nets. He showed me the closets, opening their doors. He showed me he conveniently had running water in the faucets. He turned on each and every electric switch, so that I might identify its purpose. ‘See? This one is for a light, but this one is for a tube-light!’ I supposed his happy Spanish commentary ran, ‘And this one, señor Mateo, this is for a fan — see?’ Like a man demonstrating for a person who had never seen an electric switch before, or been in a modern house. Smiling like an imp, he glanced at me each time to gage my reaction to a light blinking on, or a ceiling fan starting to spin. His exuberance was indomitable, and he had a kind of simple, earthy joy. Perhaps a little too earthy. Nevertheless, it was fascinating. When we reached his living room, I wished José were there to translate. Edelmiro showed me pictures (actually handing frames to me as he talked) and began telling me many things in Spanish, pointing to people in them. Mostly he smiled at the remembrance. Once or twice he teared up — I think I might have been holding a picture of his mother. Then he stopped abruptly and vanished. Off to attend the host’s important duty, I gathered, of preparing delectable lemonade for our pleasurable enjoyment… I stood there alone, looking at his family pictures.

Waiting for the kebabs to finish on the grill, our motley crew of men began telling stories. I could tell from José’s disapproving body language that it was another machismo contest. It pulled Gaspar and Martínez away from conspiring with Lee. Even at this 11th hour, they were still trying to work out how to increase their fields and water and efficiently plan it all. Now Gaspar joined the group, telling a story about a woman he allowed the group to glimpse on his mobile phone. The image was stunningly beautiful. I hoped she was his own wife, perhaps living in purdah within his mansion, but I could not be sure. As everyone drew closer to look at her, he quickly shut off the screen. Knowing what I did of these gentlemen, I too should keep my wife well out of sight in the village. Even in the absence of Caesar — who had driven off earlier that afternoon to Santo Domingo for some kind of pressing work — this storytelling thrived. Manuel listened in but seemed rather lonely without his louder partner clown. Lee had turned to Wil for an English-channel conversation; Jason was putting the finishing touches on the certificates for the trainees — his signature. Pedro made his own short-lived contribution to the stories.

Then Edelmiro — who had been standing between our circle of chairs and the BBQ, attending to both in turns — entered the ring. In the interval since my arrival and the present moment, several more buttons had unclasped themselves from Señor Edelmiro’s shirt. Only the lowest, bravest button remained in the fight to contain his rotund belly and sagging chest, which flashed us provocatively. Nicolás gave up his seat next to Pedro and the old man sat down. He still wore his black hat — now cocked to one side — in the dark. Gesturing with one hand, Edelmiro affectionately rested his other hand on Pedro’s knee. And in this posture he commanded the audience. He became animated and made the whole group laugh as he told them he was still ‘active’ even now, orating (it seemed) a curriculum vitae on his lifetime achievements.

Pedro was beside himself, roaring with laughter. Edelmiro’s hand stabilized him, assisting him in his difficulty in remaining seated on his chair. Of course, José wasn’t at all interested in translating. Felix had nodded off long ago; he dozed contentedly in his white plastic chair. Old EMI cap over his eyes, hands folded across his belly, blissfully unaware of all this outrageous, scandalous talk. With Pedro’s falsetto hysterics, this seemed incredible — as if Felix were able to simply dial-down his hearing like Marv.

I decided to use the opportunity to obtain an interview with Nicolás. He was already dislodged and José (who, like myself, did not have Felix’s capacity for naps) was only too glad for an excuse to leave. Observing him as a welding student, I had resolved earlier in the week to interview Nicolás for EMI. He had been the subject of a number of my photographs. I had picked him for no other reason than because he was in his late 30s and because I understood he was more or less new to welding.

“What was the most important thing you learned this week?” I asked this assuming he would speak about the welding classes. Nicolás’s short curly hair and clean-shaven face next to José’s large beard and bald head made for an odd visual.

“That we should treat each other with more kindnesses.” Nicolás told me in English. His smile revealed braces. I asked him to explain what he meant by this and he went on in Spanish to José for a while.

“He said he’s never seen a group come together and interact with each other in Guayabal like we did this week,” José summarized, “He says that usually when they’re around each other, they’re trying to show off or out-do one another or insult someone. He realized this week that their interactions could be positive — that they could help each other and show kindness. And he really enjoyed this.”

I redirected Nicolás to talk about welding, got my EMI quote, and thanked him. I was getting up from my chair when José told me Nicolás wanted to say something else. Nicolás watched me with a serious expression — I sat back down. José translated his thoughts:

“I have heard the story you shared with us this week about the seed and the different soils. I believe I am good soil. The seed will grow and bear fruit — in my work, but also in my heart. As God helps me, it will multiply 90 times.”

“Amen,” I said, and we prayed over Nicolás, laying on hands, asking that Jesus would make it according to what he had said.

When the food was all gone and not a drop of Edelmiro’s special lemonade was left, we came to the end. All of us from EMI said words of thanks and blessing.

Pedro went gone on and on as moths and night-bugs raced around the lamps. President Ricardo, who had arrived during the meal, spoke officially on behalf of ASOPAGUA. Even down to photography, the interests of the Christian charity and my own were polar opposites. For evidence in their records, I needed to capture photos of each trainee receiving their certificate, shaking hands with the EMI trainer. With darkness lifted only by the cold tube-lights of Edelmiro’s front porch, the results were red-eyed, glaring, and simply hideous. Even so, Ángel received his level III welding certificate, proudly wedged between Marv and Wil. A fine-looking Gaspar smiled beautifully shaking Lee’s hand, and so on through the trainees. Pedro remembered partway through that it would be advantageous to appear in these shots. The camera flash made Jason close his eyes for the portrait with José Luis. I don’t know what became of Caesar’s certificate. In Jason’s place, I confess I’d have tossed it in the rubbish.

Final act completed, we began moving around saying our goodbyes and embracing the trainees. I didn’t see how he did it, yet Felix managed to get our attention in his quiet, humble way. Lee and Ricardo spoke up for him and gave him the floor. Everyone became quiet, turning to look at Felix. This was different. Felix usually remained silent in these settings — staying clear of speechmaking. Now ASOPAGUA’s Vice President was taking the initiative to address the group.

“Before we leave tonight, let us pray,” Felix said in Spanish, removing his cap. And he continued, leading us in a closing prayer. I bowed my head low. Beyond a ‘Jesucristo’ towards the end, I couldn’t understand what Elias said — it was not translated — but this made no difference to my flowing tears.

21 — Baptism

‘The LORD make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee…’ — The Aaronic Blessing

Felix joined José and myself in the back of Pedro’s company truck for a ride home. At the turning, we sped off unexpectedly back down the road to the pump house. The Engineers had to collect their power meters, turn off the pump for the night, lock up the pump house, etc. Bouncing along in the rear, we were not notified of this plan. José and I passed time chatting about his experience with EMI here. He had translated for other Christian mission teams before and had somewhat reluctantly agreed to come with us to Guayabal. At the outset, José had been nervous — especially since this was the first occasion our team would be working together. Things changed on the second day, he told me, when he realized we “weren’t idiots”…

Felix sat there content to listen to us talk. I had purposely avoided saying goodbye to Felix at Edelmiro’s home. As usual, I was waiting for the final minute, the absolute last moment to do so. I had already envisioned it and knew what I would say to him, repeating the words over in my mind as I had done at the pipe basin while waiting for the power to come back. Felix told us earlier he would be leaving very early the next morning on the minibus to Azua. Tonight would be goodbye, and I hoped his hardware shop would still be open. I wanted to buy something — some memento — from Felix before he left. But for now, we just sat together putting off goodbyes as if our programme at Guayabal would continue on and on, as if it were not really over.

The Engineers, I think, felt the same way as they fiddled around for the final time in the pump house. The whirring of the pumps had stopped a while back; they were taking their sweet time. Felix did not stir but he did not fall asleep either. He watched us and listened to English as I jested with José over his fantastic affirmation, trying to discover what we had done on day one that had left him in doubt… Eventually they finished with the pump house and locked the metal door. We set off again, back up to town in the black of night. Even Pedro seemed to drive slower, with reluctance. For once, we drove over La Tubería gently — as sentimental a farewell as it could have expected. Nothing of the village fields were visible as we sat looking backwards out of the truck bed, but we could smell the earth in the air. The plants were breathing. The starry host shone brightly.

The humble owner of the lime green house and hardware shop, ‘Ferreteria los 4 hermanos,’ in the centre of Guayabal, Dominican Republic, got down with us from the bed of the pickup truck. His shop was shuttered. Elba must have closed up for the night. Felix looked quite tired, but the cloud of bugs at the streetlight would continue celebrating all night. I knew the moment could not be put off a second longer. I turned to Felix, placing my hand on his shoulder. He looked at me while José translated:

“May the LORD bless you and keep you.

May the LORD make His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you.

May the LORD turn His face toward you and give you peace.”

We embraced. Then Elias D — Medina went inside his home and shut the door.

“Want to go jump in the pool?” Jason asked me as we dispersed for the night. Happy to follow through on our agreement even at this late hour, I went up to the apartment above the hardware shop to get soap. There wasn’t any water in the bathroom drum anyway. Tonight the streets were quiet for a change; we walked toward the pool in silence. All the noise and fury of the evening, all the loud, overpowering music and amplified shouting were spent now. Not a trace nor echo was left, except in my memory. Only silence, streetlights, darkness, and stars remained.

At the pool, we were sadly disappointed: There would be no jumping in tonight. All the water had been drained out, perhaps for a cleaning, and now it was slowly refilling from the nearby spring. Jason and I stood at the edge of the tiles, coming to grips with the fact that we would not be able to plunge in as we had imagined. How many times had I seen children jumping in — at the reservoir, at the basin, in the canals, in this pool? Now no one else was around; we had come too late. Undeterred and confident in our non-idiot status, we undressed to our underpants. We could still get clean from all the sweat and grime of the day’s exertions. The water was cold but not as cold as I expected. It was less than ankle deep at the shallow end. We waded towards the deep end. The water was nearly up to our knees; it would have to suffice.

The wood log that was jammed into the pool drain served as a plug. It prevented more water from escaping the pool than entered it. The fill-up would last until morning at least. After a sprinkling and lathering up, Jason went down first in a kind of self-baptism. I went second but twice — once before soap and once after. The shock of the cold water made my heart race. I felt invigorated, refreshed, and alive.

Shortly after this, Pedro appeared, undressed, and entered the pool. He tried to swim around in the shallow water. This wasn’t really possible but he attempted it anyway, enjoying his bath.

As we lingered there watching him splash about, I began telling Jason how it seemed to me that certain people in the village matched Jesus’ Parable of the Sower: The hard path, the stony ground, the weedy patch, and the good soil. I spoke to Jason about Felix, my admiration of him, of his acts and his character. I spoke about how well I thought Felix might pastor this village…

As I did this, I imagined him baptizing people in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost — right here, just like this — in the public swimming pool. The Catholic Church would still be here, and the amplified shouting would probably continue.

But people would come to Elias and hear him. And he would lead them as a shepherd.

Epilogue

Elba opened the hardware shop for me on Saturday morning after breakfast. It was the last breakfast she cooked us. We ate our fill of porridge, black coffee, fried salami and cheese and sautéed onions around Felix’s table. I poked around the shop wondering what to buy, what would remind me best of Felix and my time in his village. Then I saw the row of machetes hanging in their leather scabbards from a beam in the ceiling.

On the way to Santo Domingo, we stopped by Pedro’s village home for a coffee. Jason practiced his Spanish numbers counting the speedbumps. There were apparently 90, but there was some dispute about this figure. Bougainvillea in a kaleidoscope of colors seemed to line the highway the entire way there. They grew explosively, effortlessly, and completely unlike the poor, leafy ones which had managed to survive in my garden in India.

Pedro’s mango-wood house was painted a pastel teal inside and out. It had a metal sheet roof and wooden shutters in a rusty-brownish color. Pedro ducked inside and a moment later brought out in his arms a small boy with curly brown hair. He wore a white tank-top undershirt, like a man. He looked at us six strangers with curiosity, as if he was not sure how we would all fit in his home.

Inside, the daylight peeped through the gaps between wood panels. The effect this lighting had was very pleasing. A cartoon was playing on their flat-screen T.V., but there was no toilet in the house. The boy’s mother, Pedro’s wife, stood at the door of her kitchen to greet us. A pair of parakeets chirped in a cage against the wood panel wall. A few of the child’s crayon drawings decorated the room. Her kind face smiled at us warmly, and at the little boy who moved his junior-sized red plastic chair across the floor to sit next to his papa. He was served for coffee in a junior mug as well. So father and son drank together with synchronized sips, along with the six visitors stuffed into their narrow living room.

After coffee, the adults started talking. I saw toys on the floor — a few plastic cars and trucks, knock-off Duplo blocks, and a police car without wheels. So we played together a while — stacking blocks and dumping them out of the yellow dump truck again and again, chasing cars and pretending — me and three-year-old Jesús.