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La Romana Journal

John Andrews

  3/6/99, 2 p.m., JFK - Plane is four hours late

            What do you do when you've gotten up early and rolled up your sleeves, ready to do God's work in the world, and the bus is late?

 You wait.

            What do you do when you've gone the first leg of your journey, prepared for the next one, your eyes and thoughts and heart focused on the distant goal, and a piece of equipment is missing (the plane)?

  You wait.

            What else can you do when you think you're ready for God, but God isn't ready for you - or at least not for your intentionality, however high-minded, heartfelt or noble? How do we deal with the hours that seem so empty and so long?

            Well, what are the options? One can try to fill up those hours with distractions - Styrofoam peanuts like television, the insubstantial "seriousness" of newspapers like Karmelcorn, or some form of busy-ness. We can stuff our intentionality into every available instant, accumulating tasks, errands, paperwork like packrats. We can stuff ourselves with food, stimulation or others with conversation, chitchat, or the world with our intentions.

            Or, we can wait upon God and God's good time, like Milton when his blindness stopped his intentionality in its tracks: they also serve who only stand and wait. And in their waiting, listen for God's whisper.

  Sunday, 3/7 - 1 AM, La Romana

            Impressions - bus trip to La Romana along the coast road:

            Smells - smoke all the way, like a campground, but the fires burn other fuels, even trash. Then there is the smell of the sugar cane refinery, like cooking molasses.

            The road - high speed with a drop off to an unpaved, narrow shoulder, with buildings right up to the edge of the shoulder. Mopeds everywhere.

            Many roadside cafes, some with a single bulb, others brightly lit. Luxurious resorts interspersed with 1 story cement blockhouses, some affluent, but many more with a room or two. Mopeds ubiquitous. Windows and doors all barred and grated.

            Moon, waning gibbous, over the sea. Brilliant stars above the scattered palms; few streetlights.

            We are quartered in a 20' by 40' ground floor room - concrete. No electricity tonight. Unglazed windows covered with slatted metal louvers. Solid hospital beds, but mattresses mismatched with frames - firm, with clean linens. Toilet is across the courtyard - reeks (later we discover a few more, cleaner bathrooms upstairs).

            Women are housed separately, around the block. We're waiting for luggage, which will arrive with the Massachusetts group in the back of a pickup truck.

            Sleep - brief. Luggage arrives. Sleep.

  3/7 - Sunday morning

            A church bell, high and clear, cuts through the earplugs. The barracks rouses, John turns over miserably. Stirring. Then: "Guys, it's only 6:45 - breakfast is at 8 - we have another hour of sleep!"

            Dozing. Mopeds - or maybe at first just the same one again and again, buzzes by the door like an insistent horsefly. Then there are two, then more, in rapidly succeeding generations until the population seems to exceed the environment's carrying capacity. Alright, already - time for breakfast.

            But first, there are some logistics to be addressed. What goes in which bag, at what cost in carrying weight? Brushing teeth from the water bottle, where to spit? Remember - T.P. goes in the wastebasket, lest it clog the plumbing. Paul is grossed out.

            I may not be able to keep up chronologically from this point - and it is especially hard to integrate the powerful experience of the morning service - but I have to try.

  3/7 - Sunday morning, 10:30 am, service begins in Creole

            A large, open space, whitewashed and bright with the morning sun. We are seated in the balcony. It is communion Sunday.

            As the service begins, I am aware that at the same moment on another island, a service is beginning now, possibly with the same words, in a different language - "The Lord is in His holy temple, let all the world keep silence before Him."

            I am a link here, in this room; I am a wire, the cord, that connects the energies, the potential, of two places of the spirit, and placing my fingertips together, a charge passes from one hand to the other, one set of God's faces to another and back again.

            There is a voice that speaks, and I hear the words in my language too. There are familiar figures in strangely familiar places, and though the color of the skin is different, and the language, there is a Fred Brome playing bass guitar, and there a Norm Newberry with the eyes of his choir shining out through very black faces; there are ushers and deacons - a man with Chet Caswell's years and gentle radiance offers me the communion bread. With my eyes closed, the faces of Jamestown, of CBC - God's faces there - become present and blended with the Creole words and music, in the hymns whose words I don't quite catch, but whose harmonies I can pass into as into the next room in God's house.

            Psalm 61. Another hymn. Then the New Testament lesson, and quickly the words become clear to me: "Si Dieu est pour nous, who can be against us?  For I am certain that neither death nor life, neither angels nor principalities, neither the present nor the future, nor powers, neither height nor depth nor any other creature can separate us from the love of God..."

            And Rilke's perception comes again - God needs us, it is we who bring God into being with our love of every distinct piece of the world, for in out love and our looking, we see her, see him, in every eye, in every leaf and raindrop. As he puts it:

            All becoming has needed me.

            My looking ripens things,

            and they come toward me, to meet and be met.

            Julie and I have had a friendly disagreement about the correct words of the next hymn, "Beautiful Savior" or "Fairest Lord Jesus", depending on whom you believe. This choir settles it decisively - it is in Creole.

            And the Spirit descends, and we hear God's voices, even if the words are spoken in another language, we can understand in our own, see God peeking out through another's eyes, and hear him whisper in another's song.

  3/7 - Batey Esperanza, afternoon

            The dirt road runs straight northwest for about two miles off the highway ten minutes east from La Romana. The orange sand smokes lightly behind the bus tires, and on either side the sugar cane opens green fronds to a height of about five feet - a little more than half grown in these fields now.

  Dirt roads and tracks branch off here and there into the fields; the bus blares at each intersection, but  does not slow.

            Then there is a turn, and a couple of hundred yards beyond, the shacks appear. Weather-beaten wood, once painted green. Corrugated tin roofs, at best, many sheets bent, twisted, rusty. A sleeping pig, a chicken; in the doorways of the tiny huts the faces stare, the older with resignation, perhaps, or sometimes a slight smile; the young adults more often with indifference or even hostility; and the children  Children are everywhere: the teenagers more distant; the younger ones eager, curious.

  But we, uncertain, huddle at first by the buses, confused about how to connect with these people across a dizzying abyss of wealth and poverty, a poverty - and a wealth - that spreads its hidden roots far underground into the humid darkness behind our seeing, below our capacity to envision the possible.

            We are here in part to find a building built by Rhode Islanders on a previous work trip - to reestablish a connection that exists in our minds, but probably no longer for the people here. Who knows which building it is, we ask? Perhaps it is this one, we are told, or perhaps it is that one. Might it be the church?

            The church is an oven of corrugated tin, perhaps 20' x 40'. There are no windows, and a single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling to light the worship, the strings of plastic pennants crisscross above the bare wooden benches. There is a woman with two gold teeth - she looks about fifty but in this place that means she might be thirty. She invites us in to show us the place where God lives for her. God is in his holy temple God is even here in the midst of this hellish place; in the warmth of this woman's eyes and heart this is a sacred place - here she has brought God to life by her love.

  But the church was not the building the Rhode Islanders built. Perhaps it was the school - a box of unpainted plywood, a few desks and a blackboard, no more. Yes, perhaps, and perhaps it matters little. Esperanza - Hope. A cruel joke perhaps, or perhaps it is a guttering flame that is the last possession of people as desperately poor as these.

  3/7 - The beach, in the rain

            Here beside the hulk of a new condo complex-to-be there is a rough beach access. Palms, turquoise sea. And rain, a tickling, irritating shower that doesn't move from over our heads.

  For those in the water, the rain is a reason to stay in. For those that aren't, it is a source of irritation at those who are.

            At eye level, the drops make tiny fountains as they hit the water.

            The bus roof leaks over my seat for forty-five minutes back to La Romana.

  3/7 - Night

            The Spanish service is a merengue blast with an impossibly loud PA and a pair of Bible-thumping, rabble-rousing women in the lead. I am deafened, and am relieved to retreat to the (only relative) quiet in the dorm next door and earplugs. Paul and I call home, and learn that a friend may have a cardiac emergency. Several times through the night, I wake and think and pray for his heart.

            Paul is having a good time. His enthusiasm comes through in his call home. There are enough other

  teens here for him to feel very welcomed. He is beginning to feel his independence here, and that's fine with me, I welcome it. I have concerns about sunburn and heatstroke, but he is a strong kid and a sensible one (mostly).

3/8 - Monday

           I teach/sing our round after breakfast at 7 AM. There will likely be a repeat performance.

           We have different tasks today. Paul wants to work on construction all week, while I have volunteered to work with the medical teams, for at least one day - more if they want me. David has agreed to keep an eye on Paul for heatstroke.

           First step for us is the hospital, where medical supplies need to be sorted and packed for the day. It is a huge beginning on a hill behind the town - 75' by 200' in plan for the current phase, with the first of three stories completed. A clinic and pharmacy are operational already. But apparently, construction has been suspended for the moment on the hospital itself. There is too much work to be done replacing the churches in the bateys. These buildings serve in multiple roles - as community centers, clinical sites, churches, and sometimes as schools. Jean-Luc has an interesting idea here also - all the new churches will be made out of reinforced concrete, with rebar linking the walls and roof. This will make them hurricane-proof - so that they can serve as storm shelters.

           After we load supplies and do basic training ion blood pressure, we head out in two buses for two neighboring bateys - Kathleen and Tammy will assist one team, and I on the other. My team's destination is Los Estantos, about an hour's drive away. Highway first for about a third of the way, then mile after mile of straight dirt roads through the cane fields.

           The batey is not as miserable as Esperanza - the houses have clearly been rebuilt with fresh lumber since the hurricane, and the destitution is not quite so intense. Nonetheless, poverty, malnutrition, isolation and ringworm are prominent.

           Our clinic is the back half of the church where the tin roof is still more or less intact, though the block walls buckle outwards. The far end of the church is ruined from about four feet above the ground up. It's fortunate for us that we have a little roof, since it starts to rain as soon as we set up shop.

           There are three "doctors" here - the team leader is Dr. Bill from Massachusetts; "Dr." Sarah, likewise, is a physician's assistant back home; and we have a local Haitian doctor or advanced medical student, Dr. Ibel - a very slight young man with a broad smile and apparently, good medical training (so say our docs). I am surprised to learn later in the day that his grandmother still lives in the neighboring batey where the other team is working.

           In addition to these three, there is Dr. Kate, an oral surgeon from Auburn, Mass. - originally British, a volunteer to assist here, a couple of nurses to staff the pharmacy, along with one or two teen volunteers, Anatoly and I are on blood pressures, and Pastor Nancy is on crowd control and general gopher. There are several translators, including Lorenzo, a large, solid man who lived in Miami for eight years, and Moises, a good-humored young man on Jean-Luc's staff who is our liaison to the bus driver and to the local pastor, who receives the 15-peso clinic fee from each patient (about $1.00), and dispenses tickets. A young boy writes the name of each patient, their age and complaint, on a card record, working with the pastor to triage patients to medical (via the blood pressure honchos) or dental.

           The dental side is scary - an array of torture instruments, with a simple sterilizer bath and spray for cleanup. There are no fillings - just extractions. During a break, I watch Dr. Kate in action - she is quick and deft. With one man, she removes eight teeth inside of half an hour. Ouch.

           Blood pressures are a bit daunting - it is hard to hear with a defective stethoscope, a circular saw outside, and the crowds. It is a bit more by feel than by ear, and my systolic readings are probably on the high side. I do see a couple of readings at about 200 - apparently hypertension is a frequent issue here.

           Teeth are apparently not bad for kids, and the bone and periodontal areas are generally in good shape (making extractions necessarily more vigorous when decay does eventually set in.) Apparently if the kids chew on the sugar cane, it may act more as a toothbrush than as a source of decay, but eating the cane can get one in trouble, we are told. Nonetheless, it seems to happen pretty often.

           The prevalent presenting conditions today are headache, stomach ache and cough, with a few other issues thrown in. One mother of five days is still bleeding, and worried. One baby's right eye is swollen shut and oozing with infection. Our last task of the day is to dose as many people as possible - perhaps a hundred or so, especially the kids - with a medication for ringworm, an intestinal parasite that comes through bare feet.

           There is a mixture of names and languages here - both French Creole and Spanish. I try to figure out which is which, and offer a "Bonjour" or "Buenos Dias" as best I can - but I'm probably batting about 60%. Gesture seems to work mostly.

           The kids - kids are everywhere, it seems - around us at every window and in the doorway, staring intently, ready with a smile in the preschool and grade school ages, more often seriously curious in the infants and toddlers. There are kids angling for handouts, kids angling to have their picture taken, kids angling even for a second dose of the ringworm medication, against whom we must be especially vigilant.

           Even with our extra ventilation it is hot here, and the ring of faces around us makes it difficult to step back or away from the work. We eventually break for lunch, and I manage some pictures and a short walk as the demand for BPs slackens. There is a cane loader at the end of the dirt road, where the oxcarts empty their loads of sugar cane into railroad cars bound for the refinery.  Near the loader is a trough for the animals, and a tank where the batey gets its water and washes its babies.

           On the way home from the batey, Lorenzo talks a little about the cane workers in reply to our questions. The cutting season runs from December to July, and then there is little or no work until December. During the season, a cane worker with reasonable diligence can earn between $20 - $25 per week, depending on how much he cuts. Illiteracy among the Haitians not infrequently allows the foreman to undercount the weight of the cane, thus cheating the worker out of some of his pay.

           The diet apparently is "rice and beans, when I can get it," as a patient of one of the doctors says, perhaps with a chicken for special occasions. Some of the patients are referred for follow-up care to the hospital - though getting there has to be a challenge.

           There is no immunization program here at all. The logistics of record-keeping are simply too daunting at the moment. Yet perhaps the relative isolation of the villages is their best defense against epidemics.

 3/8 - Night in La Romana

           Diesel fumes are everywhere, streetlights are rare, the sidewalks are treacherous and the streets murderous with the traffic. Stop signs here are addressed more with horn than brakes, and the pedestrians are an endangered species.

           Many stores have security guards outside after dark with a pump-action shotgun across their knees. I remember the inscription at the police station: "Ley y Orden". Hm.

 3/9 - Batey Magdalena: Construction

           We are pouring concrete columns today for the church in Magdalena - the first batey church Jean-Luc built, apparently. This batey is not too far from our batey of yesterday, Los Estantos, but is larger (200+ houses) and built of cement block rather than wood.

           Our work is mostly in gangs - a rebar train to restack rebar outside the church, bucket brigades to pour concrete, and a gang of cement block passers unloading and stacking blocks from the back of a truck. Tammy and I agree that hiding out in the latrine would be more appealing than the latter task, but forego the thought. She has made friends with lots of kids during the day, but Fredo is her special charge. He takes her to his home across the street - a tiny house of block with his nine siblings and father - it's not clear at the outset what has become of mom, but we understand later that she died about three months ago.  Particularly affecting is that the children sleep on the concrete floor - no beds.

           There is a lot of kid control to be done - concerns about stealing, harassment of the Americans, and worksite dangers make for sternness in keeping kids outside the worksite perimeter. They invade some anyway, and one boy is beaten with a small stick as we watch. It isn't pretty.

           There is also a difficulty for us in having Haitian coworkers who aren't given lunches as we are. We don't feel comfortable about that, and try to find ways around it. Tammy even approaches one worker with the intention of sneaking him a sandwich. She practically tackles the guy to get him to accept a sandwich from her. I tell her later it's Jean-Luc, the guy who makes the rules. She is unfazed - and describes handing out sandwiches the day before as resulting "in only a small riot".

           I decide to show these kids the pictures from Mary's classroom at Rocky Hill. There is much interest in a little girl with Asian features, and careful study of the world map - it's scary to realize that the batey schools are so ill-equipped that a sixth or seventh grader may never have seen a world map. Child after child looked at each picture - some wanted to buy them from me - a message in a bottle, perhaps, or maybe something of the sort. In my avid conversation with these kids, I nearly missed the bus home.

           Getting the cement out of our clothes and off our bodies without enough showers is a problem. It's also in my hair - yuck!

           Evening: a walk with Kathleen as David and Tammy are off to a Rotary or Lions meeting at Casa de Campo.

 3/10 - Cacata Batey

           We thought we would be going back to Magdalena today, but were sent to another church in a different batey, Cacata. There, the first job was to pull down the roof framing (and watching the  4-inch spiders scurry away). Then came forms and the pouring. It is a largely overcast day, which is pleasant, but eventually rainy - and all are soaked at day's end.  I am struck again at the sight of children, roughly a third to a half, who don't have shoes and run barefoot through the rubbish-strewn streets and yards.

           I take some time with the kids today, and soon have a gang of 8-10 boys counting with me in Spanish, French and English. Eventually we move on to Mary's pictures, and again the children are riveted. One boy offers me a gift - a picture of a leotard-clad model advertising Lycra. I pretend to be slightly scandalized, and the kids love my grimaces.

           Today I have also made arrangements for a couple of Jamestowners to visit a school with a donation of supplies from the Rocky Hill money. Elza Phanord, the pastor's wife, will arrange our visit to Alta Gracia tomorrow morning.

           Also, on the way home, I hear from a return visitor that the housing on the bateys is for the workers - therefore if a woman loses her man, she also loses her right to live in the house. Because women are an economic drain on the family, and because compulsory education ends before high school, once a girl finishes the eighth grade she must generally find a man to take her in, unless through some miracle her parents have the money to send her on to high school, and if she has the ability to pass the necessary exams. This, of course, increases the birth rate something fierce. One of the reasons the hospital wants the surgical suite in place is to be able to do tubal ligations.

           The hospital will be offering a number of services at cut rates, and supplying necessary follow-up medications, etc. This is not true of the public hospitals, where patients must bring their own meds, apparently.

           In the evening, a couple of trips to the Codetel for a phone line home and an email connection to Rocky Hill, the latter without success.

3/11 - Batey Alta Gracia

            Thanks to Elza Phanord, we are to go to Batey Alta Gracia this morning. We are  supposed to leave at 10, and finally leave at 11, with a suitcase full of donated school  supplies and the promise of $600 more from remaining Rocky Hill funds for uniforms and  books.

            The batey is 45 minutes away to the north, towards the mountains. The roads are  worse than those to the east where we have been working. We pass through three or four  other bateys along the way, and mile upon mile of cane fields stretching out as far as the eye  can see, like Iowa cornfields. The cane itself is rather like (perhaps is) an outsized grass  plant, about 8-10 feet high at harvest. The long, thin, rush-like leaves branch upward from  the top of the stem, which is about 5-6 feet tall. The stem or cane is the useful part of the  plant - to make use of it the fronds are cut away, then the stem can be peeled and chewed.  The core is tough and fibrous, about an inch or a bit more in diameter, but juicy and very  sweet.

            Alta Gracia is a small batey, and most of the buildings are of new lumber, indicating  heavy damage in the hurricane. School is not in session when we arrive - the teacher's  moped is broken, so he cannot come, and there is no substitute. There is, in fact, no school  building at the moment (another casualty of Georges), so classes are being held in the back  room of the church. It is a space roughly 20' x 40', cement block, and very dark, as there are only gratings, no windows, and no artificial light. The school serves about 45 students in two or three sessions (timing is not clear - morning and afternoon sessions, I think). There are spaces for 30 students at two per bench. Other equipment consists of a blackboard dragged in from somewhere, a small table (stacked with Parmalat from the government's school milk program - one cupful every other day), one or two dog-eared workbooks, and nothing else. If the teacher brings other materials, they were not evident.

            Tammy, David and I make this trip, along with Elza Phanord, a student teacher named Estella, and two other ladies from the church who are to assess the uniform situation. Our driver is an entertaining English speaker named "Cookie".

            The children swarm into the schoolroom to take their places when our purpose becomes evident. These children seem a bit dazed to see us - they don't beg much, unlike children at the other bateys we have seen. Perhaps it is Estella and Elza's presence, or perhaps it is the school itself, but there is generally rapt attention here.

            We are all a bit uncertain how to begin, but Estella takes charge. First she prays with them, then asks whether students have questions for us. No, though one front-row child volunteers proudly that they have two books in his home. Do they sing in school, I ask.

  Well, yes, in fact. So they sing a song for us, and then we open our suitcase, passing out pencils, crayons, soaps, and about 3-4 sheets of paper per child. This is a real bounty.

            Next, Estella identifies students at each of the three levels in the school, so as to ensure getting the right number of books for each (using the Rocky Hill funds).

            We show them the pictures of Mary's class - the pictures will remain in Alta Gracia in the school as a mark of gratitude. In connection with these pictures I ask Elza if any of these children could have seen a world map before - she thinks it unlikely, even for the older students (up to 8th grade). Then the letters from Rocky Hill are passed around - they will stay here too. These children are then given the task of writing responses - and within half an hour or so, there is a sheaf of papers in our hands, one of the 3-4 sheets we gave them comes back with us.

            Next, I read them a picture book in Spanish, stumbling a bit, but o.k. Then there are a closing song and a prayer, and finally we hand out Parmalat to the children. We leave them the pencils, crayons and paper, but Elza will need to give the other materials to the teacher for use, so she takes them back for now.

            Someone fetches sugar cane for us to try as a return gift, and then we are on our way, arriving in La Romana at about 2:30. Along the way, I ask Elza about work in the off-season in the bateys - I mention the article I saw about micro-businesses in similar communities - such as the cell phone women in Bangladesh (funded through a microcredit loan from the Grameen Bank). I think she is interested in the idea. She mentions wanting to start a milk program for the preschool children, whom the government program does not cover.

            At 3, the three of us set out with Cookie (at our own expense) to Magdalena, on Tammy's secret mission to her beloved Fredo and his family. We are nearly spotted by the construction and medical teams, both of which are just leaving when we arrive. By going around the system we are sort of breaking the rules, but that does not stop Tammy. Fredo is about 8 I suppose, with big, serious eyes, nine siblings (he is somewhere in the middle), a dad, and no mother (she apparently died about three months ago). They live in a cement block house - three bedrooms about 8' square, a combined living room/dining room of about 10' x 16', a small cooking area with four gas ring burners, no oven or refrigeration, and a latrine out back, the contents of which flow through a short pipe into an open trench in the back yard.

            I think Fredo's father is perplexed by our intentions. Eduardos is a big, sturdy man, apparently a decent person, grateful yet dignified in his gratitude and his wonder at the American whirlwind in his home. Nonetheless, he accepts assistance - Tammy has brought a couple of sheets to cover the concrete floor where the children sleep, and shoes and socks for three or four of the children. Tammy swaps her own shoes for those she was going to give Fredo's sister Nina, but which are a bit tight. Eduardos works on the sugar train as a loader, would love to move into the city, but wouldn't be able to find an apartment there for all his children.

  3/11 - Evening: La Romana

            Jean-Luc tells the story of his vocation, of his imprisonment and exile by the Tontons Macoutes, and the challenges of his ministry and faith. It is an extraordinary account, a fascinating witness from a man of unusual vision and dedication. The same poise is there in Elza, and in their daughter Joanna, whom I meet today.

            I need to email Mary from the Codetel, then return for a bit of merengue music by the Maranatha band - it's wonderful stuff.

            One or two gems on stewardship from Jean-Luc's talk:

  :                      "All the money in the world belongs to the Lord - it's just in the wrong hands."

                       "As a member, we give you three pledge envelopes each year, and you're

                        responsible for all three. The first is for you, the second is for your best friend,

                                 and the third is for your worst enemy."

                       "All church members must give, as all clinic patients must pay - nobody gets a free

                                  ride."

  3/12 - Magdalena

            Today begins with the Andrews round again, rounding out the week, as it were. The reading is Ezekiel's dry bones, which seems to apply both here and at home.

            Our task today is to frame the supports for pouring a concrete roof at the church in Magdalena. We get underway with the typical delays, and arrive by about 10.

            Tammy looks for Fredo, of course, and he appears - barefoot. I can tell that that's upsetting, but a visit to Fredo's house reveals that the shoes are drying from a thorough cleaning, courtesy of sister Nina. Phew - not sold or stolen!

            In the afternoon, Paul begins to get upset because he has "no work to do". I think he senses closure and hates the thought. I ask him to help tile the bathroom at home next week, and that eases things somewhat. He has had a great time. No drawings yet, but what the hey - we have pictures, and we will have important memories.

            We work today with Jean-Luc in charge of framing. It is good to feel a little closer to this unusual and charismatic man. Clearly he is a strong leader, but equally clearly, a dedicated and compassionate one. He has been on the construction site every day this week, working alongside the rest, keeping an eye on things and nudging, guiding here and there as needed. There is little he misses.

            I have a longish conversation in French with the pastor in Magdalena, a young man recently from Haiti, Pastor Wisley Dennis. He is a warm, engaging man - and joins us in our group picture at the end of the day. He will look out for Fredo and family. He shows me pictures of his 12 year old daughter and 8 year old twins.

            We finish up about 4 p.m. - then go back to La Romana to pick up bathing suits and dinner, and to separate from the Massachusetts group. We are going to the beach, then fly out tomorrow - they are going to the Club Dominicus resort for two nights, departing Sunday. I can't imagine wanting to go straight from Magdalena to a posh resort - the thought strikes me somehow as vulgar, or something.

            Even going to the beach seems touristy, suddenly. I don't think any of us is really eager to leave. It is not common to feel so strong a sense of purpose over so focused a period of time. Watching the sun go down helps, in a way - like our finishing work, it happens suddenly, almost without our noticing that it has happened. But then the first star appears over the water, and soon the North Star will guide us home.

            Not before another bit of mischief, however. Dave didn't go to the beach - instead, he wanted to get Cookie to take him out to the batey to poach a bit more sugar cane. He's hooked. Cookie's price wasn't especially wonderful, however. As Dave considered his options, Cookie came up with another proposal. Apparently he has a buddy who works as a crossing guard on the railway, and apparently also, one of tonight's trains was mysteriously short about a dozen canes (about eight times what Dave wanted, but who's counting?) We'll all try to sneak some back through U.S. Customs, I expect - and maybe we'll be lucky.

            I can't really wrap this all up tonight - closure will come both quickly and slowly as the experiences of this remarkable week begin to sink in. I can say for certain that it is a wonderful way to spend a vacation - I hope we may be able to do something like this again before too long.

            Oh, I nearly forgot - the Haitians on the bus with us, our friends, singing all the way back from the beach - "A laborer, a laborer du Bon Seigneur," etc. -

            Amen to that.