Yesterday, I was up early to go to church in Aguacete. I was assured that whatever I wanted to wear would be fine. Because Francesca left without me, I wasn’t sure if she really wanted me at church but I went anyway to sit in the tall wooden building.
The priest didn’t look too priest-like until he took off his farmer’s cooperative baseball cap and put on a white robe over his jeans. He did have on glasses, which is unusual for the community. When he addressed the congregants, he read and spoke with erudition and fluency.
The songs and such were mighty sin-and-damnation oriented for the Catholic church I know. There was no organ or other instrument to accompany the loud one-part melodies. The “wine” part of the communion was actually water.
The parish is on the verge of building a new church to replace the current one, which has a roof ineffective against rain. In a speech after the mass, a church leader said that the officials in the metropolitan of Santiago agreed to provide half of the labor and a significant, if not all, amount of the needed material.
After church, I walked back down to Francesca’s and packed my stuff. I haven’t been feeling like my Spanish is all that good so I felt self-conscious trying to talk to her and others all day. Breakfast was arepa and hot chocolate.
A truck picked up me, my guitar, my backpack, and trainer L’s stuff. We traveled to CIMPA, stopping briefly to get ice cream and to wait and see if the other group needed a ride from their stop. Nobody talked much. I had tried unsuccessfully to settle things with J, but haven’t felt comfortable making conversation with her since. E doesn’t come up with conversation herself.
At CIMPA [look at the name of the post for the initialism spelled out], we got out of the truck. I practically ran to my friends who were there. I hugged everyone. I tried not to say anything too rude or strong about my problems last week with J. I really like the other people in the group. It helps to have a base of comparison. I don’t want to be judgmental, but I really like A, N, J, A, M. I had a long talk with N, and I still want to take A all up in my arms and not let go.
Note to readers: This is a review of my personal journal from my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the Dominican Republic more than a decade ago. I have done my best not to change what I wrote, even if I feel differently now or found out later that I what I wrote was factually incorrect. Part of the joy of reading old journals is seeing a story arc where I’ve learned new things.
In this entry and others, names have been shortened to initials to provide some privacy; just as many different names share a first letter, so do characters share initials. Those who were there will recognize the characters, but my journaling is not about other people or their experience.
- The next entry in this series is I want to use trite metaphors involving motoconchos
- The previous entry in this series is Going to the movies with the avocados
- You can see the journal entries as I post them here.
- If you’re just starting, here’s the first entry.
