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Lost in Translation
Father Calvin took us to the Hong Kong Restaurant. The menu had two sides: one written in a Chinese-y Spanish, the other in a comical version of English. Instead of chicken breast, the restaurant offered chicken bosom, which was served with deep dry noody. I took this odd-sounding side to mean deep fried noodles when I ordered it, and was relieved when this was actually what was served, as I had no idea what a “noody” might be!
I tried not to laugh out of respect for the earnest restaurateur who was extremely excited to have Americans in his restaurant—not an everyday occurrence Calvin explained—but it was too much. I giggled my way through the gastronomic options, trying several times to slip a menu into my purse because my friends would never believe me if I didn’t have proof. The squat Chinese owner, who had the waitresses cutting napkins into four pieces and refolding them into tiny squares, was vigilant, making it a point of stopping at our table every few minutes to ask if we were ready to order, his hand extended to take my menu. We returned to the restaurant many times during our stint in Germania, but I was never able to get a menu out the door.As we walked back to the parish house after dinner, I couldn’t believe the change in the atmosphere of the small town crisscrossed with roads, many of which were dirt and some of them little more than rutted paths. From two-story lean-tos with screen wire for windows, a number of songs from Michael Jackson’s "Thriller" album competed for attention. While “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin'” blasted from one disco, “Beat It” throbbed from another. A block away, the rock superstar crooned “Billie Jean” from yet another smoky room.Bare-chested men holding cold cervezas leaned against the facades of restaurants and bars while women in their best dresses sashayed by. One particularly tall woman stood on a well-lit corner where the streetlight leaned at a precarious angle toward the ground. She was mesmerized by a group of children playing nearby. Her revealing dress in a juicy shade of red contrasted her wiry, dark hair that was pulled back to expose the smooth, sepia-toned skin of her face. I thought it odd that a lone shock of white ran along her hairline above her right ear. She didn’t look old enough to have sprouted gray hair, which made me wonder if the swath could be the result of hardship or trauma. Though I saw her for only a few seconds, I was convinced she’d lost a child. Her expression as she watched the children’s antics was part peaceful wonderment and part agonizing longing.It was remarkable how the inky air had turned the town into an antithetical version of its sun-drenched self. The streets had come alive, which made perfect sense because nighttime was the only tolerable time to be outside in August in the tropics. Like those of the discos, the windows on the parish house were unadorned openings cut into the building’s façade, covered over with screen wire. Until the wee hours of the night, the songs chosen by the DJs congealed into a soundtrack for my drama—a protracted tossing and turning on the single cot with its thin mattress. To their credit, Jacko, Springsteen, Madonna and Aretha held their own against a retrospective of the history of Reggae.If you are new to my blog and you'll like to start at the beginning, here's the link to the earliest post. Reading the "Start Here" sidebar gives you the very first information. Thanks for stopping in!
Whatever You Need
I awoke early feeling hung over thanks to the migraine medicine that had shunted me into sleep. Jim dressed quickly, urging me to get going before he headed down to breakfast. Just as he was closing the door, he reminded me that the Bishop of Costa Rica would arrive at ten o’clock to drive us to Siquirres, as if I needed reminding. The Bishop’s name was Cornelius Wilson, and he was right on time when he strode across the dimly lit lobby toward us, his lavender shirt with its stiff white collar bright in the room flush with drab earth tones.
He greeted us with unabashed pleasure, then reached down to grab one of our L.L. Bean duffle bags, tucking the ornate cross dangling from a thick gold chain around his neck into his shirt pocket. As he lugged the heavy bag to his small pickup, knobby lines of gold scalloped across his chest, swaying to the rhythm of his gait. He looked pretty comfortable in his own skin, and there was a somewhat regal quality about him, hightened by the nubby white hair sprouting on his head. As he held the door open for me, I ducked into the tiny rear seat in the truck with its low-slung camper shell covering the bed. Being in the back, I was free to study the landscape as the two men talked about Germania, the town in which we would build our first church. The mountain peaks far in the distance favored hunter green velveteen while closer at hand, the fabric unraveled into slopes blanketed with a profusion of foliage so varied it would take hours to name every species. Shacks painted once-bright turquoise, fuchsia and yellow sprouted from the luscious vegetation like ragged flowers that had blossomed too close to the end of summer and had been frost bitten in full bloom. It wasn’t until we reached the outskirts of San Jose to begin a rollercoaster journey through mangled turns mimicking the mountainous terrain that their conversation grew quiet. The cleric was doing his best to avoid the daredevil maneuvers of the drivers heading toward us and it took his full concentration.I caught myself stamping at the floorboard every so often in the faint hope that a break pedal would rise up so I could slow us down. Not only were busses, jammed to nearly overflowing with people, barreling toward us around curves that were far too knotty for their speed, cars and trucks would whip around us when we approached even the shortest stretch of straightaway. Though it seemed chaotic, there was a rhythm to the zigging and zagging that I would come to call “transportation Tango.”“We say that driving is one way to prove you have faith in a higher order,” Bishop Wilson teased. “That’s because there is absolutely no order on the roads!” After a long descent, we skidded off the highway into the town of Siquirres. The Bishop slid to a stop in a ring of dirt surrounding the Church of Saint Mary, or Iglesia Santa Maria, where we would have lunch before visiting Germania. The minute they heard the crunch of tires on the dusty ground, the parishioners surged through a side door of the parish hall and dashed toward us across the scrubby yard, all toothy smiles and curiosity. Father Calvin, the priest of St. Mary’s, reached us first, his face alive with kindness. He put names to the other eager faces that flashed before us. I caught Arlene, Frances, Carmelita and Miss Morgan before the words balled into a jumble in my brain. Frances was a slender woman of West Indian ancestry whose kinky black hair was pulled back with lace. Her expression was perpetually stern unless she was concentrating on a conversation. When she was listening intently, she’d narrow her eyes into a tight squint, which raised the corners of her mouth slightly, turning her face into a droll mask of clownishness. Carmelita, a petite Spanish woman who fussed over everyone, had high cheekbones that gave her a gaunt air in spite of her shapely feminine body and voluminous curly hair, which was lightly speckled with gray. “We’re so glad you are here,” Frances said in her lilting English. Carmelita, determined not to be outdone, stepped in front of Frances, ever so slightly nudging her aside, and said, “We’re here to give you whatever you need.” A final stiff nod toward her competitor was her way of telling us that she considered herself to be in charge and we should, too.Arlene was a painfully bashful girl with legs so skinny her knees were as bulbous as burls on a tree trunk. Her fine brown hair hung limply into her eyes and parted around each ear. Jim had told me about the shy girl, who had been confirmed during his first trip to Costa Rica when he had met with the Bishop about building churches. This trip, he’d brought her a cross necklace as a present. She was so happy she had a difficult time holding back her tears. When he asked if she would have her picture taken with him, she nodded yes, but was so timid she could barely smile.Once everyone had greeted us, Father Calvin hurried us into the rec room of the parish hall where we were served freshly baked empanadas and tiny meat-filled sandwiches called arreglados. Instead of soft drinks, we had a Costa Rican version of Kool-Aid made of sorrel. Frances served us queque, or homemade cake, for dessert. As the women doted on us, I was relieved to find that most of the people spoke English in this part of the country. Everyone in the noisy, sparsely furnished room seemed prone to laughter and appeared to be remarkably genuine. We were preparing to leave for our visit to the job site in Germania when Arlene walked over to me and extended her closed fist. I put my open hand beneath it and she dropped three cherry lifesavers into my palm—sticky from being closed in her sweaty grasp. I was so touched by her gesture that it was my turn to fight back tears. I sucked on the sweet candy as we drove the eight kilometers to Germania, scolding myself. I was going to have to toughen up or I’d be reduced to blubbering my way through my experiences in the mission field, which would only serve to irritate Jim beyond belief.If you are new to my blog and you'll like to start at the beginning, here's the link to the earliest post. Reading the "Start Here" sidebar gives you the very first information. Thanks for stopping in!
