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After my "classes" today, I got straight on a bus for Santo Domingo. I stayed
until almost dark
and then hopped the last bus out of the city that was heading past my house. I
knew it was the
correct bus because I asked the guy that collects the money- twice. That's kind
of the procedure here.
God forbid they just post their route info. When the bus finally left, it was
totally dark. The lights were on
inside the bus so it took quite a while to figure out that I was heading in the
wrong direction. I went and
politely rebuffed the guy that collects the money for his error. He asked me
"Which San Miguel? There are
many." Yep. That's just the way minds work down here. But this was partially my
fault for not saying "Puerto
Limon", which is the correct terminal city. Instead, I stated my personal
destination. In any case, I was screwed
at this point. The bus stopped near a truck, parked but still running in front
of a small tienda. The money collector
ran over, conversed and returned. He said the truck would take me back to Santo
Domingo. I thanked him and
got off the bus.
Outside, I tried in vain to communicate with the truck driver. He said "one
moment" and then just
drove away. I stood there and stared at the surprised people inside the tienda.
I walked over and bought a
coke with a 20 dollar bill, knowing that anyone I paid for a ride would claim
not to have change for it. I began
explaining my problem to the people in the tienda. The whole town slowly turned
up to see what was going on.
My Spanish was completely offline and I had the people I was conversing with
writing their end of the
conversation down on paper, to which I answered aloud. I could tell them
neither my address or phone number.
Incredibly, the last thing I had done in Santo Domingo was to open an e-mail
saying a phone account had been
opened for me by my friend, Jeanne Brownfield, along with the information I
would need to access it. I had
memorized the information on the spot and so I had it at the tienda to call the
US to retrieve the phone number
of my house in San Miguel that I had previously given to the people back home.
Then I called San Miguel.
Finally arrangements for my return were made (a banana truck was on its way)
and the whole town breathed
a sigh of relief. The change in attitute in the townsfolk was palpable. They
looked as though they had just seen
the conclusion of a good movie. One female in the tienda wrote down the
tienda's phone number and told me to
call once I had gotten home safely. She then told me to ask for "Diana", as she
pointed to a now blushing girl
nearby. They then took me inside the tienda to eat tuna and rice and try to
convert me to a Jehova's Witness.
Everytime they tried to close the deal by producing a picture of heaven and asking me if I wanted to go there, I played dumb.
I cursed the banana truck that was so slow in coming for me and
kept my mouth too stuffed with food
to provide swift responses.
At last, the banana truck took me some distance to a taxi, which then took me
to
San Miguel. The cab driver- a math professor by day- initiated the all too
familiar dirge of no good work in
Ecuador and the strict visa policies of the US. I was greatly amused by my
bizarre evening and entered my
house amid much levity and colorful storytelling. EcuaMom was in stitches. I
looked for the tienda number to let
them know I had arrived safely, but the number had gotten lost somewhere. I
told EcuaMom "Too bad, 'Diana'
was cute." This wasn't exactly true, but elicited the correct response, which
was more laughter.
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