The cracked windows obstructed our view. The wind rushed through the gaping hole beside us. Christian music blared in Spanish until we came to a halt in an unfamiliar place. A voice shouted in another language, telling us to get off. He already took us far enough. We had no idea where we were but obeyed the command. Standing in the dirt, a single glance between us said, “Well, now what?”
In the Dominican Republic, “guaguas” are little “buses” that are often missing their side doors. The seats contain scratches, cuts, and cavities from transporting many people throughout the city each day. These ten passenger vans travel on predetermined routes but they aren't posted anywhere. There are three different bus routes to choose from in San Pedro de Macorís, that we know of, and each one goes through a different part of town. There is no schedule during the day, but they cannot be found early in the mornings or after it gets dark. Periodically, they will choose a spot to stop and wait to fill up before continuing on their journey.
One particular Friday morning, Mariano and I decided to take a guagua to the actual bus stop. Even though it was only a seven minute walk away from our apartment, it was already 88 degrees Fahrenheit (31 degrees Celsius) at 9 AM. Twenty minutes later, we spotted one coming down the street. Since the bus was nearly full, we climbed into the back seat and pushed the window open as far as it would go. After about five minutes, we passed our 60 pesos ($1.05 USD) to the driver.
This tiny bus was supposed to take us around the city and end up at the official bus stop to Consuelo. The driver wasn’t supposed to make us get off in the middle of a tiny village with dirt roads and no vehicles in sight, but things almost never happen how they're supposed to in the Dominican Republic.
Then, it hit me a couple of hours after smacking the top of my head on the open door as we got off in a hurry. I’m not in Buffalo anymore; I’m in the Dominican Republic. And my idea of how things are supposed to happen isn’t “better” than a Dominican’s idea of how things are supposed to happen. They are just different. I could have avoided a whole lot of frustration by reminding myself of these four words. It’s not about me.
When Mariano's mom passed away a week after I arrived in the Dominican Republic last year, he didn't question God and ask, "Why me?" After the guagua driver took us far from our destination, Mariano didn't wonder why something so ridiculous was happening to him. Instead, he wanted to know what he could learn and what God wanted him to do in the midst of the situation. He gets it. His life is not about him.
Long story short, Mariano and I walked and walked until another guagua happened to pass by. The driver said he would take us to the police station near our apartment because my head was throbbing and we abandoned our plans to visit Consuelo. However, his idea of taking us to the police station meant driving us closER to the police station or fifteen minutes away from the police station by foot. Two guaguas, a motorcycle taxi, 220 pesos, and an hour and a half later, Mariano and I arrived home.
So, if you can afford a motorcycle taxi at 50 pesos per person, don’t ride a guagua in the Dominican Republic unless you absolutely have to. Or if you want an unexpected adventure.
“I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself up for me.”
Galatians 2:20
Comments