"Salta! Salta!"

Packing for a place you have never been is difficult, particuarly when it is an impoverished area. I like to travel light, but I don't want to be without something I need, but won't be able to buy because the nearest Wall Mart is not even in the same country.

I have heard that people just leave their suitcases and many of their clothes behind because the people are so poor so I pack more than I need. Still it is nagging me that I am missing something important.

I wear just a polo shirt and jeans down to the hospital to meet the bus. Everyone else wears jackets and sweatshirts. By the time they gather us for a group photo I am shaking so much, if the photographer doesn't have a fast shutter speed, I am afraid I will appear as a blur in the photo.

The hospital CEO and some other suits are there, which I gather is a first for these trips. They are proud of their employees and have donated many supplies for the opcoming surgeries.

The bus ride to JFK is fine. While everyone is eating at the food court, someone asked me if I have packed toilet paper. Toilet paper? I excuse myself and go to the men's room where for the next fifteen minutes as I unroll and then reroll.

The flight is without event. the ticket agent noting my height was able to reseat us to an area with leg room. My traveling friend is a vegetarian. I get a double order of chicken.

At the Santo Domingo airport, they wave us quickly through customs. Helps to be with a missionary group. I'm thinking about Arlo Guthrie coming into Los Angeleez.

We spot a Dominican in an MMI shirt who nodds vigourously at us. He quickly grabs our bags, throws them on a cart and takes off like a bat out of hell, or maybe like a, in espanol, un ladron. We chase after him.

He's legit. When we catch him, we find him throwing our bags into the back of a truck and he gestures for us to get on the old old yellow school bus next to the truck.

We head for a place called "The Chicken Hilton." It is a waystation campground for various groups. We are sharing it tonight with a teenage church group of Dominicans from an area an hour away.

We will be sleeping in mosquito net shrouded bunks in small concrete rooms. For dinner on open picnic tables, they serve us arroz con pollo, chicken with rice. We get water from a cooler. The local tap water is contaminated.

I sit down with two of the Dominican volunteers and make immediate friends. Jesus is a bullchested thirty-five year old. He is eager to help me with my Spanish. When he shows me his watch is always an hour early because "no queiro estar tarde." He does not want to be late. I mention I like that, he takes it off his wrist and gives it to me. I a have forgotten to take a watch. Still I say no a couple times -- I hardly know Jesus, but finally I take it when he says, "You can remember me by it." His wrist is much thicker than mine, and the watch hangs loosely from my write. I thank him profusely.

After dinner, he introduces me to the pastor of the youth church, and I meet many of the young people. While it pours rain, under the corrugated roof of their open "church," they sing a Dominican version christian gospel rock accompanied by electric guitar that is unbelievably good. I am mesmorized by one young girl as she sings "Salta! Salta!" which means "Jump! Jump!" and they all jump as they sing and shout out praise.



Later I lay in the dark under the mosquito netting. I wonder what the trip will bring, wonder about my role. There are nine doctors, four nurse anesthetists(who will be operating without an anesthesiologist), eight nurses and several OR techs, in addition to some general helpers/interpreters. I sense most of them don't know what a paramedic does. I just want to be useful, but I also know like most I have an ego, and I believe this is a trip where ego will need to be pitched.