A few days ago, our family was returning to our dinghy after spending some time in the town of Luperón. The kids ran ahead. Soon, our family was strung out along the road like random beads.
As we walked, we trailed behind a fisherman pushing a wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow contained a homemade air compressor, fashioned out of an old beer keg. The man pushing the wheelbarrow walked slowly. He was covered in dust and drenched in sweat.
We continued to walk in the heat behind the man, but we arrived at the dinghy dock at the same time as he did. As I was about to pass him, he asked for help, in English. My husband, Rick, helped him to carry the air compressor down to to dinghy dock.
The man introduced himself. His name came and went in my mind. But his face burned a hole in my memory.
I ran into him again today. By chance, he appeared at the Luperón medical clinic.
I saw him out of the corner of my eye, as I struggled to communicate my health issue to the Spanish-speaking doctor. The doctor did his best. He even used a Spanish-English dictionary. Eventually, the doctor asked the fisherman if he could help translate.
Because I have grown up in Canada — a culture that values patient confidentiality — the process of revealing my medical concerns to another patient was rather awkward.
The doctor asked the fisherman to ask me about the nature of my problem. My situation was minor — especially compared to the fisherman who was being treated for a barracuda bite.
Yet, he, another male patient, and at least two nurses were happy to help and discuss the situation among themselves. They conferred in Spanish, and then the fisherman would ask me questions. Then, the rapid-fire Spanish would begin again. In the end, the doctor suggested I go to Puerto Plata to see a specialist.
Puerto Plata is an hour away by car. To my amazement, the fisherman offered to drive me. He wrote his full name on a piece of paper.
I was to meet Salvador at the dinghy dock at 6 a.m. He said he would call the specialist to arrange for me to be seen. The specialist was American — and definitely not free — but he did speak English.
When I returned to my boat, I contacted our travel doctor in Ottawa by email. He made some suggestions and didn’t think it was necessary for me to go to Puerto Plata. He said he was “happy to help out, together with Salvador.”
As luck would have it, Salvador reappeared near the dinghy dock this afternoon. I told him I no longer needed him to take me to Puerto Plata. He smiled and was happy to hear I had found a solution to my medical concerns.
Salvador Amesquita Pastor. I won’t forget his name again.
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People can be amazing everywhere in the world!