History

I needed to write a cultural article for the newspaper. I flipped through last week's edition and found news of a charity walk for the reconstruction of an Hacienda, that is being used now as a convent. I thought convent = nuns = open on Sunday. So I called them and they were glad to talk to me and have a chance to promote the walk. So I went to Guánica (Hi, L, why do you say that nothing fun happens in your town?)

Turns out it is a certified historic monument. Also, this convent was founded and later became the death place of Madre Dominga Guzmán, a potential Puerto Rican saint if the Catholic Church agrees. The "cochera" is where they used to keep the slave quarters. The nuns want to tear it down but the Cultural Institute told them they could not do it. They have to restore the original or leave it to crumble. I would love for them to restore it, but they don't want to spend more money on it. For the nuns, the most important part is the bedroom and main house, not a roofless brick building that has been standing for the past two hundred years and is one of a kind in the island. Oh, well, at least I saw it and had my camera. That's the kind of things I love about my job, I get to take pictures of the only standing fortified hacienda in Puerto Rico and sit inside Madre Dominga's bedroom, looking at all her things, kept just as she left them.

The oldest nun showed me around the place, apparently she was glad to have someone to talk nonstop to for three hours. As a bonus, she gave me guava/pineapple juice with cookies, that was also a highlight. We walked around, saw the cemetery, the Fatima sanctuary replica (there are only 2 in the world), talked about the wild chickens around us, the fattest wild dogs I have ever seen (maybe the wild chickens have something to do with this?). She was a little scared when I climbed on the crumbling brick window sill to take pictures, making me a little nervous and wary about an earthquake happening at that exact moment. We continued walking through this 3 acre property that smelled of country and old age until I heard a loud honk behind me. Startled, I saw a nun, younger than me, driving a little motor cart. She asked me if I worked for the newspaper. When I answered yes, she whipped out a church program, asked for a pen, and jotted down her cell phone number, e-mail address and website for the hacienda. She then proceeded to honk away to the convent's garage. So much for ruining the atmosphere...