lunes, 13 de abril de 2009

on the move

In the kitchen, half of the muchachos are painting purple the aging palm boards. The other half are stirring a pot of harina, which I’m hoping doesn’t get purpled. They’re all in their tighty-whiteys and the streaks of paint across their arms and cheeks make it seem as if they’re trying to mimic their perception of the Tainos. These are the moments I’ll no longer be privy to when I soon leave this campo to work in another.

* * *

Ramón’s talking to somebody on the phone, says half-jokingly that we’re working on this water project with Cuerpo de Paz, but that the people here don’t want water, they want cable. Meanwhile, 3-year-old Alaine has diarrhea.

* * *

…and here’s a photo from the cock fights:


* * *

My elderly host-father, affectionately known to all as El Maestro, is battling prostate cancer and has recently taken a turn for the worse. A neighbor brings him some soup. He sits up and brushes away the mosquito net to take a few bites. After taking in his meager fill, he pushes the bowl in my direction and says “Juan, coma”, “Juan, eat”. El Maestro, along with some of the Haitian farmhands, are the people I am having the hardest time leaving. A buen tiempo.

* * *

Walking out of my new community, I meet a deaf guy. He walks out to the road with me. He might think that he’s guiding me. He trails a little behind. I look back at him when he grunts. He holds his hands in a universal sign of asking for alms. I shake my head, wave my hand, and give a gesture to suggest that yo no tengo cuarto. He points to my work boots hanging from my backpack and then points to himself. I again shake my head. He points to the rubber boots on my feet and then back to himself. I again shake my head. I’m not one of those special people I’ve only heard of indirectly who will literally give you the shirt off their back (or the boots off their feet). My new acquaintance is animated, looking to the sky as he waves his hands in disappointment. When we come to a river crossing, I continue with ease in my rubber boots while he does a balancing act, hopping from stone to stone in an effort to keep his feet dry. When we reach the road, I give him a few pesos, a payment for the guide I didn’t need or ask for. I feel a sadness at the disconnection I experience with this person with whom I’ve just shared a few short moments of my life. And I think it’s not simply because of the physical barriers to communication.

* * *

As I’m working to fix up a vacant casita for myself in my new community, Doña Marina packs both breakfast and lunch (complete with a mini pot of coffee) and sends her grandson Raimi to deliver this wonderful campo hospitality to me. Raimi hangs out a while, sometimes helping out with some small tasks, sometimes playing with some abandoned marbles left in the house, and sometimes just watching me. Later on, while sitting in Doña Marina’s kitchen, Raimi asks me if he can sleep over at my house. I reply, “No. Prefiero dormir solito… solito con los ratones.” “Con Díos,” corrects Doña Marina. “Si,” I say, “con Díos.”

* * *

A billboard advertising whale watching in the tourist destination of Samaná blocks the view of a shanty of a casita along the Autopista Duarte. A quarter mile down the road, a dozen or so dulce vendors wait in the median for the opportunity to mount a bus for a few miles to try to sell some of their goods. Another quarter mile down the road, painted into the median is a proclamation reading “Ya cristo viene.”

* * *

A (United States of) American high school student with a slightly square version of a hippy dance turning to a Riverdance, with lanky limbs flailing as he twirls a doña, who’s smiling but confused as to what to do with her dance partner who moves to a rhythm other than the merengue típico coming through the speakers. For some reason, this is something that makes me feel okay about being part of this circus called humanity.

* * *

Altitude: 320m at my new site. I’m forbidden from giving out the x,y coordinates.