post-third world – fun w/ cedulas & quince dulce

Fun facts and tales regarding cedulas, or I.D. cards…

One time Félix told me he’d had a dream that he’d won the lottery with the last digit of my cedula. When he played 7 that day, I don’t think he won… maybe because I made the number up…

I recently heard rumors that up in Nueva Yoi they’re thinking of putting radio-frequency identification chips in all new passports…

I’m at the Peace Corps office in La Capitai because the road back to my campo is impassable due to flooding and landslides. A volunteer who I haven’t previously met walks in and I casually greet her with a “hey, how’s it going.” She sighs and says that it’s been better. Taking on a more attentive tone, I say, “cuéntame.” She tells me about how she’s in the capital trying to track down the mother of one of the kids in her youth program. She explains to me how, in cases where parents abandon a child, they oftentimes come back every few months to “play parent.” But this mother has proven continually elusive. They had finally managed to arrange a meeting with her in the capital, but she never showed. All that they needed from here was a photocopy, or even a digital photo of the woman’s cedula so that the kid could be “declared”, or given a birth certificate. Without a birth certificate, among other things, a child can’t go to school past the 8th grade. When they turn 18, they can’t obtain a cedula, meaning they can’t obtain a job in the formal sector. My new friend tells me about how it’s hard to look at a child and to know that one day, at best, he’ll be the guy who sells Skim Ice popsicles at the side of the road.

It’s possible that guy selling Skim Ice at the side of the road can converse intelligently about international current events in Spanish, English, French, and Kreyol. I currently speak little more than 4 words of Kreyol, “Bonswa, komon ou ye?” – “Hey, how’s it going?” The recent arrivals from Gonaives, who’ve moved into Wilfredo’s old house smile and respond in their almost equally limited Spanish (it won’t remain so limited for long). For our community aqueduct, the deal is that every family has to pay a small fee and commit to working in its construction for a certain number of days. This proposition is less than simple for the segments of the population without a permanent or even a long-term housing situation.

Before my bus leaves for the campo, I go to get some photos developed for Rosa. Rosa’s in her mid-30s. Her husband, somewhat affectionately known as “Chi Chi” is in his mid 80s. The photos are from their daughter Yeni’s 15th birthday party. Chi Chi’s wearing a black suit and tie, complete with a smart looking hat and Yeni’s in a prom dress. The family has the most pathetic campo dog I’ve seen, a furry little skeleton with knees as sharp as its teeth. It’s tied to a post with a piece of pink twine, which, at a glance, could give the illusion of a festive bow for the occasion. I take photos of the family in front of their kitchen, made of dried yagua leaves. Classy vesitdo might be pricey, but dignity is priceless. The power’s out but they’ve rented a generator to illumine a solitary light bulb and also play the latest bachata mix, which barely overpowers the sound of the motor. Overpowering both is the sound of mother and daughter screaming at each other throughout the party. One of the top 10 shows on the TV in the Peace Corps office seems to be (e)M(p)T(y)V’s Sweet 16.

The world feels flat when traveling in a jipeta with cushy suspension, but is bisected by a cordillera impassable in plastic campo chancletas. Immigrants walk these mountains toting duffle bags full of pirated DVDs for sale, windows to the projected image of the other side. Like suburbanites, campesinos commute – for factory work in the Zona Franca or to clean up after strangers in hotels. Serfdom has evolved into the surfdom of nomadic day laborers. La lucha sigue pero la lucha no tiene definición.

altitude: 0m and sinking

When the viajita died, her children commenced to cry a flood of tears, inundating the only bridge out of town, leaving them isolated in their mourning, from the velorio to the funeral 9 days later. It was like something out of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. I wish I had so eloquent a way to describe having 9 days of explosive diarrhea while the latrine’s flooded.

* * *

Imitating a miniature tiguere, a toddler known affectionately by all as El Chiquito takes his uncle’s pistola (not loaded at the time) and stuffs it down his pants. 2 minutes later he soils himself.

* * *

After watching his Tigueres de Licey win the serie final, Ullo runs outside and fires his pistola into the air. All the wannabe tigueres go cruizing down the mud trench of a main drag, revving their motorcycle engines. Up in Nueva Yoi we call our national pelota championship the World Series.

* * *

A year or two back, Noel got a micro enterprise loan to start a small motorcycle repair shop, which he runs from his mother’s veranda. As in any self-respecting mechanic shop, there’s a calendar with the image of a topless blonde prominently displayed.

* * *

10-year-old Nungito likes to walk around the yard, sucking his thumb, wearing nothing more than plastic chancletas, tighty-whiteys, and a XX-large t-shirt reading, “FBI: Female Body Inspector”.

* * *

Guillermo asks me to translate an English phrase on his grandson’s school bag. It reads “Raytheon Benefit Center”.

* * *

The biggest hit in the campo now is the bachata ballad “Algo Grande” by Anthony Santos. The second biggest hit is an “1812 Overture” ringtone that the kids play incessantly on any cell phone they can get their hands on.

* * *

In San Jose de Ocoa, the barbershop, Peluqueria el Flow is adorned with a portrait of Che Guevara – the classic picture with the locks flowing down from the iconic beret. Precariously close to the locks are hair clippers.

* * *

At a conference at a Catholic retreat center, I present a report on the state of affairs in my campo. At the opposite end of the room is a large portrait of Monseñor Romero.

* * *

Altitude, ahora mismo en la capitai: 0m and sinking (i.e. everything's flooded and the road back to my site is impassable).