tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88734280707053322902024-03-05T10:48:10.914-04:00palabras sin fronterasiain en la república dominicana con el cuerpo de pazdominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-8081012531959356222009-05-21T15:25:00.002-04:002009-05-21T15:35:03.623-04:00día de los trabajadores<span style="font-style: italic;">Día de los trabajadores.</span> The nation’s second largest city of Santiago. In my travels, I don’t witness anything that would signify that the day is May Day… I find out later that they’d moved the public holiday to the 4th so that it would fall on a Monday. But something memorable from this <span style="font-style: italic;">Día de los Trabajadores</span>, and some days after are encounters with persons who eek out an existence outside the formal institution of work.<br /><br />Early morning. I’m drinking a <span style="font-style: italic;">cafecito </span>in the lobby of the hostel where I’m staying. I overhear a conversation between a Canadian and a Texan. The Canadian’s lived in Costa Rica previously and is thinking of moving either here or to Colombia. The Texan, a rotund and grumpy man in a Hawaiian shirt is here on a recurring vacation. He says he has a lady he hangs out with here, a relative of one of his regular taxi drivers – that’s how they were introduced. The Canadian replies, “That’s good, ‘cause you gotta look out for those girls on the street.”<br /><br />Lunch time. I sit in a restaurant, feverishly trying to get off as many emails as I can, using the free <span style="font-style: italic;">wifi</span> available at the establishment. I sit at the table nearest to the entrance as there exists an electrical outlet here. As patrons enter and exit, a presumably homeless man periodically leans in, inspects the scene, holds out his hand and grunts a few muffled words, indecipherable but for the <span style="font-style: italic;">a priori</span> knowledge of their certain meaning… <span style="font-style: italic;">ya tu sabes, quire menudo</span>. I’m there but I’m not there – thoroughly focused in the bastard reality of the screen and keyboard – not quite internal but not quite external either. I re-enter the here and now for a few brief seconds to snap at the man, “<span style="font-style: italic;">¡No, no tengo nada, ¡Déjame tranquilo!</span>” I am disturbed at, whatever high-minded rhetoric I may espouse, the safe distance that I maintain between myself and the Other.<br /><br />Late Afternoon. I’m waiting for my bus back to the <span style="font-style: italic;">campo</span>. A man in a wheelchair rolls up, his thick beard and ‘fro giving him a distinctive look in this clean-cut culture. He greets our group of waiting passengers courteously and articulately, addressing us as <span style="font-style: italic;">cabelleros </span>as he makes his case to receive some of our spare change. I hand him a 1-peso coin with the apology that I do not have more to spare, handing over an additional 2-pesos past over by the woman sitting next to me. As the man wheels away, another man toting a box of cookies, crackers, cheese puffs, and cartoonishly large lollipops on his shoulder enters the scene. He comments that our friend just wants change to buy drugs, and wouldn’t it be better to use our spare change to help out somebody who’s working to get by. A 1-peso coin won’t buy anything he’s selling, however.<br /><br />1 week later. Same location. I’m sitting alone at the same spot, the first passenger waiting for the bus. The same street vendor comes and sits on the bench next to me to get off his feet for a few minutes. We chat for a bit – he has family in the area where I live. I spend 20 pesos on some awful Chinese cookies – like unsalted Ritz crackers with a semi-sweet cream in between.<br /><br />2 weeks later. I’m at a <span style="font-style: italic;">bela</span>, or funeral party in a community on the other side of the hills, an hour’s walk away from my <span style="font-style: italic;">campo</span>. I see a deaf man who I’d met some months previously, walking out of my site for the first time. He’s telling elaborate stories without saying a word, with his animated hand motions and facial expressions. A crowd of people is laughing with him. I smile at the fact that he’s a better communicator and is more socially apt that I am in this culture that relies so much on non-verbal expression. A few minutes later, I notice another man who’s pretending to be deaf (but who I am told is not really deaf). He has only a stub for a right arm, he walks with a limp, and he’s fast becoming the new life of the party. He begins by doing one-armed pushups with his stub. He then shows off his 6-pack abs and tries to get people to punch him in the stomach. He’s accompanied by a man in a clean white shirt who’s posing as his promoter, acting like one of those elixir salesmen who begin every statement with the words “Step right up!” An understandably perturbed funeral goer eventually interrupts the revelry, commenting that it's a <span style="font-style: italic;">bela </span>and not a cock fight. I only mention it because I am almost sure that I catch a glimpse of the same jester a few days later, panhandling at a busy intersection in Santiago, limping between lanes of traffic.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-26011817124481043222009-05-06T11:37:00.002-04:002009-05-06T11:40:30.405-04:00pre and post-industrial poverty“It is not there are too many sweatshops, but that there are too few… these are precisely the jobs that have come to Africa to get them out of back-breaking rural poverty.”<br /> -Jeffrey Sachs, quoted in Naomi Klein’s No Logo<br /><br />Yomanuel worked in a <span style="font-style: italic;">zona franca</span> in the capital for a time, making jeans. He said that he could make good money, up to 2000 pesos, or about US$60, weekly when he worked a lot of extra hours. His wife, Miguelina is originally from the capital, and has had a hard time getting used to life in the campo. She concedes, though, that in the campo there are always <span style="font-style: italic;">viveres</span> to eat – food’s expensive in the city.<br /><br />60-something Juana is both the sole bread-winner and bread-baker in her household of 3, i.e. she both plants and harvests the <span style="font-style: italic;">viveres</span> and then cooks them up for dinner, sustaining herself, her 3-year-old granddaughter, and her 90-something uncle. She has children who work in factories in the outskirts of the capital. She maintains that they rarely have much to send her way.<br /><br />73-year-old Manuel swings a machete like a man half his age. But at the end of the day, he comes home with the aches and pains of the 73-year old he is. He recently visited a doctor. The 300 peso doctor visit was reasonably affordable. The thousands of pesos needed for the medication he prescribed was not. Manuel sold one of his mules the other day – said he has no use for it since he has another one. The next day, he finally bought the medication prescribed to him. Manuel and Marina’s two sons both live in Santiago. One of their sons has been limited in his capacity to work since a car accident rendered one of his hands unusable a number of years ago. Manuel says that his cacao crop is helping put some of his grandchildren through school. Their other son is an electrician whose work has been inconsistent of late – there’s not a lot of construction going on right now. He said he’s thinking of taking a possible job in Haiti – skilled work swimming against the prevailing immigration current. Manuel also takes care of his 94-year-old mother, the matriarch of a family of 5 surviving generations. Manuel says he’ll be cutting cacao ‘til the day he dies.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-22757530926969960772009-04-13T14:37:00.004-04:002009-04-13T15:10:37.848-04:00on the moveIn the kitchen, half of the <span style="font-style: italic;">muchachos </span>are painting purple the aging palm boards. The other half are stirring a pot of <span style="font-style: italic;">harina</span>, 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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><br />Ramón’s talking to somebody on the phone, says half-jokingly that we’re working on this water project with <span style="font-style: italic;">Cuerpo de Paz</span>, but that the people here don’t want water, they want cable. Meanwhile, 3-year-old Alaine has diarrhea.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><br />…and here’s a photo from the cock fights:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ve52TysOtrVY81MKL_6PEypjVoJ55VpqA9296bt885Mq2QH32AoHtqPGQMvkqv0mEQbSdLAgCLrRZC2a4RUf7w9e9DV8vMNkCR5ibN73qlUkQ_EqDVmkMaJVsVFD6lATRfl0R9NlT-0/s1600-h/DSCF1500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ve52TysOtrVY81MKL_6PEypjVoJ55VpqA9296bt885Mq2QH32AoHtqPGQMvkqv0mEQbSdLAgCLrRZC2a4RUf7w9e9DV8vMNkCR5ibN73qlUkQ_EqDVmkMaJVsVFD6lATRfl0R9NlT-0/s320/DSCF1500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324251654842832738" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><br />My elderly host-father, affectionately known to all as <span style="font-style: italic;">El Maestro</span>, 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”. <span style="font-style: italic;">El Maestro</span>, along with some of the Haitian farmhands, are the people I am having the hardest time leaving. <span style="font-style: italic;">A buen tiempo</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">yo no tengo cuarto</span>. 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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><br />As I’m working to fix up a vacant <span style="font-style: italic;">casita </span>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.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><br />A billboard advertising whale watching in the tourist destination of Samaná blocks the view of a shanty of a <span style="font-style: italic;">casita </span>along the <span style="font-style: italic;">Autopista Duarte</span>. 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.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">doña</span>, who’s smiling but confused as to what to do with her dance partner who moves to a rhythm other than the m<span style="font-style: italic;">erengue típico</span> coming through the speakers. For some reason, this is something that makes me feel okay about being part of this circus called humanity.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Altitude: 320m at my new site. I’m forbidden from giving out the x,y coordinates.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-28881931147463816022009-03-08T10:44:00.002-04:002009-03-08T11:41:31.508-04:00perdido en traducción<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">When ordering another Country Club red soda, Fulano’s told that there’s only grape left. Fulano exclaims, “¡Se murió Balaguer, viva Leonel!” But the red and purple representing rival political parties can’t be passionately displayed as the blue of Los Tigres de Licey and the yellow of Las Aguilas Cibaeñas, the Yankees and Red Sox of the D.R. Mello once told me, “No soy político, soy aguilucha. Para siempre. Aguilucha y Católica.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">5-year old Nicol totes the rusty lid to a 55-gallon oil barrel, to serve as a cover for a makeshift oven atop a wood fire for cooking corn bread. Esechia calls out from his perch on a rock outside of the school, “Este no sierve.” Nicol drops the lid and sets back out up the hill to look for another.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I’m doing laundry in the river. Two <span style="font-style: italic;">muchachos </span>escort their elderly grandmother to the bank, where she rolls up her skirt, sits down and commences to doing laundry as well. The <span style="font-style: italic;">muchachos </span>strip down to their birthday suits and dive in for a swim.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">35-year-old Ullo sucks his thumb while 2-year-old El Chiquito plays with Ullo’s <span style="font-style: italic;">pistola</span>. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Number of mentions of Ullo’s pistola in this blog: 3</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Number of mentions of El Chiquito playing with Ullo’s pistola: 2</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Number of hours in the school day in the campo: 3</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I get a vola to the pueblo with Denise. There’s a police/military road block. They’re looking for drugs, illegal firearms, undocumented migrants… I don’t know. We get out of the <span style="font-style: italic;">jipeta</span> and Denise exclaims, “Soy maestra, empleada del gobierno.” She then casually proceeds through the line of soldiers, all toting assault rifles, to b.s. with an acquaintance standing outside of his <span style="font-style: italic;">jipeta </span>as it’s being searched.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">One way to make a living in the informal economy: wade in waste-deep water to push rafts carrying motorcycle taxis across the river. Charge 30 pesos per trip.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There are some gringo tourists on the guagua along the North Coast road. When dropping them off at the airport, the cobrador holds out his hand and says “Cuatro cientos.” One of the tourists retorts, in English, “Locals don’t pay that much.” I opt to play dumb and pretend that I don’t speak English.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The director of a group of high school students commemorating the week they’d spent helping out with a nearby aqueduct project, stands atop the hill that’s the site of a future reserve tank, arms outstretched, in an epic pose, and says some inspiring words about the difference the kids have made. She then goes up to one of the local residents, puts her hand on his shoulder and says, in English, “Thank you so much for all your generosity.” The confused campesino shrugs his shoulders, turns to me, and says “A estos gringos les gusta tirar muchas fotos.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">With water finally arriving from the source to the tank site, and erupting from the impromptu PVC fountain we’d set up to test the system, Carmelo has the honor of taking the inaugural shower.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As I pack up my things to move out of my host-family’s house, Linda, a young Haitian domestic worker peers at me through the doorway. Though all my worldly possessions fit in two suitcases and a backpack, I couldn’t help but feel that Linda was thinking, “Wow, these <span style="font-style: italic;">blans</span> have too much junk.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The day after I’d moved out of my host-family’s house I see my former room crammed full with 4 beds and 4 <span style="font-style: italic;">muchachos </span>jumping on the 4 beds. The question is: where did these <span style="font-style: italic;">muchachos </span>sleep before?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* * *</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">“Deprived of direction, we are determined to go there fast.”</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> - Nadesan Satyendra</span>dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-894489220134530742009-02-28T09:54:00.005-04:002009-02-28T10:48:01.470-04:00post-third world – fun w/ cedulas & quince dulce<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Fun facts and tales regarding <span style="font-style: italic;">cedulas</span>, or I.D. cards…<br /><br />One time Félix told me he’d had a dream that he’d won the lottery with the last digit of my <span style="font-style: italic;">cedula</span>. When he played 7 that day, I don’t think he won… maybe because I made the number up…<br /><br />I recently heard rumors that up in <span style="font-style: italic;">Nueva Yoi </span>they’re thinking of putting radio-frequency identification chips in all new passports…<br /><br />I’m at the Peace Corps office in <span style="font-style: italic;">La Capitai</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">cedula </span>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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Skim Ice</span> popsicles at the side of the road.<br /><br />It’s possible that guy selling <span style="font-style: italic;">Skim Ice</span> 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.<br /><br /></span> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal" ><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal" ><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqYIkdMkcD2Hf6PVWag2kazsG85ufMMokL1DmRQm8mgPyPFmLtDGOOMtgYHQxXSrYXzWf9i5Wx6ALh7IwApkKCh6WzUUV8EbcGro3lANeePhq8UZ3sHkJpnZ5v0BOsEJYdXsertalUnY/s1600-h/Dibujo.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqYIkdMkcD2Hf6PVWag2kazsG85ufMMokL1DmRQm8mgPyPFmLtDGOOMtgYHQxXSrYXzWf9i5Wx6ALh7IwApkKCh6WzUUV8EbcGro3lANeePhq8UZ3sHkJpnZ5v0BOsEJYdXsertalUnY/s320/Dibujo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307853440538909234" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal" ><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >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 <span style="font-style: italic;">yagua </span>leaves. Classy <span style="font-style: italic;">vesitdo </span>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 <span style="font-style: italic;">bachata </span>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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Sweet 16</span>.<br /><br />The world feels flat when traveling in a <span style="font-style: italic;">jipeta </span>with cushy suspension, but is bisected by a <span style="font-style: italic;">cordillera </span>impassable in plastic campo <span style="font-style: italic;">chancletas</span>. 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Zona Franca</span> or to clean up after strangers in hotels. Serfdom has evolved into the <span style="font-style: italic;">surfdom </span>of nomadic day laborers.<span style="font-style: italic;"> La lucha sigue pero la lucha no tiene definición.</span></span>dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-28311849424070514922009-02-11T15:44:00.004-04:002009-02-11T16:00:44.656-04:00altitude: 0m and sinkingWhen the <span style="font-style: italic;">viajita </span>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 <span style="font-style: italic;">velorio </span>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.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Imitating a miniature <span style="font-style: italic;">tiguere</span>, a toddler known affectionately by all as <span style="font-style: italic;">El Chiquito</span> takes his uncle’s <span style="font-style: italic;">pistola </span>(not loaded at the time) and stuffs it down his pants. 2 minutes later he soils himself.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />After watching his Tigueres de Licey win the serie final, Ullo runs outside and fires his pistola into the air. All the wannabe <span style="font-style: italic;">tigueres</span> go cruizing down the mud trench of a main drag, revving their motorcycle engines. Up in Nueva Yoi we call our national <span style="font-style: italic;">pelota </span>championship the World Series.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />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.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />10-year-old Nungito likes to walk around the yard, sucking his thumb, wearing nothing more than plastic <span style="font-style: italic;">chancletas</span>, tighty-whiteys, and a XX-large t-shirt reading, “FBI: Female Body Inspector”.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Guillermo asks me to translate an English phrase on his grandson’s school bag. It reads “Raytheon Benefit Center”.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />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.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />In San Jose de Ocoa, the barbershop, <span style="font-style: italic;">Peluqueria el Flow</span> 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.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />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.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Altitude, ahora mismo en la capitai: 0m and sinking (i.e. everything's flooded and the road back to my site is impassable).dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-13087378670849619752009-01-10T12:38:00.002-04:002009-01-10T12:43:45.412-04:00catorce cortasChe Guevara ends every entry in his Bolivian diary with the altitude at the time of writing.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />A young man, mouth gaping open, stares at a Rambo movie, wearing a hat with the iconic image of Che Guevara emblazoned on front and the New Era logo on back, resembling a (United States of) American flag.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />A fat gringo in a Speedo lies passed out and sprawled out on the beach, getting sunburns on his sunburns. His friend comes and nudges him with his foot, and then takes a photo of him with his camera phone.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />An Asian tourist bends over to take a photo of some flowers. Checking out her posterior, Ullo tries to get her attention, commenting “¡China! ¡Estás tirando fotos de flores!”<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />The wannabe <em>tigueres</em> who loiter outside of the school point out a muchacha that they say is enamorada with me. Her t-shirt reads “I love you, loveaholic.”<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Golgotha overlooks Puerto Plata, with a cell phone tower built alongside the cross. Beneath lies a tomb housing a gift shop.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Seed boxes are piled in the corner of the room. All the labeling is in English. They’re genetically modified and imported from Israel.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Two Haitians work together to till a field. Each wears hand-me-down work clothes, including baseball caps bearing the names of opposing candidates in the last Dominican presidential election.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />A convoy of <em>jipetas</em> comes into the campo, carrying local political figures here for a holiday pig roast. They come bearing gifts for the children, toy <em>jipetas</em> and <em>pistolas</em>.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />The ice cream man here drives a motorcycle, not a truck, and plays merengue, not circus music. The milk truck also announces its presence with festive merengue played at full blast, though the driver is a little more gruff and surly, likely because he works 365 days per year. I often take <em>volas</em> to the pueblo with him.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />The guy who I always see at the bus stop in Imbert says he learned English in Alaska, where he went to middle school and high school. He later got in some trouble, sent to jail, and then deported.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />During a household interview, when asked what she does during the day, one of the abuelas responds, “¡Fumo!”, “I smoke!” as she lights up her pipe.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Every morning Chulo trains his fighting cock, running laps in a 5-foot radius circle with another cock in his arms, as his pugilist in training follows, pumping its bald legs, leg feathers having been plucked making them look ready for purchase at the supermarket. Chulo’s cock gets killed within minutes during its first fight on Christmas Eve. As per tradition, Chulo will not eat his own fallen fighter.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Altitude = 100mdominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-91060862907553022872008-12-21T17:15:00.000-04:002008-12-21T17:21:02.763-04:00sabado en el campo<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="ES-DO">Saturday in the Campo<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="ES-DO"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">5:30 A.M. – Ruido Awakening</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A false cognate – the word <i style="">ruido</i> does not translate to rude, but to noise.<span style=""> </span>Roosters, guinea hens, geese, dogs, kids cranky for having been roused to milk the cows.<span style=""> </span>My doña’s in the outdoor kitchen, to which my only window opens, shouting out largely unheeded orders.<span style=""> </span>And then my turn comes, “<span style="" lang="ES-DO">Vamanos</span>, Juan.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">6:00 A.M. Camino y Cafecito</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">During a recent visit to el medico, my doña was told that she could stand to get more exercise.<span style=""> </span>Hence, at 6:00 every morning I accompany her on a walk to the river.<span style=""> </span>Now, my doña’s on her feet from waking to sleeping, and I’ve wondered how many miles she covers during the average day, but I still think our early morning constitutionals do her some good.<span style=""> </span>She carries a knife, with which she cuts bushes to make a broom to sweep leaves, fruit pits and peels, and other less-organic <i style="">basura</i> in the yard.<span style=""> </span>The only other persons we encounter on the road are Haitian farmhands on their way to work. On our return trip, we stop at a neighbor’s house for a <i style="">cafecito</i>, a shot of strong, sugary coffee.<span style=""> </span>And the folks here take it almost like a shot, chugging it down in a matter of seconds.<span style=""> </span>As for me, I like to hold the warm cup in my hands, as it’s surprisingly cool here this time of year.<span style=""> </span>Not one to waste a minute of the day, my doña begins removing <i style="">guandules</i> from their pods, a gift from another neighbor.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">7:00 A.M. Agua, Agua Everywhere</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My host family, like many others in the community, has running water at the house, thanks to an electric bombita ladrona, literally translating to “little thief pump”, and PVC pipe running to the river.<span style=""> </span>Power outages here are more common than power innages, so when la luz se va and the small reserve tank has been depleted, no hay agua tampoco.<span style=""> </span>A couple of weeks ago, during prolonged power outages and several days of heavy rains that stirred up sediment and also left the community stranded by flooding the “bridges” at the entrada and the salida.<span style=""> </span>It was something like some rime from some ancient mariner – hay mucha agua pero no hay nada para beber.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, it was endearing when my doña sent me to the rió to buscar agua… <i style="">maybe now I’ll now be treated as just another muchacho in the family, and not as the special guest</i>.<span style=""> </span>I climbed on the ass end of a half-ass (back of a mule) behind one of the other muchachos, with 5 gallon jugs in tow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">8:00 A.M. <st1:place st="on">Third World</st1:place> Xeriscaping</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In dry climates, laying flat stones like tiles is a resource-efficient way to beautify you yard.<span style=""> </span>In wet climates, laying flat stones like tiles is a way to avoid walking in the mud.<span style=""> </span>But this isn’t the only use for rock tiling here – they can also serve to cover a makeshift landfill.<span style=""> </span>In a place where there is no service to suddenly make your garbage disappear to somewhere else, there are few options: burn it, bury it, or chuck it in the river, as some do.<span style=""> </span>Now, because garbage doesn’t just get whisked away, people seem to be more conscientious about reusing “disposable” products.<span style=""> </span>Also, overly-packaged processed foods are less ubiquitous than I’ve seen elsewhere.<span style=""> </span>Nevertheless, non-biodegradable solid waste builds up over time, and so I spend the morning carting piedras – 3<sup>rd</sup> world xeriscaping.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">9:30 A.M. Desayuno</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Harina.<span style=""> </span>In <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Jamaica</st1:place></st1:country-region> they call it corn meal porridge.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">10:00 A.M. More <st1:place st="on">Third World</st1:place> Xeriscaping</p> <p class="MsoNormal">1:00 P.M. Almuerzo<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Moro – a pilaf of rice and beans. Also, <i style="">espaghetti</i>, piled on top.<span style=""> </span>It’s typical to eat both at the same meal.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">2:00 P.M. More <st1:place st="on">Third World</st1:place> Xeriscaping<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This time with help from one of the Haitian farmhands who’d been planting yuca in the morning.<span style=""> </span>Hunched over, he balances a large rock on his back as he dances.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="ES-DO">3:30 P.M. Al Rió Para Bañarme<o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Still no water in the llave, so I go to the river to bathe.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">4:00 P.M. Finally Make My Rounds<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I head out on the calle to saludar the peeps.<span style=""> </span>This is how things will slowly get going on the water project.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">5:00 P.M. Dominoes<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My walk takes me to a game of dominoes, as it typical does around this time of day. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">6:30 P.M. More Dominoes, This Time With the Kids<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">7:30 P.M. Cena</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Galletas</i>, a word translating to “cookies” or “crackers”, but these are neither cookies nor crackers.<span style=""> </span>They’re made from flour, but aren’t really bread either.<span style=""> </span>They’re just <i style="">galletas</i>.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">8:00 P.M. Todo el mundo shows up at my house</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Kids yell and scream and play marbles outside my door. <span style=""> </span>Others converse in the kitchen, to which my only window opens.<span style=""> </span>So much for a few short moments of tranquility before bed.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="ES-DO">11:00 P.M.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It finally quiets down a bit as everybody heads to bed. <span style=""> </span>Except for the barnyard animals and the 5-year old whaling in the room next to me.</p>dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-1304826300300923392008-11-26T12:36:00.000-04:002008-11-26T12:37:24.408-04:00strangersWe’re 2 foreigners in the community. We move in opposite directions, one towards survival, the other towards… well, I don’t know exactly, perhaps toward a grain of understanding. We converse in a tongue that is a second language to each. One is the backbone of the community’s agricultural economy. The other’s primary job right now is to go from house to house and drink coffee.<br /><br />But we’re equals when we sit face-to-face as teammates at the domino table and we sweep 3 games against our Dominican opponents. And the Haitian farm worker can count up the scores on the <em>fichas</em> faster than the college math major.<br /><br />And to the youngest kids, we’re both just people. The other day I saw the five-year old teaching the words to the latest bachata hits to 3 Haitian farm workers, learning a little more Spanish during their lunch break.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-23462838198948750272008-11-26T12:35:00.000-04:002008-11-26T12:36:30.770-04:00Third-World LivingI live in a 2-room wooden casita, a term that sounds quaint, but that really refers to the modest dwellings of those who can’t afford a more spacious, sometimes concrete, house. My room has one window, which opens to an outdoor kitchen where my doña cooks over a wood fire for an army, including her adult sons, innumerable niños, neighbors, and Haitian farm workers. In the other room, separated by thin boards at the bottom, poster board higher up, and nothing at the very top, lives a family of 4. The 3-year old wakes up crying at some point every night. Even more people live in the, albeit, larger house on the farm. This is third world living. But not quite – I don’t share a room with 3 other people.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-60885079182273285282008-11-14T11:49:00.000-04:002008-11-14T11:51:40.280-04:00observ(ed)ation“El Profe”, the exuberant school director recounted the history of the modest but handsome school building we stood outside of, explaining how its construction was made possible by funds from the U.S. and how grateful he was, as a way of introducing the awkward new Americano in town. Trying to initiate a discussion in front of the eager crowd seated in miniature school chairs about how with a history of exploitation from colonialism to neo-colonialism IMF and FTA style, the pittance given out in aid might not exactly be gracious, would have been difficult. “El Profe” continued, saying that the Americano was there to build to build an aqueduct. Whoa, whoa, whoa… suave. Here I had to interject. We’re here to build an aqueduct… together.<br /><br />Really, we´re here together to build solidarity.<br /><br />One of my assignments during my initial site visitation week was to “observe” the local school. Well, as with any other observation, any distinction between observer and observed is blurred, and what you really end up observing is yourself. My entrance into the classroom had to be a big spectacle, with the school director giving a long-winded address and then having each student stand up to introduce him or herself. And they insisted that I have a box of milk from the school milk program. And they’d already decided to end the already too-short school day an hour early for the water meeting.<br /><br />Not the initial impact I wanted to have.<br /><br />I’ll end with a quote from Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed:<br /><br />“This person (the radical) does not consider himself or herself the proprietor of history or of all people, or the liberator of the oppressed; but he or she does commit himself or herself, within history, to fight at their side.”<br /><br />How can the construction of a community aqueduct, with the hands of the persons in the community, be a process of liberation? How can I shape my role to allow this process to evolve, rather than perpetuating the traditional paternalism?dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-90706046005027607412008-10-28T14:35:00.002-04:002008-10-28T14:38:49.865-04:00a buen tiempo<p class="MsoNormal">“A buen tiempo.” It’s one of the many idiomatic expressions that distinguish the Dominican language.<span style=""> </span>If you walk in on people having a meal, a snack, or cualquier cosa, “a buen tiempo” is an invitation to compartir, to share, and I’ve heard that in the absence of more food in the pot, people will give you half of what they have on their plate.<span style=""> </span>Compartir.<span style=""> </span>House visitors are virtually always offered something in the way of food or drink… maybe juice… more often coffee – just a shot, but strong, pretty much espresso.<span style=""> </span>If nothing else, visitors are offered a piece of candy… often really a cough drop… maybe sometimes bubblegum.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And my ass is made of bubblegum.<span style=""> </span>As a major component of our technical training, we’re augmenting parts of an existing acueducto.<span style=""> </span>Our current project is the construction of a sedimentation tank.<span style=""> </span>The concept is that water should flow through the tank at such a rate that it remains in the tank for a sufficient amount of time to allow sediment to settle to the bottom.<span style=""> </span>It’s a big concrete box, constructed with little more than brute strength and steady hands, two things I am in short supply of.<span style=""> </span>But the view, sometimes blurred by the sweat in my eyes is worth any numbness from the daily combination of physical and mental exertion: milder slopes covered in fields growing onions, tomatoes, eggplant, peppers, and beans to steeper slopes covered in trees ranging from palms to pines to some fruit trees, and even some cacti.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are moments every day that make me feel like bubblegum.<span style=""> </span>One time I was León trudging up the hill, hunched over, hauling a massive concrete <i style="">vaina</i> (something) on his shoulder.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know what this <i style="">vaina</i> was, but it looked big and heavy.<span style=""> </span>León is a frail looking old man with long fingernails, fewer teeth than fingers showing in his perpetual grin, always plastic sandals barely holding together with string, and always with his machete strapped to his side as any self-respecting campesino would have.<span style=""> </span>León walks past the work site daily, his arms outstretched to give each person a hug while giving his greetings in a dry, raspy voice, “hermanito… ¿como está la cosa?... hermanito… vaya bien… hermanito.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Up to my knees in concrete, I hit a wall sometime Saturday afternoon and I couldn’t have told you if it was made of block, stone masonry, or ferrocement.<span style=""> </span>On the other side is the obligatory Saturday night, after the long week of work.<span style=""> </span>In the next community down the road, there are two <i style="">colmados</i> (general store/bar/dance hall) that try to outdo the other in attracting business with the volume of their music.<span style=""> </span>But the <i style="">gemelas</i>, the twins, only hang out at one of the <i style="">colmados</i>.<span style=""> </span>It’s about as absurd as those Coors Light commercials, as if a small piece of the Purple Martini was transplanted onto a dark, lonely campo road.<span style=""> </span>I’ll save a discussion about machismo, <i style="">tigures</i>, and the exploitative conquista of women, but the campo <i style="">colmado</i> scene seemed so out of place, and yet so fitting.<span style=""> </span>We’d stop by after the work day, still in work boots and blue jeans still caked in mud and concrete – I feel like a gringo when I’m clean and I feel like a gringo when I’m dirty.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Up to my knees in mud, I trudge through the most treacherous part of the road to the nearest pueblo, San Jose de Ocoa, a perpetual landslide, where on a couple of occasions, I’ve seen the front-end loader that’s there to clear the road has become stuck, and has sat precariously close to plummeting off the steep face to one side.<span style=""> </span>Oftentimes, the only way to travel in the campo, is by <i style="">vola</i>, by hitchhiking, usually on the back of a long-bed Daihatsu truck or a pickup carrying produce down to market.<span style=""> </span>When road conditions are bad, you have to take one <i style="">vola</i> to the landslide, roll up your pant legs and remove your shoes and tramp through the mud, and then hitch another <i style="">vola</i> to town.<span style=""> </span>And Dominicans seem to nearly always maintain clean clothes and shoes.<span style=""> </span>I feel like a gringo when I’m clean and I feel like a gringo when I’m dirty.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In some parts of the campo, the only way to get around is by <i style="">motoconcho</i>, motorcycle taxi.<span style=""> </span>I recently went to the southwestern part of the country, near to the pueblo of Las Matas de Farfan, in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">province</st1:PlaceType> of <st1:placename st="on">San Juan</st1:PlaceName></st1:place>, near to the Haitian border, to see the nearly-completed acueducto of a second-year volunteer.<span style=""> </span>Being on the drier side of the mountains, the dirt roads are more dust than mud.<span style=""> </span>The word “matas” translates to “bushes” and as the name implies, the landscape is dotted with small bushes, and also grazing cattle.<span style=""> </span>My impressions over my limited time there were that this frontier zone is more underserved than the campo outside of Ocoa.<span style=""> </span>Travel along the main road is briefly interrupted by periodic immigration check points.<span style=""> </span>Which way do the immigration vectors point?<span style=""> </span>Well, suffice it to say that my campo host family owns a modest, but substantial piece of farmland and the labor is performed almost entirely by Haitians.<span style=""> </span>I feel I have no need here to draw comparisons to similar dynamics in North America or in <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, in this particular campo in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">San Juan</st1:place></st1:City>, there is only one family that owns a motored vehicle with 4 wheels, so the <i style="">vola</i> situation isn’t exactly practical.<span style=""> </span>Therefore, you have to hire a <i style="">moto</i>.<span style=""> </span>With two gringos, feet flailing, clinging to the side of the seat and to the rear fender for dear life, our passing moto must have looked something like 3 krusty the klowns crammed on a miniature tricycle for a circus trick.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The water system, though close to completion, had seen its share of obstacles, including the meddling of mischievous, disapproving <i style="">indios</i>.<span style=""> </span>Now, the Spaniards quickly wiped out the indigenous Tainos soon after their arrival on Hispañola, so the impish <i style="">indios</i> mysteriously breaking pipes underground aren’t the literal ancestors of those living in the community, but rather adopted cultural ancestors.<span style=""> </span>If <i style="">indios </i>interfere with your water project, you have to have a party at the site of the problem.<span style=""> </span>I guess there’s nothing like pouring out a little Coca-Cola on the earth to appease the ancients.<span style=""> </span>Really, people didn’t seem to seriously buy in to the whole <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on"><i style="">indio</i></st1:City></st1:place> thing – it’s just a story to account for sometimes enigmatic problems, and an excuse to have a party.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Monday after returning from was the Día de San Miguel, a <i style="">fiesta de palos</i>.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t know this until the day of, when a good portion of the community up-and-left to partake in the festivities in the pueblo.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Fiestas de palos</i>, which literally translates to “drum parties” are not nationally sanctioned or celebrated holidays, but are more regional affairs.<span style=""> </span>Some pueblos have <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></st1:City>a sort of patron saint associated with them, and therefore have celebrations on the day associated with the given saint on the Roman Catholic calendar.<span style=""> </span>In order to preserve and continue their religious traditions, African slaves masked their gods with the names and images of the catholic saints, and the surviving remnants of this practice are known as <i style="">santería</i> on this side of the border.<span style=""> </span>The <i style="">fiestas de palos</i> are, in part, <i style="">santería </i>festivals.<span style=""> </span>For many, they’re just another excuse to have a party, with drums, dancing, and drinking rum.<span style=""> </span>When people returned the community that night, there was a feast of <i style="">espageti</i>, cooked in a big cauldron over an open fire.<span style=""> </span><i style="">A buen tiempo</i>.</p>dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-74719770594787299262008-09-29T15:53:00.001-04:002008-09-29T15:55:37.231-04:00imagenes del campoI stand at the doorstep, caked in mud nearly up to my knees. My doña shakes her head, not amused. It’s about 10:00 at night. Before I know it, my doña’s going to work with an old hairbrush and a bucket of water. “Yo puedo…”, I contend, but my words fade into the ambiente tranquillo of the campo night and my doña will not relinquish the brush. These awkward moments occur frequently.<br /><br />I only comprehend isolated words in the campo Spanish, where half the syllables and especially any containing the letter s are omitted, and l’s and r’s are switched. So when I heard something about “gravilla”, “camion”, and “Felix”, I thought, bueno, our mason and all-around handy man Felix had arrived at the latrine worksite with the gravel we’d been expecting and needed help unloading. Nope. The truck was stuck in the mud miles down the road to the pueblo. The road had only become passable a couple of days previous after the continual rains from tropical storms lettered F thru I had caused flooding, landslides, road collapse, ect, ect. A crowd had gathered as three pickups chained together in series attempted to pull the truck out. No dice. Tempers in the crowd began to rise like mud over ankles as tires spun and buried themselves deeper. A line of trucks accumulated behind the incident, loaded with freshly-picked produce on its way to market. Men removed their shoes and rolled up their pant legs as the hauled crates on their shoulders to meet trucks arriving on the other side to carry the produce the remainder of the way to town. The truck was finally pulled out of the mud, but only after transferring some of the gravel to other vessels and, unfortunately, dumping some of the remainder on the ground.<br /><br />My first week in the campo can be described by a series of still-frames. The sight of mist-shrouded mountains that rise from behind the house when I go out to the latrine first thing every morning. Four generations of a family huddled together on the veranda, all removing guandules from their pods. Conversely, a family who´s only had electricity for 3 months watching four Chuck Norris movies in one night. An abuelita, physically frail, but still full of piss and vinegar, lighting up a pipe loaded with locally-grown tobacco. A man washing a motorcycle at a river ford, spinning the rear wheel, splashing up water like a garden sprinkler to the delight of the kids there bathing. The play, sloping upwards from home plate to the outfield, where passionate games of pelota happen every Sunday, and the peloteros argue about whether a ball landing at the outfield boundary with the neighboring finca on the mountain is a jonron or a ground-ruled double, while in the background, farmers tote tanks of pesticides on their backs to spray their tomatoes. A chicken strung up by its feet, flailing its wings one last time as it bleeds from the neck. The face of a campesino illumined by the faint flicker of a light bulb outside of the banca (not a bank, but a lottery ticket vendor) as he contemplates his next move in a domino game.<br /><br />I haven’t been here long enough to have the confianza I’d like to have to be able to snap the actual photographs. And I almost lost the opportunity to snap any photos at all when my camera fell out of its case on the way to view the local aguaducto – broken zipper. When I returned to look for it later, I came upon a campesina riding a burro down from the tomato fields. She pulled it from her saddlebag and gave it to me, an act that seems to me to exemplify the <em>gente de confianza</em> in this campo.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-38377107643946632952008-09-29T15:48:00.001-04:002008-09-29T15:51:01.819-04:00the journey of a t-shirt in the global economyA t-shirt is made in a <em>zona franca</em> in the Dominican republic. Following the Calle Triste from my abode of 3 weeks in Santo Domingo, I’d reach one of these free-trade zones within a half mile. When a fabrica (factory) is built, a barrio will quickly spring up around it, a phenomenon contributing to the growth of Santo Domingo from 300,000 to 3 million since the fall of the caudillo Trujillo in 1961. A t-shirt made for $2 in the <em>zona franca</em> is sold for $20 in a mall in the U.S. (don’t quote my numbers), is thoroughly loved for a short time, and then given to Goodwill. Goodwill’s overloaded on donations and can’t sell it, so it’s bundled up and sent back to the Dominican Republic, where you can haggle the clerk to sell it to you for 40 pesos (a little more than a dollar). If the t-shirt is embossed with a witty phrase like I’m <em>a black belt at keeping it real</em>, it’s only amusing if you’re a Peace Corps volunteer. If you’re a Peace Corps volunteer looking for grub clothes for building aguaductos in the campo, this is where you go to shop.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-37739979538704376562008-09-06T16:57:00.001-04:002008-09-06T17:03:51.789-04:00goin' with da flow<em>Flow</em> is one of many English words that has been imported into Dominican Spanish and that has been given a new meaning by the adoptive parent language. <em>Flow</em> is a manner of style, asses shaking back-pocket bling embroidered on tight blue jeans, baseball caps with brims flattened, tigures mouthing meren-rap tiguraje words like <em>flow</em>. To the unaccustomed ear, the rapid-fire slang is muffled beneath meringue and bachata keeping the night moving at the local carwash, maintaining the appearance of a car wash by day, but functioning as an open-air dance club by night. If you got <em>flow</em>, then you got game. <em>Entonces, yo no tengo flow.</em><br /><br />Determining flow from the source, ideally a spring but more likely a stream, will be among my first orders of business when I finally reach my work site at the beginning of November. Since flow may vary over time, I’ll need to rely on the accounts of elders in the community to assess the long-term character of the source, to determine if the flow will meet the projected consumption needs of the community. Though that day is still some time away, I already have reason to be reasonably sure that I’ll be placed in the northwest province of Puerto Plata, somewhere inland, though not far from the coast and somewhat close to the Haitian border.<br /><br />Recent flows have been too much for cañadas to handle. Low-lying areas adjacent to these waterways have sustained significant flooding with the persistent heavy rains from Fay, Gustav, Hanna, and some tropical depressions over the last 3 weeks. Exacerbating the situation is the fact that the country had undergone a period of drought prior to these rains. A house collapsed in a landslide during Gustav, killing 8, a storm that also killed some 50-60 people in neighboring Haiti. Hurricane Ike is supposed to pass north of Hispañola tonight and tomorrow morning, so the rains won’t be letting up any time soon. It should pass far enough north that we shouldn’t experience any more than that, though.<br /><br />Until next time, I’ll keep the litros of Presidente flowing, though I´ll try to not let them flow too fast.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-7690531478097921612008-09-05T13:14:00.001-04:002008-09-05T13:16:28.174-04:00la zona colonial<p>Toes clutch the sparse remains of well-worn flip-flops that frantically pace the cobble-stone streets of the old part of the city.<span style=""> </span>The struggles of the present overlaid on an opposing memory of the past, a magnetism that keeps the <i style="">limpiabotas</i> from being raptured into <i style="">el cielo</i>.<span style=""> </span>They sneak up on you, these shoe-shine boys, each with his wooden crate / stepping stool filled with rags and shoe polish.<span style=""> </span>Many of them are very young, maybe 9-10 years old.<span style=""> </span>I could picture them polishing the shoes of the Spanish monarchs portrayed in portraits in one of the museums.<span style=""> </span>But, unfortunately, the kings of today like to wear sandals.</p>dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873428070705332290.post-70421229158244193002008-08-26T18:20:00.002-04:002008-08-26T18:24:47.874-04:00¡he llegado en la república dominicana!I sit now in the casa of my Doña, enjoying the drop in temperature resulting from the presence of the most recent tropical depression passing through sticky Santo Domingo. Back in Miami earlier in the week some new friends and I had our first “hurricane party” of the trip as Tropical Storm Fay pounded south Florida with rains that had caused flooding here in the DR days before. The papers are saying that this one might cause yet more flooding since it’s coming so soon after the last.<br /><br />I’m currently staying in a barrio outside of Santo Domingo in a house occupied by my Doña, her brother, her daughter, her grandson, and a little white dog aptly named Nieve, Spanish for snow. My Doña, the wise and caring matriarch earns a little income selling herbal medicines distributed by a company interestingly based out of FoCo, CO, while her daughter works 12 hours/day, 6.5 days/week as an administrative assistant for a furniture vendor.<br /><br />Lying in bed last night, a sensation passed through with the sounds passing through my windows – motorcycles, voices debating spirited games of dominoes, and snippets of the latest meringue and bachata hits – a sensation that I find myself again a newborn, dependent on the kindness of others to survive. More significantly, I find myself dependent on persons who I only met days ago and persons who we in the U.S. often like to dub “those less fortunate”. It is a reminder that I, coming from the North to the South, have much more to learn than to teach.<br /><br />Se fue la luz. It’s a lament I’ve fast become accustomed to. It resounds whenever one of the frequent power cuts and households quickly switch over to power by inversor, backup power by car batteries. Running water is only available to a couple of hours on Tuesdays and sometimes a couple of hours on Fridays or Saturdays, a phenomenon that my Doña attributes to migration to the city from the campo. The experience brings on an increased cognizance of how much we consume.dominiciainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17968236509976202191noreply@blogger.com2