Día de los trabajadores. 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 Día de los Trabajadores, and some days after are encounters with persons who eek out an existence outside the formal institution of work.
Early morning. I’m drinking a cafecito 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.”
Lunch time. I sit in a restaurant, feverishly trying to get off as many emails as I can, using the free wifi 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 a priori knowledge of their certain meaning… ya tu sabes, quire menudo. 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, “¡No, no tengo nada, ¡Déjame tranquilo!” I am disturbed at, whatever high-minded rhetoric I may espouse, the safe distance that I maintain between myself and the Other.
Late Afternoon. I’m waiting for my bus back to the campo. 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 cabelleros 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.
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.
2 weeks later. I’m at a bela, or funeral party in a community on the other side of the hills, an hour’s walk away from my campo. 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 bela 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.
jueves, 21 de mayo de 2009
miércoles, 6 de mayo de 2009
pre 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.”
-Jeffrey Sachs, quoted in Naomi Klein’s No Logo
Yomanuel worked in a zona franca 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 viveres to eat – food’s expensive in the city.
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 viveres 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.
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.
-Jeffrey Sachs, quoted in Naomi Klein’s No Logo
Yomanuel worked in a zona franca 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 viveres to eat – food’s expensive in the city.
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 viveres 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.
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.
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.
* * *
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.
domingo, 8 de marzo de 2009
perdido en traducción
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.”
* * *
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.
* * *
I’m doing laundry in the river. Two muchachos escort their elderly grandmother to the bank, where she rolls up her skirt, sits down and commences to doing laundry as well. The muchachos strip down to their birthday suits and dive in for a swim.
* * *
35-year-old Ullo sucks his thumb while 2-year-old El Chiquito plays with Ullo’s pistola.
Number of mentions of Ullo’s pistola in this blog: 3
Number of mentions of El Chiquito playing with Ullo’s pistola: 2
* * *
Number of hours in the school day in the campo: 3
* * *
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 jipeta 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 jipeta as it’s being searched.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.”
* * *
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.
* * *
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 blans have too much junk.”
* * *
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 muchachos jumping on the 4 beds. The question is: where did these muchachos sleep before?
* * *
“Deprived of direction, we are determined to go there fast.”
- Nadesan Satyendra
* * *
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.
* * *
I’m doing laundry in the river. Two muchachos escort their elderly grandmother to the bank, where she rolls up her skirt, sits down and commences to doing laundry as well. The muchachos strip down to their birthday suits and dive in for a swim.
* * *
35-year-old Ullo sucks his thumb while 2-year-old El Chiquito plays with Ullo’s pistola.
Number of mentions of Ullo’s pistola in this blog: 3
Number of mentions of El Chiquito playing with Ullo’s pistola: 2
* * *
Number of hours in the school day in the campo: 3
* * *
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 jipeta 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 jipeta as it’s being searched.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.”
* * *
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.
* * *
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 blans have too much junk.”
* * *
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 muchachos jumping on the 4 beds. The question is: where did these muchachos sleep before?
* * *
“Deprived of direction, we are determined to go there fast.”
- Nadesan Satyendra
sábado, 28 de febrero de 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
miércoles, 11 de febrero de 2009
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).
* * *
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).
sábado, 10 de enero de 2009
catorce cortas
Che Guevara ends every entry in his Bolivian diary with the altitude at the time of writing.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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!”
* * *
The wannabe tigueres 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.”
* * *
Golgotha overlooks Puerto Plata, with a cell phone tower built alongside the cross. Beneath lies a tomb housing a gift shop.
* * *
Seed boxes are piled in the corner of the room. All the labeling is in English. They’re genetically modified and imported from Israel.
* * *
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.
* * *
A convoy of jipetas comes into the campo, carrying local political figures here for a holiday pig roast. They come bearing gifts for the children, toy jipetas and pistolas.
* * *
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 volas to the pueblo with him.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
Altitude = 100m
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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!”
* * *
The wannabe tigueres 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.”
* * *
Golgotha overlooks Puerto Plata, with a cell phone tower built alongside the cross. Beneath lies a tomb housing a gift shop.
* * *
Seed boxes are piled in the corner of the room. All the labeling is in English. They’re genetically modified and imported from Israel.
* * *
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.
* * *
A convoy of jipetas comes into the campo, carrying local political figures here for a holiday pig roast. They come bearing gifts for the children, toy jipetas and pistolas.
* * *
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 volas to the pueblo with him.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
Altitude = 100m
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