For two weeks I lived in the Dominican Republic as part of a mission trip with 41 other individuals from Northeast Wisconsin working on four separate projects on the western side of the country. Nine of us traveled to Elias Pina, a town of about 30,000 on the border of Haiti in the center of the island. Surrounded by a ring of mountains to the North, South, and West, Elias Pina is a relatively isolated settlement at the end of the line of the DR-2, the country’s main artery to Port Au Prince and trade with Haiti. Our contact there was Father Mike Seis, a native of Antigo, Wisconsin who has spent the last 17 years as the religious leader of the people of Elias Pina and the surrounding countryside. With some 90,000 parishioners Father Mike is a busy man sometimes having 4 or 5 masses a day and driving dozens of miles into remote parts of the mountains or countryside to celebrate mass with these far removed communities. It has been the mission of those in the Elias Pina group to assist Father Mike and the diocese in any way we can. In the past this has typically been traveling out to communities that lacked a place to celebrate mass and constructing a chapel for them that serves not only as a space for mass but as a place to gather as a community. This year, Father Mike requested our group to rebuild a large section of dilapidated wall that was on the verge of falling down and no longer served it’s purpose of securing the property that St. Therese Church and part of St Therese school operated on. What follows is my recollection of one day I spent in the DR, with several side stories that link my whole experience into one somewhat coherent story. I hope this narrative will give you a better understanding of my personal experience of the DR and also of some of the experiences of the people I met while I was there. Enjoy
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| A Dominican army outpost on top of a mountain overlooking Elias Pina |
The sun is beating down on me. I can feel the
rays sinking into my skin and the light that emanates from the sky is almost
blinding. I’m running; barefoot. I’m not altogether sure from what or to where
as I pass through the lush jungle vegetation along the edge of a cliff that
towers above a churning sea. The rhythm of the water throwing itself against
the rock face lulls me into a trance as I effortlessly glide over the long
grass that blankets the ground. The green blades brush against my legs as a
slight sea breeze coming off the water tilts them across the path. The trail
hooks right up ahead into the shelter of the jungle canopy, away from the cliff
and towards a mountain in the distance; I can sense that this will be my
destination. The soothing sound of the waves that has kept me in pace is
abruptly interrupted by a foreign ear shattering screech, “Quiquiriquiiiiii”
and suddenly my world disappears as my eyes dart open to a pitch black abyss:
my bedroom. A dream; a pleasant one at that, and now I am awake in darkness and
silence. I want to go back to my dream but one could ask why, since my dream
and my reality are very similar at the present moment. I’m on the tropical
island of the Dominican Republic, and while it’s the dry season and it’s not
quite the lush green paradise of my dream the DR too has a remarkable landscape
with mountains that cling to the horizon in all directions and beautiful
pristine shorelines that would make most American’s mouths water.
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| Beach in front of Playa Royale Resort |
Just then, the ear piercing screech that
awakened me from my dream is heard again “Quiquiriquíííííííí,” the rooster that
lives behind the room I’m staying in is at it again. I lean over to check my
watch, 4 AM, I let out an audible sigh and in my head question every single
cartoon and movie that ever showed a rooster crowing as the sun rose, since the
sun will not rise here for another 3 hours. Perhaps this rooster is suffering
from an illness or maybe all Dominican roosters simply adhere to a different
time zone. Silence once again; a strange thing indeed to experience in the
Dominican or at least in the city of Elias Pina where I’ve now been living for
the past week as the city never truly seems to sleep. Between the Baracha beat
of the next door disco, the ear deafening sound systems of cars that drive in
circles in the park, the PA System of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the gargles
and snores of 4 of my fellow companions who share the bunkroom with me, silence
is indeed a precious thing. As if on cue the rooster crows again, now followed
by the barking of our other neighbor’s dog (ah yes how could I forget the
barking of the dog). I’m the only one of my group awake and I feel a tinge of
regret at having turned down the ear plugs offered to me earlier. I tell myself
that if I can fall asleep to roosters and dogs and the various sounds of the
Dominican then I will be conditioned to fall asleep no matter the circumstances
for the rest of my life both home and abroad. I reposition my head on my pillow
and soon enough I’m dreaming again.
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| A glance at just one of the many mountain ranges that criss crosses the island of Hispanola |
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| View from rectory - St. Therese School with students gathering for the morning pledge |
I
grab my work shoes and a clean pair of socks and sneak down the steps to the
small courtyard where we gather for meals, prayer, and do most of our
socializing. Everyone is seated and skimming through the prayer books that we
read from every morning. I shyly take an empty seat in the outer ring near the
table and quietly start lacing up my shoes. Cal Martin, an American who moved
from the States to Elias Pina about 5 years ago has joined us today and is the
first to break the silence asking who wants to lead us in prayer. Once again
silence, the only noise coming from our kitten Monzunga who is playing with her
tail in the corner under the stairs. Everyone looks at eachother, waiting for
someone to speak up. I explain away volunteering today, telling myself I just
rolled out of bed while everyone else has been up for at least a half an hour
and think maybe the day I’m fully awake for morning prayer will be the day I
lead. Cal is still scanning our faces waiting for someone when he finally says,
“Steve, would you care to lead us this morning?” Guess, the day I’m fully awake
will have to wait. I raise my eyes to meet his let out a yawn and say “yeah
sure” with about as much enthusiasm as I can muster and figure I should start
with a song to wake myself up. There’s a series of songs to choose from with
some even being in Spanish, we’ve tried singing in spanish before but knowing
neither the tune nor pronunciation, or meaning for that matter, is not the best
recipe for a pleasant song for the ears so I opt for They Will Know We Are
Christians By Our Love since I’m familiar with the tune and one of the verses
seems to directly apply to our group “We will work with eachother, we will work
side by side...” After singing two verses and two refrains I assign the First
Reading, Responsorial Psalm, and the Gospel to my fellow companions. Everyone
begins following the text in their books as those I assigned begin reading
aloud but to be honest I’m not paying much attention to what I hear since I’m
busy paging through the middle of the book searching among the prayers, stories
and quotes for something purposeful to conclude today’s morning service with.
Soon enough, the readings are over and I still haven’t found a set of words
that truly speak to me, we’re sitting in silence again; I’m not sure if it’s
out of reflection for the readings or because everyone is waiting for me to
speak up. I’m thinking I’ll just randomly pick something when I remember the
piece of paper I have in my cargo pocket. I tell everyone I have something to
conclude with and pull out the words of St Francis of Assisi that I carried
with me throughout my Dominican Trip so far; the Peace Prayer.
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| Francis' Peace Prayer |
I
end with an amen and our group begins to move out, grabbing water, gloves,
equipment and everything else we’ll need today at our work site. Our journey to
the worksite is a short one as this year since we’re working directly behind
the church on the block next to us whereas in years past we’d have a 30-45
minute truck ride somewhere out in the campo to reach our worksite. I swing
open the front gate and close it behind me and begin the leisurely stroll to
work. It’s not even 8:00 yet and I can already feel the warmth from above, the
sun will not be forgiving today. It’s hard to say what’s worse, the chilling
below zero weather back home or the sticky heat of the Dominican. I brush my
hand through my hair, thankful that I got a haircut a few days back, and lost
the shaggy animal that had sat atop my head. Apparently, I was quite the attraction
before I got it cut though as every man in the Dominican has the same short
cropped hairstyle. After a day of working in the heat with my long hair I
understood why all men wore their hair this way and found myself a peluqueria
and joined the rest of the Dominican men receiving the same haircut.
Leo’s Peluqueria (barbershop) was a little 10
by 10 foot tin shack a few blocks from where we stayed. I’m not sure but I
think I may have been the first gringo customer that Leo ever had, but after
telling him in Spanish that I wanted it all gone and wanted the same style cut
as everyone else he showed no hesitation in beginning his work. He turned on a
stereo system in the corner and tapped his foot to the salsa music as he
worked. As I watched months of growth fall to the floor I scanned the walls of
his shack; I let out a chuckle when I saw a calendar of topless swimsuit models
hanging below a picture of Christ, fitting since this seems to be the norm,
Dominican men love their women, but they love their savior more. Leo took great
pride in his work and although he was working out of a shack he intended on
giving the experience you would expect from a professional barber paying
careful attention to each step and cut. What seemed to take me seconds at home
to do myself in buzzing my hair, Leo took minutes, patiently downsizing from
razor to razor taking my hair off in precise layers. After the razors came
scissors and combs as he moved across my head meticulously snipping any stray
hairs that couldn’t be reached by the razor. Next, he brought out a straight
edge razor for what I thought was to solely remove my side burns and maybe my
neck line, instead he framed out my entire hairline moving across my forehead
and down towards my ears and to the back of my head. Lastly, he brushed my
face, head, and neck off with a barbershop neck brush and whisked away the
plastic apron and I was surprised to find that Leo had done such a thorough job
that not a single loose hair was on my clothing nor did I feel the scratchy sensation
on my back collar that I remembered having the last time I got my hair cut in
the states. I asked Leo how much for the haircut and he replied 100 pesos (2.50
American). I didn’t quite know the words to say it but I tried to communicate
to Leo that the next time I needed a haircut I’d be seeing him again since it
was such a great deal compared to what you’d get in the States or the job I’d
do myself!
The rectories garbage barrel is tipped over on
the sidewalk as I continue my walk to the worksite. A medium sized brown haired
dog is ruffling through the trash when he senses my presence and lifts his eyes
to meet mine. He immediately backs away, keeping his head low as if asking me
to forgive his intrusion and turns around and begins limping across the street,
keeping the weight off his back right leg. I feel slightly guilty having
disturbed this dog from his search for food and whistle for him to come back.
He turns his head but has been hardened from experience into not trusting
humans, and rightly so as I suspect this is the origin of the injury to his
leg. The thing about dogs in the DR is that they are regarded in a completely
different manner than in the states. It’s not so much that the dogs themselves
are different but that the way they are treated is different and so they have
adapted accordingly and bare no resemblance to “man’s best friend,” as we know
it. Dogs in the DR are more like our squirrels, they scavenge the streets in
the same manner a squirrel scours your backyard and just like squirrels you are
welcome to throw rocks at them, run them over, or pester them at your own
discretion. This existence has made the dogs of the Dominican extremely
skittish, becoming a creature almost unrecognizable compared to the attention
loving pups or incessant barker of strangers that we are so familiar with in
our own neighborhoods. There is no such things as pets in the DR from what I
can tell, as a dog is either wild (and you both ignore each other) or it is a
security asset and is kept for the sole purpose of deterring break ins but
never will you see someone walking a dog or even playing with a dog. The one
exception to this is the tiny toy chihuahua that belongs to Cal’s neighbor, as
a pet, and frequently escapes from his house and walks around the street
ignoring the rules of the road that all other dogs respect as well as
disregarding the rules concerning the acceptable distance to be kept from
humans. This little guy is so gutsy or just plain naive that he sneaks into our
residence, acts like he owns the place and has no problem pawing at our legs
demanding food. This chihuahua sticks out like a sore thumb, like a valley girl
that took a wrong turn and ended up in the rough part of town and understands
neither the norms nor culture of her environment. For the most part though, the
dogs and people of the Dominican appear to have come to a compromise and an
unspoken agreement that each will simply mind their own business, with the dogs
accepting their underclass status and avoiding any contact with humans in
return for the right to scavenge humans’ trash and not be terrorized for it. |
| Longer ( I ) section of the wall |
Thirty
seconds pass by on my walk to the worksite, I enter through the side gate of
the church and through the courtyard entrance and there she is, our brilliant
masterpiece constructed of mortar, cinder block, and the blood, sweat, and
tears of a few gringos (blood courtesy of Joe A, tears of laughter given by
Joel). Our wall runs in an L formation connecting to sections of wall already
in place and thus securely seals off the block upon which the church, school
playground, basketball court, and tutoring center are located. The wall
probably totals some 200 feet with the ( I ) section being 150, running the
length of nearly one side of the block while the ( _ ) section runs maybe a
quarter of the block or 50 feet or so forming the missing (L) of an otherwise
complete square. The wall is some 14 blocks high, I’d say maybe 8-8½ feet tall
as it was still short enough that I could reach up and pass tools over the top
when necessary.
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| Shorter ( _ ) section of wall |
One may ask, why a wall, and it was a
question I had on my mind when I first found out about the trip and still had
up on my mind until we landed in Santo Domingo. You see the other groups each
have projects that seemed more in line with a typical mission trip, a school in
Haiti, houses in Vallejuelo, a chapel in Sabaneta... and we with a wall in
Elias Pina. Well like I said, all it took was the thirty minute bus ride
through Santo Domingo for me to remember the issue of security in the DR. Every
window you see has bars over it, every fence has razor wire or pointed metal
spikes, every patio and front door is encaged, and every store has an armed
guard standing out front. In a country where there is little in regards to
material wealth there are assuredly those who will steal, perhaps out of
necessity in order to survive, or perhaps out of greed to accumulate wealth;
nevertheless, theft is something one must be conscientious of in the Dominican.
As a common trend with crime, the greater the concentration of people, the
greater the rate of crime, therefore the security measures taken in the capital
of Santo Domingo were much stricter than in the town of Elias Pina, and
likewise the citizens of Elias Pina took more precautions than a village out in
the campo where security was nonexistent (For example we visited a chapel in
the mountains where the local catechist took a rock and struck the lock once to
open the door, showing how rudimentary campo security was compared to the armed
guards and security cameras of Santo Domingo). The point is, security is an
issue, and a church and school are prime targets; therefore, the purpose of our
mission, our wall, is to secure and protect the church. As Father Mike says,
“we are building the wall so that the temptation is not there” because truth be
told if someone really wants to break in and steal they will in time find a way
to go about doing it but the more difficult you make that task the less chance
you have of it actually occurring.
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| Father Mike with Ney |
While what I just stated along with the
descriptions of security measures may trigger imagery of a cold and paranoid
society I assure you this is not the way I feel, at least not in Elias Pina, as
folks seem always to be warm and welcoming, perhaps sometimes this is because
they want you to buy their goods, but for the most part I would say this is
simply their natural demeanor, to be pleasant and carefree.
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| Some friendly faces from the bakery |
The wall is over halfway done as the ( _ ) 50
foot section is completed and the ( I ) 150 foot section is built up about
halfway, just short enough for me to still hurdle over back and forth to hammer
out the drain holes, to prevent flooding, in the bottom of each 12 foot section
of wall. I take my mason’s hammer and the 6 inch sections of pvc pipe and go
down to the corner of the wall and begin my work. The penciled X’s mark the
spots where I need to punch through the cinder block and make a 4x4 inch square
for the pipe to slide into and later be mortared into place. The X’s lie at
about ground level, so that the water will drain onto the sidewalk, but right
now there is no sidewalk since it was dug up along with a strip of earth to
remove the old footing so in place of a level sidewalk lies a mound of dirt and
debris. While unsightly, this mound also makes my job difficult as I have very
little room to swing my hammer forcing me to use a rapid series of weaker blows
or attempt to strike the block from awkward angles in order to pierce through
it onto the other side. It takes me several minutes to finish one side of the
hole, I hop over the wall back inside the courtyard and face a similar
challenge as on the inside there is also a small trench and a mound of dirt
leaving no clear space to put power behind my swings. Finally, I’m through both
sides and I attempt to slide in the pipe but somewhere in the middle of the
block there are still pieces protruding which the pipe is getting caught on and
is left hanging a few inches outside the wall. I tediously chisel at the inside
of the hole making sure nothing is left to obstruct the pipe; it still doesn’t
fit. I verbally express my frustration using a few choice words and begin
striking the block far outside the 4x4 barrier, my anger hindering me from
accurately hitting my mark, and by the end I no longer have a hole but rather a
chasm. The good news; the pipe easily fits. I brush off the dust and count the
remaining sections of wall; eight more drain holes to go. I’m feeling bitter
about the thought of doing this eight more times and can feel myself slipping
into pessimism and that’s when I see him; the man with the walker.
Every morning this man slowly struggles past
us with his walker moving at the pace of a snail in order to reach a
destination that still remains unknown to me. He has a smile on his face and
say’s buenos dias to all he encounters including me as he shuffles past where
I’m working. Immediately, I feel guilty at having let the wall get the best of
me when this man who can hardly walk still finds a way to be happy and upbeat,
and wears a grin despite the condition of his legs. Just goes to show how petty
we can get when we don’t have anything to compare our “struggles” with. I stop
my previous sulking and begin tackling the remaining drains with renewed vigor
and a fresh perspective on the things in life worth getting frustrated about.
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| Cal, Joe, and Wayne taking a break (notice the color difference on the shirt) |
A few drain holes later and Joe A tells me
it’s break time. It’s not even 10:00 yet and Joe has somehow managed to already
be bleeding and drenched in sweat. It started out as a joke that Joe would
somehow be bleeding from his arms and legs by the end of each day and now I’m
at the point where I’m almost concerned since the guy looks like he’s gone
through the stigmata, I guess it’s a testament to his work ethic and the drive
he has to finish these projects on time for the people of the Dominican.
Normally for break I join the rest of the group by sitting in the shade on the
steps of the church and drinking some coffee and eating cookies provided by the
bakery and Father Mike but since I skipped breakfast and I have a craving for
something delicious I decide I’ll take my 15 minutes by going to D’ Melkin
Empanadas.
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| Empanadas! “What is an empanada?” you ask, it is a savory deep fried pie filled with cheese, chicken, beef, vegetable, or eggs (or any combination of the above). It is truly a dish given to us from heaven above, and for that reason I’m a regular at the empanada shop getting my fill of empanadas before I return to the empanada desert of Green Bay, WI. Due to the fact that I ordered 40 empanadas for dinner a few nights earlier (no not for myself, for our whole group, although I ate nearly a quarter of these) and have frequented the store every day since I’m now good friends with the owner of the shop, Melkin (we’re even facebook friends just because I bought so many empanadas). Melkin’s family, the Paniagua’s, are well known for their athleticism and baseball prowess with Melkin and his cousins playing on a local team in town and one of his cousins even playing ball in the States. When Melkin found out I played fantasy baseball and followed Major League Baseball he called his cousin from the States, Richard De Los Santos, and put me on the phone to talk to him. Between my broken spanish and his broken english I really didn’t know what to say other than to congratulate him on his success so far in the minors and wish him luck. De Los Santos is a starting pitcher for the Durham Bulls, a Triple-A team affiliated with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, and became one of the winningest minor league pitchers in his 2010 season in Durham. De Los Santos is the pride and joy of Melkin and his entire family as a life size banner of him pitching drapes the wall of the empanada shop. It’s not just the Paniagua’s though who are obsessed with baseball, the whole of the Dominican Republic follows baseball, from the kids in the street playing with a tree limb for a bat and a water bottle full of rocks as a ball to the old men gathering around a television and yelling at the screen, baseball runs through the veins of the Dominican people. Baseball seems to be how pride is established within families and between cities as they even have a brand new baseball field near the outskirts of Elias Pina to house their home team. To be a baseball player seems to be the aspiration of every boy and young man in the Dominican and to play in the United States is seen as the greatest of achievements and while that dream may sound ludicrous, after native born Americans, Dominicans actually make up the largest group of players in the MLB. Becoming a baseball player is also one of the only reasonable ways for Dominicans to get into the US since immigration, as we all know, is a mangled system that takes more than a decade even for the perfect candidate to gain citizenship, let alone a kid growing up from a far flung city of Elias Pina with no other family in the US or forms of sponsorship to gain entry; therefore, baseball is their only chance. |
The rumors of drug running and drug problems
between the Dominican Republic and the US may also add to the power that
baseball has as the only way Dominicans will ever gain entry to the United
States. Sitting outside of the bakery one night, I met a man in a drunken
stupor by the name of De La Rosa, he had lived in Chicago for a time and
trained with the Chicago Cubs, had been friends with Sammy Sosa and apparently
was friends with Alex Rodriguez as well. In his broken english De La Rosa tells
me he’s got a coaching job lined up in Chicago and has to be there in the next
couple days to sign the contract but doesn’t have the means to get to the
States, telling him that I really can’t do anything to help he wishes me well
and continues on his way. Later I learn that De La Rosa was indeed who he said
he was, he had signed with a Cubs feeder team and showed true promise as a
batter and would’ve ended up in the major leagues but after receiving his
initial signing bonus he splurged it on drugs and booze and thus his career and
his time in the United States was cut short and I guess even after ruining the
opportunity of a lifetime he still hasn’t learned to quit his bad habits.  |
| Penya, Gabriel, and Ney on break |
After
grabbing three queso y pollo empanadas and bidding farewell to Melkin I make my
way back to the worksite and sit down next to Carlos, Penya, Ney, and Gabriel,
some of the local guys who are helping us construct the wall. Each comes of his
own accord and each comes for different reasons. Carlos is a seminarian on a
leave of absence from both the seminary and university and spends most of his
time acting as Father Mike’s sidekick traveling with him to the campo and
assisting him in mass by being a lector, server, and singer and therefore helps
us due to his devotion to the church and the community. Carlos is the hardest
worker we have, showing up for every day of work, arriving early, and even staying
late. His humility, work ethic, and generous heart surpass that of anyone else
I’ve met on my travels in the Dominican. I’m not sure what lies in the future
for him, and either is he, but he’d make one heck of a religious leader given
his high level of character and aversion to self-indulgence unlike most of the
guys his age.
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| Carlos with the rosary my Dad sent with me to hand out; Carlos was a fitting recepient |
Penya works as the librarian at the small
library above the bakery that serves as a quiet spot to study, do homework, and
read after school gets out. It’s a modest library, with only two shelves of
books and two tables but Penya could not be more proud of his position and the
book collection he has helped build from scratch. Penya is currently attending
a school in town studying the social sciences with his favorite subjects being
history, geography, and politics. When I visited the library a few days ago and
ask Penya what his favorite book is he lifts up the book he’s reading,
revealing the cover, “una historia de la República Dominicana,” he also walks
over to his desk and pulls out two english-spanish pocket dictionaries and
smiles; these are the same two dictionaries that I had given him three years
earlier as additions to his collection. When Penya comes to the worksite it’s
normally just to socialize for a brief time with the other guys helping out and
also to yell from across the courtyard to me “Buenos dias Esteban” with his
fist raised in the air.
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| Penya and his beloved books |
Ney, where do I even begin, there really are
few words to describe him, he’s one of those guys that you have to meet in
person to truly appreciate his... eccentricities. Ney’s the kind of guy who
will invite you out to the bar, order drinks for everyone, and then tell you he
didn’t bring money and expect you to pay, naturally making you upset, and at
the same time when he smiles after innocently communicating this to you, you
can’t help but laugh. Ney is probably the person I communicate the most with, I
in my broken Spanish and he in his three sentences of English, which he will
often say to me at random moments throughout the day, “Steven, I like women,”
“Eh Steven... I like beer,” and my favorite “Steven, your family beautiful”
(Ney has met my father, brother, and sister on previous trips and I think
secretly wants to be adopted into our family). Ney is thirty-seven but he’s still
a child at heart and tends to hang out with the younger crowd with no desire to
really grow up. Ney’s mother recently passed away and his father seems to be
absent from his life so Father Mike acts as a parental figure for Ney, helping
him get a job at the bakery and having him over for dinner nearly every night
while we are here. Three years ago Ney never came to work with us except for
the last day where he spent more time salsa dancing with the girls than
actually working. This time though Ney has been showing up almost every day to
help us build and seems to want to make Father Mike proud as well as his Gringo
friends.
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| Mike, Ney, and I |
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| Ney and I at his house |
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| Ney and I on the porch being goofballs |
Gabriel is an unemployed and bored teenager
who volunteers with us daily not just to better the church but to “simply have
something to do.” Gabriel joined the military when he was 17 but lasted only a
year since he was discharged when he came down with a serious illness that kept
him bedridden and housebound for nearly a year. Now at 19, and from what I can
tell, fully recovered, Gabriel is looking for work so that he can raise money
to go to school as well as help his sister raise his baby nephew (and have a
sense of purpose, since he tells me otherwise he just spends his days talking
with friends, sleeping, or going online). The one notable thing about Gabriel
is that he communicates his entire story to me in english!
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| Alex and Gabriel |
When I came to the Dominican three years ago
no one that I met in Elias Pina spoke a word of english. Even the “english”
teacher at the elementary school couldn’t understand me or carry on a basic
conversation with me but somehow in these past three years english has spread
like wildfire in Elias Pina. People have begun to realize that speaking english
well, much like playing baseball well, puts you on the fast track towards
employment, upward mobility, and even leaving the country. Gabriel actually
learned english in the way that most of the Dominicans seem to be learning it;
through the influence of American culture via music and also through utilizing
the internet and using sites like youtube and facebook to immerse themselves in
both written and spoken english. For a guy who never had a formal lesson in his
life Gabriel’s understanding of english is extremely impressive. Other than
just the impact of American culture in Elias Pina, over the past two years the
Dominican government has also taken it upon themselves to promote the spread of
english by starting an english language program free of charge at the local
tech school taught by an American. While playing basketball earlier in the week
I noticed my opponent, Lucasse, could understand what I was saying during the
game and he then surprised me afterwards when he began speaking to me,
flawlessly, in english, discussing everything from politics to race to
religion! Lucasse told me he had been a student of the American and had taken
the 11 month english course from the tech school. Although he already received
his english certificate he told me we could drop in on a class together and
meet his old teacher aka “the” American. Intrigued at the thought of meeting a
fellow young American who had been living in Elias Pina for over two years I
agreed to join Lucasse and we traveled to the tech school, a colorful building
on the edge of town.
The American, Chris, was a native of Philadelphia
who majored in Spanish in college and was looking for something exciting to do
after school and enrolled in a Teaching English as a Foreign Language program
(TEFL), earned his TEFL certificate, and without ever having stepped foot in
the DR agreed to come to Elias Pina and teach. Chris has some 70 students
broken down into two classes, each running four hours a day, five days a week.
He tells me his students enter the class at different levels but he always
starts with the absolute basics and after 20 hours of class time a week over a
span of 11 months all the students leave nearly fluent, if they put in the time
and do the required coursework. Gabriel’s older brother, Raphael, actually
graduated from this language program at the top of his class and earned the
privilege to travel to the states and is now attending school in Appleton, WI
due to his success with english. Chris also tells me that Lucasse was one of
his best students and that they still hang out on a regular basis to practice
english together. Since I was catching Chris between classes he invited me to
stick around for the 6pm class and see the teaching process in action. As the
start of class neared students began trickling in, filling up every available
seat in a room that was probably meant to fit 25 students but instead was now
housing 40 or so leaving many students to grab seats from other rooms or stand
against the wall. The students ranged in age from teenagers and young adults to
those with gray hair and included every age in between. Chris gave me a heads
up that this class was just in their second week since classes started at the
beginning of the new year and that the first weeks are the slowest but if I
came back in a month their understanding of english would have grown exponentially.
I ended up sitting in on the class for an hour as the students answered basic
conversational questions from Chris of how are you, and what is your name, as
well as learned the difference between saying this is and that is when talking
about an object.
Walking home with Lucasse from the tech
school he tells me he wants to be an English teacher like Chris and help people
better themselves. Lucasse had lived in Port Au Prince up until two years ago
and is still new to Spanish as well since he had been speaking Creole, the
French infused language of Haiti, his entire life, but he has a natural talent
for languages and wants to receive a TEFL certificate and teach in either Haiti
or the DR when he gets older. He asks me what I want to do with my life, a
question I hear all too often from my parents, relatives, and friends, and one
that I normally don’t have an answer for but after considering what I just saw
in the classroom; seeing students who earnestly wanted to learn and
participate, and also reflecting on the other experiences I’ve had in
attempting to to communicate with Dominicans throughout my trip so far and
learning about their culture, I tell Lucasse that teaching English as a second
language is something I had never considered before this trip but that now I
too wanted to maybe be like Chris and have a career that involved truly
immersing myself in a foreign land while teaching something I’ve been doing my
whole life (understanding the english language).
My experience with English speakers continued
when on another day I traveled to the basketball court and while watching a
game I met a man named Vito who after an introduction in spanish told me we
could switch to english if I preferred. Vito works at a resort on the eastern
side of the island near punta cana and tells me he taught himself english in
order to communicate with guests at the resort so that he could make their stay
more comfortable as well as earn larger tips. It turns out Vito is a lover of
languages and has taught himself German, Thai, Russian, and French to
accommodate the various international travelers that visit the resort he works
at. I switched the conversation over to German for a moment to test his skills
and sure enough the man wasn’t lying. It was a strange feeling to communicate
in a language that was native to neither of us, each with our own distinct
foreign accents as the German rolled off our tongues.
While many people still don’t speak a lick of
english there is definitely a growing population of english speakers in Elias
Pina what with the formal english classes like those offered by Chris now
available, and many individuals like Gabriel that use the power of the internet
and the growing American cultural influence to pick up phrases and expressions,
and lastly those like Vito that teach themselves by listening to the growing
number of American tourists that visit the Dominican.
I’m
still sitting against the wall next to Carlos, Penya, Ney, and Gabriel when
everyone else from my group begins to break away from the shelter of the shade
and return to work. I still have a few more drain holes to make so I hop the
wall and begin hammering again. I start to find a rhythm and am cruising along
the wall when someone pats me on the back. I turn around to a huge smiling
face, it’s Michael and he’s brought something with him. Michael is a friend of
Gabriel who came a few days earlier to help on the wall. Michael and I had been
paired together to fill in the trench from the footing and although he didn’t
speak any english I was able to understand that he had a moped that was missing
one piece of equipment that kept it from working. He said once he had the money
he’d fix it and I told him if that happened while I was still in the DR we
should go on a tour of the city. A few days later and here’s Michael with his
moped, offering to take me on a ride as he twists the handle and revs the
engine of the scooter that looks like it’s already struggling to even hold his
weight let alone the addition of mine. I look at the drain holes and decide
that a quick 5 minute lap around town won’t hurt our progress and that I
probably won’t get another chance like this while I’m in the DR so I hop onto
the back of the moped and we take off.
As
far as transportation goes in the Dominican, and especially for more rural
areas like Elias Pina and the surrounding campo, motos and mopeds outnumber
cars probably 10 to 1. And along these lines most of the four wheeled vehicles
you see are larger Dominican made trucks that are filled with people, market
goods, some form of garbage or any combination of these, either way one rarely
sees an empty vehicle with a lone driver like you normally would in the states.
Another difference between what you would experience on the road in the DR
versus the states is the lack of laws or speed limits that regulate how one
drives, instead the rules of the road seem be more or less norms that have been
agreed upon by the people of the city. For example, if the guy in the cross
traffic is traveling faster than you, you either stop or you blow your horn and
gun it since there are no stop signs. Another point of interest is that there
are no lanes and that traffic in the city will drive down either side of the
road meaning sometimes you will have mopeds traveling the wrong way on the left
side and someone coming straight at them will be forced to swerve to the right
side of the street to avoid a collision, it really appears to be quite chaotic
when you first see it but the locals seem to manage. Along with what I
mentioned earlier the horn is utilized on a regular basis, people lay on their
horns whenever they are passing, when they are merging, when they are going
through an intersection or simply when someone does something they don’t like,
so when you’re in a busy area like Santo Domingo it’s not strange to hear a
continuous drone of car horns going off. Lastly, there are no rules (or no
rules that are enforced) about having lights on your vehicle. Given that power
outages still occur from time to time and there are not many street lights to
begin with this seems to be a recipe for disaster as you have dozens of motos
speeding through the city neither being able to see nor be seen, but I’m told
that somehow roadway fatalities are rare, which I still can’t believe.
Michael takes me on a short ride putting into
practice all the Dominican rules of the road, speeding through cross traffic,
driving on any side of the road he chooses, and laying on his horn at random
intervals. Michael drops me off where he picked me up and tells me he’s going
to cruise around awhile longer but that he’ll meet me after work. With the
drain holes all but finished I return to the safety of the shade and see Carlos
and Gabriel shoveling up a patch of soil alongside the wall. Confused I ask
Gabriel what they are doing and he replies that they are tilling the soil to
make plots for a garden. I look over at my group working on the wall and seeing
that nobody looks like they need my help I take a pick axe and join Carlos and
Gabriel in tilling an adjoining section of dirt. Don’t get me wrong like I said
before the wall is important in the sense of security but the idea of building
a garden, something that will truly be “fruitful” for years to come energizes
me. With all the land they have in the courtyard, not to mention sunshine, this
land could produce enough fruit and vegetables to feed a few families for the
year or if nothing else it will bring the church community together in a shared
project. Carlos begins taking rubble from the old wall and footing and stacking
it in a makeshift border around our plots of soil and I use the pick axe to dig
a shallow trench that the rocks can fit inside.
The tilling of the soil is a slow process not
simply because we’re doing it all by hand but because the ground is full of
rocks, glass, paper, plastic, and ceramic tiles all of which have found their
way deep within the soil. Some of the trash and objects have probably been
there for years since the act of littering and the presence of trash is
something that Dominicans have grown accustomed to and is socially acceptable.
Just the other day when walking through the central park with Michael he tossed
the paper from his gum right in the middle of the square and when I stopped and
tried to ask why he did it he just stared at me with a confused look on his
face. This same form of littering was seen when I handed out starbursts to kids
and adults in the campo with colorful bits of paper now polluting an otherwise
beautiful landscape, making the act of giving almost a misdeed since it
fostered the desecration of the land. This is probably one of the most
saddening things I can take away from the Dominican, is that it truly is one of
the most beautiful countries in the world and yet everywhere you seem to go,
except the far reaches of the campo, it is covered in trash. Santo Domingo made
the list back in 2006 for one of the world’s 10 most polluted places. It seems
the government is starting to pick up on the fact that turning the Dominican
into a vast landfill is not the best way to market your country as a viable
tourist destination or be viewed with respect on the world stage and so appears
to be making efforts to rectify their prior compliance with pollution and
littering through the employment of street sweepers. No not the machines, but
rather older men who are paid to walk the streets with broom in hand and
attempt to stem the tide of garbage that accumulates on a daily basis. You
would perhaps think that the government would spend money on a campaign to
educate people on the negative effects of littering and cut the problem off at
the source but then again maybe that’s part of their plan, one of those
situations where they can boast about creating jobs merely by sustaining a
problem that necessitates them.
I sift through the soil picking out the
various objects by hand and placing them in their respective piles outside the
garden boundaries but at the rate we’re going it will take weeks to turn this
littered soil into productive earth. I tell myself its okay since our mission
here was to build the wall and not necessarily a garden but that having laid
the foundation the garden project will hopefully take root on its own and be
accomplished by the church community after we have gone. The day is wrapping up
when I spot Mansillo, the shoe shine boy, lingering near the church, shyly
watching us work. When I first met Mansillo I had assumed he was simply a
wayward boy skipping out on school still carrying his lunch box. Instead I
discovered that the wooden box he carried didn’t contain food but rather held
the materials necessary to be successful at his trade; shining shoes. Once I
realized that these specially designed boxes were for shoe shining I thought
back to the dozens of boys I had seen earlier lingering in the park and on the
streets and now understood that they were not delinquents but kids simply
trying to make money for themselves and their families. For a town that did not
have very many people that could leisurely afford to get their shoes shined I
was amazed by the overabundance of shoe shiners, it looked as though they might
be lucky to even clean one pair of shoes a day, with the most common customers
being members of the military who were on guard duty. And so it was that I met
Mansillo one day coming home from work when he approached me, pointed at my
feet, and held up a rag in his hand. My boots were covered in dust and cement
and still had a layer of dirt caked to them from a hiking trip taken weeks
earlier and so I was delighted to employ the young lad. Mansillo, much like Leo
the barber, put great care into his work and used an assortment of liquids and
rags to clean my boots, one at a time, as I rested them atop his box. The only
other time I had ever received a shoe shining was on the streets of Chicago, a
week or two earlier, when a man basically forced himself upon me and said he
desperately wanted to clean my shoes. Doing nothing more than taking out a
towel and rubbing my boots a few times he then demanded a twenty dollar tip and
had a sidekick who had circled behind me to make sure I didn’t leave without
paying up. Fortunately with the help of a friend I was able to get out of the
situation by giving him 8 bucks and a slice of pizza. For those of you
traveling to a big city know that nothing is free and if someone is nice to you
it is probably because they want something from you, anyway I digress. The
enthusiastic work of Mansillo was a welcome change from the austere handiwork
of the shoe shining swindler of the windy city (and I didn’t have to give up my
dinner or eight dollars but rather only a meager fifty cents). Having seen
Mansillo clean my shoes most of the other guys from my group employed him to do
the same for them, and needless to say Mansillo probably made more money in our
two week visit then he did the previous six months. Mansillo cornered the
market, gained the trust of his customers, and capitalized on his monopoly of
the Americans; Economics 101 for the DR. Who would’ve thought shoe shiners
could teach you such a wide array of life lessons?
 |
| Mansillo and I |
Mansillo, points at my shoes once again but
today I’m wearing my tennis shoes and not my boots so I tell him to come back
“mañana.” He smiles and nods and takes off just as quickly as he came. I
continue tilling with Carlos and Gabrielle, taking our turns at swinging the
pick axe, moving rocks and picking up garbage, and shoveling dirt; cycling out
when the repeated motions have left our backs sore. We’ve completed a roughly
20 by 6 foot plot when our group starts to meander around the church steps;
it’s 2:30 and we’re calling it a day. The trowels and wheelbarrows hosed down,
equipment loaded, and water bottle in hand I follow the train back to the
rectory bringing up the rear; last one to arrive at work one of the last to
leave. Gabrielle, Ney, and Carlos all head home but tell me they’ll see me for
dinner and I finish my walk alone.
Michael is sitting in the bed of Father
Mike’s truck in the gated off shelter that acts as a garage adjoined to both
the rectory and the bakery. He’s got headphones on and is nodding his head to a
beat when I climb onto the truck and join him. He offers me one of the earbuds
and my ears are met with a blast of trumpets, a steady snare drum, and a man
rattling off spanish at an incomprehensible rate. Michael begins singing the chorus
and looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to recognize the song and join in
with him. Sadly prior to this trip I wasn’t much of a latin music connoisseur
and so all I can do is smile to meet Michael’s excitement for the song. Michael
reads my lost expression and starts skipping through his music apparently
looking for something that I will be familiar with. A heavy bass, a techno
clapping beat over the top, and a man’s falsetto, Michael waits for my
acknowledgement but I just shrug. “Chris Brown!?!” he says, looking at me as if
I’m crazy. He assumes I know all of the hottest tracks in the states but the
truth is, I’m just as lost with American pop music as I am with spanish pop.
Pulling out the ear buds he looks me in the eyes and rattles off a series of
names that I’ve heard but have no real conception of, “Jay Z,” “Drake,” “Lil
Wayne” all are met with a shrug and he asks what I listen to. I jump out of the
car and retrieve my ipod and begin my own inquisition “Mumford and Sons,” “The
Lumineers,” “Bon Iver,” “The Head and the Heart” playing a sample of each
artist’s songs as I ask. Now the table’s have turned and Michael’s the one
looking lost and confused. I decide to just throw it on shuffle and see what
happens. A stomping bass beat; silence; a shrill yell “Oppan Gangnam Style,”
Michael suddenly looks up and smiles saying “Heyyyyy Sexy Lady” the first
english I’ve ever heard from Michael and apparently I’ve struck gold as
Michael, along with the rest of the world, and yes even myself, are caught up with
the South Korean Psy’s internationally acclaimed hit “Gangnam Style.” We trade
off doing dance moves from the music video and then return to shuffling through
music. Michael is, to say the least, uninterested with most of my music but has
a strange obsession with the Black Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling” making me play
it several times in a row before he is satisfied. I teach him how to sing the
chorus, putting emphasis on each syllable so Michael can follow, and then
translate it into spanish so that he can understand what he’s singing about “I
gotta feeling, that tonight’s going to be a good night, that tonight’s going to
be a good night, that tonight’s going to be a good, good night.” This song has
proven to be the theme song for the rest of my trip as Michael has taught the
rest of the guys the chorus. Although it’s sometimes sung incoherently without
a single word able to be understood from the madness, I still find myself
joining in with them, slurring the words in the same manner as they do to fit
in. The sharing of music was indeed a strange experience for me as weeks later
when I returned to the states and listened to the radio for the first time in
months I actually recognized some of the songs that I heard played in the DR.
Who would’ve thought that I would hear popular American music in an isolated
town in the mountains of the Dominican Republic before I would hear it in the
United States!
 |
| Michael and I in our usual hangout spot |
Finished listening to music, I decide to go
inside and grab my Frisbee so that Michael and I have an activity to do while
he attempts to learn more English and I more Spanish. I casually throw the
Frisbee to Michael and the look on is face as it cuts through the air shows me
that he’s never seen something like this before. He catches it, then looks at
the Frisbee, looks at me, and back to the Frisbee again. I demonstrate the
motion with my arm and emphasize the flicking of the wrist and after a few
throws some into the ground and others over the neighbor’s fence, Michael is
playing catch like he’s had a Frisbee his entire life. Backhand, forehand,
hammer throws I show him them all. We start out only a few feet away from each
other and begin to back away with each successful completion and soon enough
we’re spanning nearly the entire length of the block in front of the rectory. Michael
releases a throw that goes soaring far above my head, through traffic, and into
the roped off section of street where dozens of kids are having PE class at the
school, some playing baseball and others volleyball. A few girls that were bumping
a volleyball in a circle together stop and race towards this strange flying
disc.
 |
| The first who reaches it picks up the Frisbee and attempts to throw it in the same manner you would a baseball, leaving it to flop weakly in the air. Another of them races to the disc and throws it in the same fashion with similar results. Several throws later and it finally reaches me. I try to show them the flicking of the wrist the same way I showed Michael and when I throw a short pass to one of the girls, they all scream with excitement and descend on the Frisbee playfully pushing and shoving to be the first to throw it again. I wave for Michael to join me in the section of the street belonging to the school and we start a game that resembles the setup of 500 with all the kids, and Michael, on one end and I alone on the other throwing it to them. Soon enough all the boys who were practicing baseball with their PE teacher have abandoned their positions and joined us in the street, the numbers swell from a half dozen to well over 30 kids all vying to catch the Frisbee and throw it back to me. They yell and howl as the disc soars and create such a commotion that kids are leaving their classrooms and staring through the gated windows to come see the Americano and his new toy. Soon enough the kids are so enthralled with the Frisbee that they no longer need me to throw it and are content entertaining themselves and throwing it to each other. I wander over to the PE instructor who has now lost every single kid to the attraction of the Frisbee. I say sorry and he smiles and waves his hand in a gesture signaling that it’s not important. From what I understand the class is merely meant to ensure the kids get a chance to be outside and burn off some energy before returning to the classroom. As if on cue the bell rings, a little girl returns the Frisbee to me, and I hand it to the teacher figuring this Frisbee has brought more joy in the past 20 minutes than it had in the previous months in my possession. Michael gives me one of his giant smiles and bids me farewell and I head back to the rectory. |
I enter the rectory and go into our little
courtyard gathering space and sit in the same seat on the edge that I occupied
earlier that morning for prayer. My group is spaced about the rectory, some are
reading, others napping, some are sipping on El Presidentes, and some others
are sitting on the roof people watching (the most popular pastime of those who
take part in the Elias Pina mission trip, I must admit I spent my own fair
share of time taking in the sights and sounds of the city atop our perch on the
busy corner). All in all the mood is calm and everyone seems to be recuperating
from our day of work; that and I find out I missed a filling lunch due to
playing in the street. The empanadas had abated my hunger but now the thought
of beans and rice stirs my stomach and I venture into the kitchen. Elvira is at
the sink washing the dishes from the meal and like a small kid asking his
mother I tell Elvira “I’m hungry,” she looks at me and laughs and has a plate
set aside for me filled with fluffy white rice soaked in beans with bits of
chicken adorning the top; exactly what I wanted! Now there are those that seem
to loathe the cuisine of the Dominican, heck even on the email for our trip we
were warned about beans and rice being the staple for their diet and were told
to bring other food if we wanted. I’m in the completely opposite camp, if I
could find a way to have Dominican beans and rice served the same way in the
States I’d be eating them for every meal! I absolutely love beans and rice
almost as much as empanadas, and if you have the two together; what you will
experience is nothing short of pure euphoria.
 |
| Didn't add the beans yet! |
Elvira is Father Mike’s cook and cleaner at the
rectory and for our trip she is at the rectory everyday cooking us lunch and
dinner. I tell her multiple times that I’ll smuggle her
back into the US and she can cook for me or we can open up a Dominican
restaurant and make millions by selling her beans and rice along with empanadas
to the Americans that are missing out. I scarf down my meal in a
few bites, thank Elvira for yet another excellent meal, and head to the bakery
next door to meet Alex.
 |
| Alex |
Alex
is another one of the local guys who normally helps us on a daily basis along
with Ney, Carlos, and Gabriel but his dad came by today to tell us he wasn’t
going to be there to work but was sleeping instead. You might say he’s being
lazy but Alex attends night school from 6pm-10pm Monday through Friday, has
spent his mornings working with us, and his afternoons at his job at the
bakery. So basically on the schedule he was on Alex had no time for himself,
even to sleep, so a day of rest from the wall was well deserved.
I
go through the garage to enter the bakery, before even entering, I can feel the
heat emanating from the dark room. Alex is in the corner bagging bread,
signaling the last step in the baking of the bread for that day; a process that
begins sometime before 7am usually. The bakery is actually the brainchild of
Father Mike and is a not for profit business that employs some 15 individuals
baking bread and selling the bags for 20 pesos apiece (50 cents American). A
team of men come early in the morning, before sunrise, to mix the dough, cut it
up, and place it in the ovens while in the afternoon a crew consisting of
teenagers such as Michael and Alex (and Ney) take the bread out of the oven’s,
let it cool, and then bag it. I don’t know what the official count is on their
daily baking but they probably feed a substantial portion of the cities
population since I only saw one other paneria in town and their business is
constant as people walk in from 8 in the morning straight up until closing at 8
at night. The bakery has been doing well and allows a decent wage for the
workers as well as provides a modest amount of money for the church which is then
used to fund supplies or projects for the community, their proceeds purchased
the Daihatsu truck that carried us to our worksite three years ago as well as
is used to move brick, lumber, and of course people. The only windows in the
bakery are on a far wall that has another building only an arms length from
their openings meaning little light or ventilation gets into the back room
where the ovens are located. This lack of air flow and sunlight gives one in
the workroom the impression of being inside an actual oven as temperatures soar
upwards of 100 degrees during the daytime making even the 90 degree weather
outside feel cool.
 |
| The Morning Shift |
I
join Alex at one of the tables and finish bagging bread with him, uno, dos,
tres… doce; twelve to a bag and then I tie it up and throw it in the growing
pile. We move quickly since we don’t want to be late for the 5:00 pick up
basketball game. The past few days Alex, Michael, and I along with a few other
guys have been playing friendly games of basketball on the court in the church
courtyard but today Alex has invited me to join him at a more organized event
on another court. The last bag is tied up thrown into the pile and we rush out
to the street and make our way to this new court.
Basketball
is one of those things that is surprisingly similar to that in the States. I
played pickup basketball from time to time in high school and in college and
the game play mirrored that of what I experienced from my peers with only a few
slight changes. The only major difference is that if you only have one hoop to
play on, no take back line is established meaning the ball may be put back
immediately by either team for points, this then makes rebounding the most
important aspect of the game. I had only played single basket Dominican games up
until Alex and I showed up to the 5:00 game on the nearby court that boasted a
full a length court with two fully functioning hoops. When we arrive I once
again notice another unique aspect of Dominican basketball that I had
experienced in previous games, most of the guys are wearing polos, skinny
jeans, and dress shoes. I think part of it might be that they don’t bother to
go home and change or they simply lack “athletic” clothes or shoes (I think
this is part of the reason why Alex plays barefoot).
 |
| My own attempt at playing barefoot - ended with some not so fun blisters |
There
are maybe 15 guys meandering around when we enter through the gate in the chain
linked fence that surrounds the secluded court that seems to almost be
swallowed up by the vegetation on the fences and the surrounding buildings.
They welcome Alex some shaking his hand and others embracing him, he mutters
something in Spanish, and they all turn their gaze upon me. I can feel their
eyes scanning me, trying to peg whether I’m a basketball player like Alex or
not. We begin shooting threes, with the first 10 who make it earning the
privilege to play in the first game. I air ball my shot and all their skeptical
looks at me confirm that I am by no means an actual basketball player but am
merely an amateur who hasn’t touched a basketball in over a year since coming
to the DR. Even though I don’t make a shot I still somehow get placed on a
team, most likely due to the respect they all have for Alex or maybe because
they just want to see a gringo play. Luckily I’m on the same
team as Alex, who easily swished his three when it was his turn to shoot in the
weeding out of players. Alex is the epitome of an athlete, a few inches shorter
than me but the ability to jump twice as high and with hands twice as big as mine
he can dunk as effortlessly as he can swish those threes.
 |
| Alex is an all around athlete |
As the game commences I realize that my
height and my reach is the one thing I have an advantage on my opponents as I’m
fed the ball under the basket and simply dump my shots in. When I begin getting
challenged and double teamed I begin executing the same unorthodox play style
that I’ve used since middle school basketball; ridiculously catapulted fade
aways and hookshots. Somehow I’ve always been more accurate throwing up the
ball in a ludicrous manner with one hand than using the “correct” forms and
techniques taught to me by coaches, since that normally just results in me
airballing or putting up bricks. My luck from all those years ago is still with
me and my wild hook shots that go above the outstretched arms of defenders and somehow
find their way in the basket sends the audience of players hooting and
hollering. The game is being played up until 21 and so far my team has retained
a comfortable lead on our opponents and it looks like we’ll easily seal our
victory after a few more offensive possessions. Just as my confidence is rising
and I think winning is inevitable there’s a halt in the action as the other
team calls a timeout and one of their players is “voted” off their team in
favor of a new player; a serious looking fellow clad in a Tracy McGrady jersey.
It’s not just his demeanor that is unsettling but the fact that he is nearly as
tall as I am and easily has 50 pounds on me, all of it muscle. Naturally, I’m
told to guard him but I can’t stop him as he uses his power to back me down and
drops the ball in. I could take a charge but seeing as how I never even took
charges in organized basketball I don’t see any reason to start now especially
since we’re playing on concrete and I don’t want to end up in a Dominican
Hospital. McGrady shuts down our offense as I’m now utterly useless down low
and he gets every rebound and at the same time on the other end of the court he
starts drawing double coverage when he has the ball leaving easy points for
others on his team. The game becomes more heated as the scores even out to 19
and both teams begin calling fouls on each other at the most minor of actions
while fouling harder and claiming innocence on others, the kind of game I
despise; when the need to win puts any sense of sportsmanship, humility, or
fairness to the sideline. Things start getting out of hand when an opponent
trips on one of our players and soon there are eight guys all pointing and
arguing with each other over whether it was an accident or whether it was
blatant. Alex shakes his head and starts walking away and waves for me to join
him. I’ve seen the same thing take place in pick up games at home and its sad
when a game of friendly competition turns into a show of egos but either way I’m
glad it is over since now I have time to quickly shower before attending daily
mass with the rest of my group at St. Therese. Alex heads home to get ready for
school and I walk back to the rectory.
The
rectory is empty when I get back and it seems everyone’s already left for mass.
I figure the big man upstairs will forgive me if I’m a few minutes late since
the greater sin would probably be to show up in the clothes I’ve been
continuously sweating in since eight this morning and so I head up to shower.
There’s running water; however, since there’s no hot water in Elias Pina (as
far as I know unless it’s boiled or solar heated) all you’ll receive is cold
water so I opt to take a dip shower from the large 40 gallon container where
the water has at least caught some of the sun and taken in some heat throughout
the day. I take an old milk jug with its bottom cut off and dip it into the
cistern; the water may not be “cold” but it’s definitely not warm. I lift the
makeshift scoop over my head and pause as I mentally prepare myself for the
shock of the water, much like I would if I were about to jump into a body of
water. I twist my wrist and as the water cascades over me I can’t help but
cackle and yelp at the initial coolness that leaves me shivering and shaking.
Without hesitation I take a second scoop and dump it over my head, and then
continue the process, with each successive scoop feeling warmer than the last.
The water puddles at my feet, a distinctly brown color from carrying all the
dirt off my body, and it slowly disappears down the drain. I grab my soap and
lather it between my hands determined to rid myself of all the mud and dust
that has caked itself onto me as I spread the bubbly foam through my hair and
over the rest of myself with a lot of emphasis on my ankles where there is a
fine distinction from my socks between my white feet and black legs. A few
scoops later and some more scrubbing with soap and I’m good as new; fit for an
audience with a god!
 |
| Cleanin' Station |
It
seems I’ve missed the procession and introductory rites as there is a lector
reading from the pulpit when I sneak in the door of the church and quietly make
my way down the aisle. There’s no use trying to hide my tardiness though as
Father Mike has been watching me from when I first stepped into the church. I’m
of the opinion that the only reason they switched the priests from facing the
altar into facing the congregation in Vatican II is so that they could see
which of the parishoners always showed up late. The church is fairly empty
since it’s simply a daily mass and there are probably only 40 people or so in
attendance with ten of them being my group. On a typical weekend mass every pew
will be full accompanied by a makeshift band and choir. I take a seat in one of
the pews my group occupies and tune my ears into attempting to understand any
of the Spanish that is being read from the pulpit. A word here or there but I’m
just as lost as all my fellow missionaries and yet we all continue to make eye
contact with the lector and try to make it appear as though we understand. The
responsorial psalm and second reading leave me in the same state of wondering
just what it is that is being said; perhaps if I had paid more attention to
morning prayer when these readings were in English I would be better prepared
to find the parallels in Spanish and piece the readings together. Then the
gospel, we all stand and its the first time I can understand what is being said
when we sing “Alleluia, Alleluia” along with the parishoners who clap along
with the tune due to the absence of any instruments or choir. Then we’re back
to being lost again as the Gospel and Homily are said. I’m day dreaming when
suddenly Father Mike goes from preaching in Spanish to English. He tells us
that since a quarter of the congregation are English speakers he’s going to
give us a quick summary of the Gospel and his homily, now it is the Dominicans
who continue to stare at Father Mike and nod along like they understand, seems
to be a universal action that is taken when you have no clue what is happening;
just nod and smile. It is the fastest homily I’ve ever heard as he only takes a
minute or two to fill us in before switching back to Spanish and continuing to
the creed and Liturgy of the Eucharist. The mass ultimately resembles our own
in the States in regards to structure and tradition but differs in the evident
enthusiasm and devotion of the people present who have no shame in singing
their hearts out, clapping wildly, or hugging complete strangers at the offering
of peace; all in all the churches of the Dominican seem to have more of a
bounce in their step as one can feel the energy of the people making the church
feel more like a community rather than simply a building filled with people.
 |
| Father Mike saying mass at St. Therese |
After
church is over I begin walking out when I realize a few of the members of my
group found their way into the bell tower. Jealous of the fantastic views
they’re probably getting I decide to traverse the rickety circular stairs up
the three stories into the small tower. I knock into the bells as I climb out
of the hole in the floor (I was expecting just one large bell but instead they
have several smaller ones all hanging from the ceiling at different levels).
The view did not disappoint either as the tower proved to be the tallest point
in the city from what I could see and we were able to take in the mountains
that surrounded us in nearly every direction. The sun was just beginning its
descent, clinging to the mountains in the west, hiding over the border in
Haiti. We then made our own descent and headed back to the rectory.
 |
| Looking south from the belltower |
Elvira
already had dinner prepared as we made our entrance into the courtyard and took
our seats at the table. Normally dinner resembles lunch with beans, rice,
chicken, and a salad filled with an assortment of fruits and vegetables
-avocado, lettuce, guava, mango, and papaya just to name a few. Tonight though
Elvira has made mashed plantains (that resemble and taste similar to mashed
potatoes) and pancakes. This is not a common Dominican meal and I think Elvira
is trying to appease us with something familiar to our American pallets.
Carlos, Gabriel, and Ney all join us and we all have a round of El Presidentes
to accompany our giant pancakes. I can honestly say I’m not the biggest fan of
beer and have instead been a hard cider connoisseur throughout my college
years, even experimenting with brewing my own batches of the “elixir of the
gods” but alas I seem to have a soft spot for Dominican beer and probably drank
more beer in those two weeks than in my college career thus far (After a hard
days work you deserve a beer or two, or three). Along with their beer
Dominicans also have a fine white rum called Brugal. I bought a bottle of this
at a gas station coming out of Santo Domingo and when mixed with some of their
soda (that uses real cane sugar and not any of this high fructose corn syrup
and artificial flavoring) it makes a splendid drink as well. On our trip home I
would use my then empty Brugal bottle as a water bottle since I gave my
stainless steel one to Alex, you should’ve seen the looks on some of the other
group members faces when they joined us on the bus to Santo Domingo and it
appeared I was sucking down rum in the wee morning hours since water and white
rum are indistinguishable.
 |
| Elvira cooking us pancakes |
We
finish our meal and it’s already well into the evening. Our Dominican dinners
normally take place at 7 at the earliest and as late as 8:30, a custom that may
or may not be universal throughout Dominican culture or perhaps we only follow
since this is the only time that Father Mike can join us for dinner. With the
food gone my group is enthralled in conversation as Carlos, Ney, and Gabriel
linger on the outer ring near me unable to follow the discussion. Coming from
mass and knowing what it’s like to feel lost linguistically I ask the guys if they
want to play a game of dominoes. After baseball, dominoes is probably the most
popular “sport” that is played in the Dominican similar to our fascination with
cards here in the states and yet exceedingly more prevalent. Whether in a rural
village or in a bustling park in Santo Domingo one will usually see a game of
dominoes being played. When driving in the bus from Santo Domingo in the middle
of the night we would routinely come upon men huddled in the middle of the
street playing a game under a lone street lamp. I picked up the basic rules
from playing with Carlos days earlier and it fairly simple to understand and
yet there are still situations that arise in which I suddenly win or lose and
have no knowledge why! We set up the table and Gabriel sits across from me,
making him my partner while Ney and Carlos sit to my left and right, the
opposing team. The key is to be the first to get rid of all of your dominoes by
adjoining the corresponding numbers from end to end with the pieces already in
play on the table. If you have the monopoly on a number you try to make that
number point towards the outside so that your opponents can’t play and have to
pass. If both of the edges that are in play end in a number that has been used
up (only 7 of each number from 0 to 6, 00, 01,02,03,04,05,06 etc.) then the
game ends immediately and the victor is whoever has the lowest amount of points
left in their hand. When a game ends whatever points are left in the 4 players
hands are combined and awarded to the winning team. The team that reaches 200 points
first, which usually takes a series of five to ten games, wins the match. There
is some gambling that surrounds dominoes but most seem to play for fun since
they have other means to feed their need to gamble with their money.
Bancas,
like dominoes and baseball, can be found even in the farthest reaches of the
campo and on roads where nothing but a few stick huts are standing. Originally
I believed since Banca translates directly into bank that these were a series
of banks for people to perhaps hold their money, invest it, maybe even take out
loans etc. but it was only after talking to Mike, a member of our group, that I
realized that Bancas were by no means banks but rather mini lottery
dispensaries where individuals can go to buy tickets for their chance at
winning the national drawing. Since there are no taxes, or if there are nobody
pays them and they can’t be enforced, the Dominican government set up these
“Bancas” that dot the entire island from Punta Cana in the east all the way to
Elias Pina in the west and in every village in between in order to lure
individuals into taking their chance at winning the national lottery. The setup
seems similar to something like our Powerball or Lotto where millions pay up
for a chance to be a millionaire but only a few or one will walk away with the
winnings. The real winner; however, seems to be the government as this is one
of their prime forms of funding the country without any taxes. Since Bancas are
so valuable to them they have placed them everywhere, with multiple ones on a
single street. As I said before I only ever saw two bakeries in Elias Pina but
I probably saw two dozen Bancas. You can spot a Banca from far away due to
their bright colors and fresh coats of paint that are maintained from the funds
they bring in and are kept up to attract more customers. They are nothing more
than little shacks, similar in size to the Peluqueria where I got my hair cut
but the room is cut in half where an attendant stands behind bars/glass to take
your money and give you your ticket. I’m surprised that individuals who already
seem to lack money for themselves and their families would throw it away on
something like gambling but I guess it’s no different than our own culture and
those who would set a little money aside and place their faith in luck and the
chance to be rich rather than simply using it to better themselves over time. So in a way I guess maybe I wasn’t wrong, an
institution in bed with the government that takes people’s money and gives it
to some higher ups in power, sounds like a bank to me.
Ney
lays down his last domino and we count out our remaining pieces, twenty-six,
Carlos cheers as he and Ney cross the 200 point threshold and seal their
victory. I tell them we should have a rematch since I’m finally understanding
the strategy of the game with help from Gabriel. Carlos tells us he would but
that he’s going to head home now and that tomorrow we will play again with the
same teams. We bid him farewell, and Ney, Gabrielle, and I are sitting around
the domino table in an awkward silence, sipping on our cerveza. Ney, fully
slouching in his chair, looks up at me and asks if I want to go to the disco. I
look at Gabrielle, he shrugs in a manner suggesting he’d be willing to go and I
say “vamos”!
Now
I had only heard rumors about the disco before my first venture there a few
nights earlier with Ney. My dad along with Father Mike had said it served as a
front for the solicitation of prostitution, that it was a place for immoral
dancing, and that alcohol was consumed there by the gallon and that I should by
no means travel there. Needless to say these warnings brought to mind visions
of European night clubs or what I imagined spring break in Cancun would look
like and being a twenty one year old college student threats of prostitutes, dirty
dancing, and booze aren’t the best way to scare you off! I didn’t plan on
participating in any of these activities if the rumors turned out to be true
when I got there but hey I figured to fully capture the Dominican experience I
should at least check it out; liken it to Adam and the forbidden fruit. I also
wanted to finally see the source of the music that had been blasting into my
bedroom every night for well over a week.
Well
I’m sorry to disappoint folks but there were no prostitutes at the disco (or
any women for that matter) which also meant there was no dancing. Instead it
resembled any hole in the wall bar that you might happen upon in the States; a
bunch of guys sitting around drinking beer, conversing over the sound of the
music, and watching the baseball games on the two TVs above the bar. It was by
no means the house of ill repute for which it had been wrongly labeled. Just
goes to show sometimes you need to be a trailblazer and not mind all the
heightened threats/warnings/misinformation surrounding a person or a place and
just need to give it a chance and make your own judgments from your experience.
Lord knows that if I hadn’t gone to the disco and come back that night to tell
everyone the truth about it we would’ve all left Elias Pina still thinking we
were living right around the corner of a brothel night club when it was just a
neighborhood bar.
Ney, Gabriel, and I exit the rectory and walk
upon the street and for the first time all day I can actually say that I am a
bit chilly as a slight breeze sends my shirt willowing behind me. While many
from my group are already preparing for bed the city is still very much awake
as most people are out on the street or at least sitting in front of their
houses perhaps due to the lack of tv’s/entertainment inside their homes, the
fact that this is the one time of the day you can lounge about outside without
feeling the heat of the sun, or because everyone seems to know each other and
this is when and where they socialize after a long day. We continue around the
corner and in the same time it would take me to walk to our worksite I’m at the
disco. We go up the stairs and enter into the open air bar where a canopy hangs
down at a level allowing a certain degree of privacy still (perhaps this is why
the rumors persisted for so long since you could not see what was actually
taking place in the disco but heard solely the music and assumed the worst).
Ney, as usual heads to the bar and orders us one beer, it’s a 60 ouncer, almost
a half gallon, and we split it three ways. We make our way over to the lawn
chairs they have set out and sit down facing the two pool tables they have set
up so that we have some entertainment. Once again there are a group of older men
at the bar watching baseball while all the younger guys are playing or watching
pool just like the night I last visited. I’m surprised at how well all of these
young men are dressed as they dress better than most people in the states that
go out to bars for the nightlife, although after visiting the disco multiple
nights I realize they only have one or two pairs of nice clothing and keep
wearing the same outfits. Skinny jeans, dress shoes, and designer shirts from
American Eagle or Aeropostale, whether at the basketball court or at the bar
these guys seem to always try and look their best.
We’re watching two games being played and I
notice the game taking place further to the back is being played between guys
who can’t be much older than 16 heck I’d call them kids and then I remember
Gabriel telling me that there is no drinking age in the DR or that it’s not
enforced so kids are allowed to frequent the disco if they appear mature
enough. As I watch these young guys play I can’t help but notice how talented
each and every one of them is. Many of these teenagers and young men are
probably in the same spot as Gabriel as far as being unemployed and having
nothing to do with their time, so they seem to spend their free time playing
pool every day at the disco, and it shows. Watching them reminds me of those
professionals I used to see on ESPN, where they have utter control of the cue
ball, by putting on different types of spin and making shots that seem
impossible with the ball sometimes banking multiple times before finding its
target. When the game finishes the victor asks me if I want to play, I tell him
I’m horrible and he smiles and hands me the cue anyway. I can tell that a
repeat in basketball is coming and that my luck is the only thing that will
save me from my horrible technique and years of having not played. I’m happy to
have gotten at least a few of my striped balls in before the game is over as my
opponent only takes a few turns before hitting a hot streak and putting in four
of his balls, including the 8 ball playing last pocket, in a single turn. He
then selects another competitor from the crowd and I leave with my ego still
relatively intact as well as without having lost any money since the disco
keeps the tables unlocked saving you the hassle of spending all your quarters
to play like in the States.
I return to my seat, pick up my drink, bring
it to my lips, and scan the disco. There’s a whole other room adjoined to the
bar/billiard area that serves as a dance floor and lacks the open air design but
is instead enclosed from the outside by walls made of some sort of stone.
There’s no one on the dance floor and yet the DJ continues to blast music from
the speakers that are mounted on the far walls next to an enormous TV that
shows the music videos of the songs being played. The stone walls seem to act
as a sort of funnel that merely amplifies the music and makes it impossible for
me to hear anyone or anything else in the entire disco without walking up to
them and having them shout directly into my ears. Add in the fact that they’re
speaking a different language and communication is indeed hopeless. Ney,
Gabriel, and I continue to sit next to eachother but being unable to talk I
find myself watching the videos on the screen while continuing to drink up my
cerveza. While watching the videos I begin to see a disturbing pattern that
I’ve also noted in other forms of pop culture in the Dominican, no not that the
women in the videos are scantily clad but the fact that all these famed women,
and men too, are white or light skinned.
 |
| Leo's shop was just one of the many places where I noticed there were only pictures of white women on the walls |
This past semester I was actually enrolled in
a sociology of race class with one of our case studies being the situation of
the Haitian and Dominican people, both of whom by American standards are
“black” and yet within the country of the Dominican Republic almost nobody self
identifies as such. This is partly due to the fact that they don’t simply
classify themselves as black and white as is common in the states but also
stems from the association “blackness” has with the generally darker skinned
Haitian people, whom many Dominicans still have contempt for given their
countries bloody past conflicts and the fact that Haitians are seen by many as
an economic threat, apparently coming over the border and undercutting Dominicans for
labor, (sounds familiar eh?). Race has no true biological basis since it is an
ambiguous and evolving social construction and yet one cannot help but notice a
“hierarchy” of whiteness in popular Dominican culture. The sense of superiority
that Dominicans feel over Haitians may not come entirely from race or racism but
rather their economic superiority and yet when you look at political and
economic success solely within Dominican society it seems whiteness is a better
indicator of status than anything else. One need only look at the posters of
politicians that are plastered on walls around the city from the recent
elections (all of whom were light skinned), or the models on billboards or in
advertisements in the newspapers (everyone white), or even the posters of women
men had on their walls (all of them light skinned or white), and you begin to
wonder why this aversion to blackness and celebration of whiteness when the
vast majority of Dominicans have just as dark of skin as Haitians and share no
resemblance with the light skinned pop culture images of celebrities, models,
and politicians. A quick look at history and one can trace the current racial
trends to the regimented forms of racial hierarchy and discrimination
implemented by colonial Spain, nearly five hundred years ago, as a way of
dividing and conquering the peoples of Hispanola. The casta system implemented
by Spain determined your social rank based on how pure your blood was, the more
European you were the higher, while the more Indian or African blood you had the
lower you were. While this official caste system is no longer in place one can
still see the ramifications of its imposition upon the island (comparable to
our own story of the abolition of slavery and the segregation and racial
discrimination that still followed/follows). And while there was a slight
disapproval of Haitians by some, similar to how some nativists here may make
comments about Mexicans and other immigrants, as well as a racial hierarchy that no
one seemed to acknowledge but was all too apparent to me, I saw no true
“racism” from my young counterparts. Some were Haitian and some were Dominican
(dark and light skinned) and overall I could not tell their country of origin
apart nor did it matter to me, nor should it. And while these young men were still
bombarded by images regarding whiteness as better than darkness and
subsequently had crushes on white American girls they nonetheless did not show
the same animosity in regards to each other’s countries of origins or each
other’s skin color, integrating freely. All in all it didn’t seem that any
individuals were actually racist but that they were merely surrounded by a
culture that subliminally voiced an opinion about skin color that they were all
utterly unaware of since no one seemed to beg the question "hey why are there absolutely no images of darker skinned people when we are ourselves mostly darker skinned."
 |
| Michael and Alex are both Haitian and yet they are indistinguishable from any of my Dominican friends |
My
cup is empty, no mas cervezas, and I look over at Ney and Gabriel both of whom
are lost in thought the same way I just had been. I think the exhaustion of the
day is finally catching up to me as I let out a long yawn and proceed to tap
Ney on the leg and shout over the music that I want to go. He relays the
message to Gabriel and we all get up and exit the disco. Back out on the street
the music is still blaring but at least I can hear myself think again as the
bass is far more subdued away from the reverberating walls of the dance floor. People
are still out and about and a second sound system joins the discos as a car
blares music in the park but amid the chaos a sense of tranquility comes upon
me. Perhaps its from the contentment of a day well spent with friends and
knowing that there are more to follow or maybe it’s because my belly is full of
El Presidente, but walking back down the street to the rectory I can’t help but
smile and feel a sense of carelessness and joyfulness that I haven’t felt in a
very long time. Perhaps this is what it is like to be Dominican for a day.
We reach the rectory and each go our own way.
I shut the door behind me quietly, like a teen sneaking back home after his
curfew has expired, and make my way upstairs. I crawl into bed and begin
retracing my day and within minutes the rhythmic beat of the bass of the disco
lulls me to sleep.
 |
| Back: Steven, Wayne, Mike, Tom Front: Cal, Kathy Dos, Joe A, Joe W, Kathy, Joel, Father Mike |
 |
| Personal Ethos of my trip |
