Crisp Refreshments

With our time in the Dominican Republic coming swiftly to an end, Matteson and I worried our chances to experience the widely popular waterfalls in the mountains of Limon were becoming unlikely.

Fortunately, Library founder Jose Bourget and his wife sensed the panic in our voice as we repeatedly expressed our desire to hike the falls before taking off for home. We tried to sound cool and suave, but let’s be honest. If you know us, you know we’re not good hiding our feelings.

And sure, we could have gone alone, but Jose made it clear the price alone was $50/person, but to travel with him, as a Dominican, would only cost us $10. With little extra to spend, the wait was worth it.

Finally on Sunday morning Jose, Annette, and their two children (Ana-Evelynn and Kiran) picked us up in their truck for a bumpy, dangerously curvy ride through the mountains of Limon. We picked up two exuberant German girls on the way – Leah and Coco – and they rode with long, terrified expressions in the back of the truck. We arrived at the house of Senora Josefina, an elderly widow who lost her leg years ago to infection, has too many children and grandchildren to count, and owns a large piece of farm land where they have established hiking paths to the falls. The house and barn shared land with chickens and pigs running wild, an oversized rooster strutting the property, and a mean dog that three-year-old Ana-Evelynn could not stop smooching. Through the chaos we followed Jose into Senora Josefina’s home where they greeted one another as old friends. Apparently he has been using her services to the falls for nearly six years now.

Offered by the business of Senora Josefina are: Horses to ride the trails, a tour guide for each horse, muddy, wonderfully slick paths to the falls, and at the end of the excursion a traditional Dominican Republic meal.

Annette and Ana-Evelynn rode one horse and Kiran rode another to the falls while the rest of us opted to hike. Some warned us the hike would be incredibly difficult, others described it as a piece of cake. With history of long, buggy hikes in our past, we chanced for an easy walk, overestimated our strength and opted to travel “a pie”, Spanish for “by foot”.

Good news, the hike was a cinch. Four hills, two creeks and 45 minutes later we were at the first of the falls, overwhelmed by the chilled air and beauty of it all. Two minutes later our group of eight had stripped to suits and were swimming over jagged rocks to the falls, then to the cave beyond.

The next fall was larger, with men charging entrance at the top. The stairwell down was actually just an extremely dangerous length of boulders assembled to slightly resemble a stairwell. It took nearly 20 minutes to ascend the steep stairs as it wrapped rock next to the incredibly large waterfall. I’d guess its height measured 200 hundred meters, but you can check with Rick Steves to be sure.

We swam in the falls for hours, back and forth, with the current and against, like little kids at a water park. There were places for high jumps, too, and smaller falls to explore. The smaller falls were only accessible after crossing the larger by a path of slick rocks a few inches below water, keeping balance with a rope tied between trees.

Our excursion was everything we had hoped for. We left the falls chilled and exhausted. Ending our trip at Senora Josefina’s, we sat down to an incredible meal. The fried yucca tasted like an improved potato wedge. We also had fried, salted plantains, a fresh avocado and tomato salad, savory chicken and a mix of rice and beans. All washed down with a cold Presidente and we were satisfied. Our muscles worked, our eyes droopy and our stomachs full, we sat for another hour sipping coffee from Senora Josefina’s farm. In a cup made for espresso shots – no room for milk – the coffee was dark, thick, and delicious. Turns out everything from our meal but the Presidente was planted and raised on Senora Josefina’s farmland. Jose pointed out her field of almond trees, grapefruit, plantains, coffee beans, cocoa plants, sugar canes, avocados, and so forth. And that chicken we enjoyed was the one we had stepped over earlier upon our arrival.

Thank goodness I’m not vegetarian.

Knocking Next Door

What’s a home without neighbors? Always there to keep an eye out for trespassers, a friend to share lunch with, to take long walks around the neighborhood, to gossip, exchange family stories, and so forth. In good neighborly conduct, a basket of home baked cookies or a sweet pie is offered when new families move next door. Sugar is shared, maybe a cup of flower or a bit of milk. It’s not much different here in Las Terrenas. We share the things we don’t need, the free gifts we receive (occasionally) in excess, books we have already read, and anything else appropriate. But never did we assume our friendly Haitian neighbors would suppress their pride long enough to request financial assistance. It took all of five minutes for the doe-eyed young woman we’ve been sharing gifts with to tell her story. In halted Spanish she explained, “We do not all work, I do not work. Do you have a job? We have to pay for house, can you help? Do you need me to work for you? Will you help us?” She batted her eyes once, twice, fiddled with the fencing, and waited for my response.

I’ll admit she hit me dead-on with that sympathy card. Though I’m skilled at confrontation, it is difficult to say no to anyone with less than I have. Here, Matteson and I have very little to share, but what’s $5 to us is $50 to our neighbors. So I hesitated. And you should have seen her perfected pout. Then I realized, ‘If You Give a Mouse a Cookie…’ Remember that book? After $5, will they believe when we say we don’t have more to spare? Will they see what we have through the windows, assume it is unnecessary, and try their luck at crawling inside and getting it for themselves?

Over and over it’s been explained to us: Las Terrenas is a safe place with wonderful, beautiful, kind people. But a bad economy hits this town hard, and a few years of hunger makes stealing more and more tempting – even to the kindest of locals.

So I said no. We’ll give them our extra fruit, the pans we don’t use, the leftover food that may go to waste, and a book here and there. We’ll offer them our free English lessons at the library and anything else we can. Even a cup of sugar - if we had any. We will keep saying hello, making small talk. But for however I can justify not giving up any extra money we have for them, the guilt isn’t going anywhere and no extra amount of bananas is going to make it disappear.

International Fair

Last weekend we enjoyed three long days of Las Terrenas’ annual “Etno Mix!” From morning ‘til night the local’s hot spot, playa Punta Popi, was wafting incredible scents of global cuisine across the sea. There was Spanish paella, German goulash, Italian pasta, French crepes and American hotdogs. The Dominican’s had a booth loaded with the nation’s prized beer served from the freezer, Presidente (comparable to Key Stone Light from a college basement keg), along with fresh hotdogs on a stick. Not corndogs, but naked dogs, somehow different from the U.S. booth’s hotdogs because these are ordered as “Chinchillas”, the Spanish name for the exact same sausage of rejected meat. And chinchillas have mayo. Yum.

There was a Haitian booth with, unfortunately, the same meals offered three blocks down at a local Dominican restaurant. To make up for less interesting food was their rum. Though we didn’t personally make a purchase (a limited budget means we made a choice for French Pate instead), we got a taste along with a great story. The rum served has always been high-class, but its popularity has skyrocketed since the earthquake shattered all means of producing it, along with half of all bottles remaining.

Unable to enjoy all the fun, Matteson and I were asked to work two shifts, taking charge of the burgers, beers, and Statue of Liberty. Aware of his burger-flipping talent back stateside, Matteson was assigned grill-duty. This included but was not limited to a fresh spatula, a seat behind the booth, one Budweiser (a definite upgrade from the usual Presidente) and, brace yourself, an American flag apron. He wore it as any good housewife would.

I proudly stood front and center beside the “I Heart America” sign and took full charge of the money-holding fanny pack, with just enough pockets for every peso there is. There are a lot, mind you. 1, 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, 200, 500, 1000… and I had a zipper for each.

While working, we had the opportunity to meet a delightful mix of some of the most interesting American’s I will ever have the pleasure of meeting – and hope never to meet again. One preached of a better nation, claiming to be a “citizen of the world” with a “passion for peace,” though every comment of his was tainted with curse words, prejudices, racism and a bit of spit. Say it don’t spray it, buddy. Another went on and on about black and white, though at first I couldn’t tell if he was speaking English or Spanish. By the time I realized it was English, I couldn’t decipher if he was discussing people or checkerboards. 

Outside our booth, the Etno Mix was as exciting (but felt much safer). The colors were brilliant; booths decorated with endless flags and posters of self-identification, falsely edited photos for promotion, fact books and, of course, the occasional downed power line. At night the lights were bright and the music vibrated our innards, gladly. Hiding behind a large speaker - so our library kids wouldn’t pull us into the swarm of flailing limbs - we watched all ages jump along to the local version of Hannah Montana. Except her voice was raspier, her hair darker, and her breasts far too large to be doing hops and skips. The kids loved her enough not to notice, but her outfit looked like some mix between a Hansel & Gretel and Candy Striper’s Halloween costume. Every audience member under the age of 15 was captivated by what we, Matteson and I, agreed to be a nauseating mash-up of oranges, yellows, stripes and glitter on a puffy skirted dress and frilly laced sleeves. As I stood there taking in all the chaos I realized – I must be getting older. I  remember the days when Lance Bass’ bleached, spiked hair was just to die for, and the soprano pipes of Nick Carter were, like totally, perfection.

Beyond the stage were boys wrestling in the sand, couples on the beach, and girls in every pose begging for friends to take their photo. Behind the crowd across the water was constant heat-lightening, brightening the grounds and the mountains beyond.

It was quite an event we were lucky to enjoy, once a year in Las Terrenas.

Abundance of Beauty

Most of you have probably already heard: the U.S. moves too fast. We know patience is a virtue, family time is valued, and hard work with no play means a heart attack at the ripe age of 55. But the pace is addicting, and our attraction to competition means we’re not slowing down ‘til Mr. Jones does first.

But maybe if we had [public] white sand beaches, crystal-clear oceans and large shady palms to rest under, siestas wouldn’t be so foreign. And maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t care to keep up with those Jones’.

The Dominican Republic may have a very poor population. Their streets may be jagged, their stray dogs rampant and their structure nonexistent. Despite it all, I’m beginning to realize they are incredibly wealthy in ways we discount in the U.S. Their soil is luscious – take a twig from a tree and stick it in the ground and in weeks you’ll have leaves sprouting. One mango seed planted in your backyard – no maintenance required – yields endless, delicious fruit. See a bush you’d like in your garden? Cut a few leaves from the plant, stick them in the ground, and there you have it. Compared to Minnesota, it seems impossibly magical.

Bananas, oranges, lemons and limes, almonds, cherries, guavas, pineapples, and mangos are among the fruits in endless supply, year round. Looking for protein (besides the almonds)? Down every street a local butcher is slicing and dicing meat killed, cut and cleaned just this morning only a few blocks away. It’s as local and organic as you can get. Looking for an item to sell on the go? Juices are easy and inexpensive to make, yet delicious enough for tourists to pay ridiculous amounts for.

Mix the foods up with the colors of sarongs and bright buildings and, looking past the crumbling cement walls, you’ve got yourself paradise. Homes hardly need windows because the breeze is worth the mosquito bites, and lizards will find their way in no matter what you’ve built. Laundry is washed and hung to dry, and if it’s a rainy morning? Don’t sweat it – by afternoon the clouds will clear and the clothes will dry. Actually, rainfalls hardly last long enough to grab an umbrella – you can wait the rain out under an awning and hardly waste any time.

So while we see them as a poor group of people, with outside influence of fancy TV’s and speedy vespas, these locals would realize how wealthy they are. No wonder the land was so hungrily sought after.

     

     

Everyone's a Mama

Here in Las Terrenas we’ve had enough discussion of teenage pregnancy, and we’ve seen enough teenage pregnant bellies to dispute the assumption that it’s common and commonly accepted. But our time with prepubescent girls at the library has allowed us to understand another side to the equation. Girls aren’t just getting pregnant because because they don’t know better, or because sex = money and that’s that. Peer pressure is seemingly a major motivator.

Ever seen the Lifetime movie “Pregnancy Pact”? Unfortunately, I have. And as surprising as the event was in the states, I can’t imagine it making even headlines in Las Terrenas.

Here’s what I mean. At the library any given day we tend to have 15 to 20 of the same girls, ages 6-11. Though I expect these girls to read and play freely and run around making messes of their projects – and don’t get me wrong, some do – there is a handful who take it upon themselves to be overly helpful. While others are beading, they’re cleaning up. If 6 year olds are misbehaving, a couple 10 year olds will grab their hands and lead them to a corner in the library to read to them. They independently host story hour with the younger children and practice reading. It’s wonderful, but I can’t help feeling sorry they’re missing their own fun.

I continuously question their home life. Most say they enjoy school, but they love helping their mother clean and cook because it’s easy. In addition, more than I’d like to count have happily admitted there are days they miss school. I’m appalled but try to conceal my shock when they calmly state, “Of course, my mother works and I look after my sisters.”

Wait a second – you’re 10 years old and you stay home with your siblings? Most 10 year olds in the states aren’t even trusted to care for themselves, let alone a less capable child!

In addition, some young girls show up with their siblings in tow. Naiobi is 10 years old and every afternoon she strolls in with a bottle in hand and her 2-year-old sister trailing behind her.

Other days, 10-year-old Surieli shows up with her 4-month-old niece for an afternoon of projects while the mother of the baby, Surieli’s 16-year-old sister, works at a restaurant nearby. Even if Surieli has homework to get done, there’s the baby on her lap always working to distract her. What surprises me further is that plenty of the other young girls and boys (Stephen especially) are happy to help out. Even students Surieli doesn’t know (I’ve asked) will reach over and take the baby off her hands. What I’m thinking is, wouldn’t you rather be playing Uno?

So while I’m considering the consequences and missed opportunities due to teenage pregnancy, these young girls don’t mind the household to-do’s, and by age 10 they are their own mother. Most of these girls are incredibly smart, but what we dismay as irresponsible parenting is what we may come to understand as a building point for family education – these girls are impressively responsible.

A Stroll Through Town

Take a walk with me through Las Terrenas. We see quite a bit more than my camera can capture; men on motoconchos with televisions on their laps, families of four on a single vespa, maybe a dog in front with paws on the handle bars. There are dogs everywhere, large and small, and it seems they got the memo that any gringo – any foreigners at all – will share money and food if they beg long enough. Jokes on them, we tend not to have leftovers.

On our 30-minute walk from Casa Paz to the library we follow a single road, one of two main one-ways in Las Terrenas. We pass over the cool running creek on a crumbling bridge the width of my soldiers – to misstep would be a 10 foot fall into the same water locals use to bathe, clean laundry, and relieve themselves. We cross the street and follow the one-way past a few small “restaurants” serving on the patios of family homes with delicious local cuisine at low rates made cafeteria style and served at whatever large tables they could piece together: plastic, chipped wood, card tables, whatever. Then past a delicious French bakery and café with a well-shaded patio and low-priced espresso. Over a few potholes and we continue on past more family stores selling second-hand clothes with the likes of Abercrombie & Fitch, Old Navy, Gap, and numerous U.S. university T’s. Some are open windows with a sign in front and a case or two of empanadas or homemade deserts. Behind the window is a family kitchen, maybe a single room with a stove and a bed, maybe a dining table.

Beside the shops along the road the ‘sidewalk’ crumbles in places and curves this way and that at strange angles. There is no rule on the alignment of homes and buildings – I can’t imagine how any perfectionist could handle a stroll through town without a couple panic attacks. If there’s a single level in this town no one bothers to use it. I like to think of the chaos as creative construction.

Every day we see more kids; babies crawling on the pavement near the streets with stray dogs waltzing over them and toddlers climbing the loose wires and unkempt properties or unfinished building projects. Oh, and the downed power lines? We’re still waiting for a story to come out of those – they’re everywhere!

Between the shops and crawling naked babies are old women soaking their feet on the sidewalk, a baby in their lap and another one or two nearby. Not their children, of course, most likely grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Mixed amongst these sights

are a number of large lots piled top to bottom with beautiful Caribbean paintings. I can’t help but stare, though every time we pass we get haggled by one artist or another, desperate for a sale. I wish I could help them because their work is beautiful. Unfortunately, someone forgot to mention to these guys that posting three different “galleries” on a single street corner makes for fewer sales and higher competition. Oh well, the view is fabulous. We also pass along apartment buildings, bright hotels, grocery stores and beautiful patios filled with overgrown palms and tempting scents of freshly baked bread, smoked chicken, and well-seasoned rice and beans.

The most miraculous of our walks is a fact on Las Terrenas we recently learned. The old women we see? They definitely weren’t schooled. Their children weren’t either, unless they could afford to pay for a private bus to drive them at four in the morning over the mountains to the only school in the area. And all these little restaurants we pass? They’ve doubled and tripled in the past ten years after local effort was made to create small-loan programs (unfortunately the programs are based on minimal government funds and foreign donations, so while they are helpful, the money is inconsistent). Just ten years ago not a single road was paved and there was not one local school beyond 3^rd grade. Education is basically brand-spanking new, as are the crumbling sidewalks (interesting). And those downed power lines we see? Just 16 years ago the government built the first power line in Las Terrenas. Before that, there had never been electricity in this town. Even after it was offered, the idea of purchasing something they’d never needed before seemed ridiculous and was very slowly accepted.

So for all my pompous comments on how many ways Las Terrenas is behind the U.S. they’re evolving quickly and I can’t blame them for having difficulty keeping up. While the slanted houses and crumbling sidewalks drive me crazy some days, the brightly colored clothes and beautiful paintings, the palm trees and the laughing naked babies make it worth the walk. 

A Street View

Local Apparel Shop

The Corner Store

A Painter's Studio

Monday's Reflection

Can you believe it’s October already? I can’t. That’s probably because here, the leaves are still on the trees, green as ever, and the mangos are ripe and the ocean is warm. Oh, and its about 95 degrees – a bit different from the autumns I’m used to enjoying. And as I sit here, typing in my swimsuit with sweat dripping from my temples, I can’t imagine anything better.

Except an agenda. That’s right, I can hardly stand a day without to-do lists and planners, let alone a month. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. But I’m beginning to realize why nothing works out here quite the way I want it to. First and foremost, I’m working in a timeless community where clocks are rarely operating and watches are accessories, not necessities. To be on time is optional, not obligatory, and no matter the words used, even if one says “I promise to visit,” there seems to be no sense of commitment, nor any expectation they’ll show. Furthermore, I am working with children so a day perfectly planned with detailed instructions and activities quickly turns to chaos once kids are involved. And really, what purpose would the activities have if I did them by myself? So while kids are necessary participants, I can’t help but feel grateful to have made it past age 16 without a child, unlike many girls we see in these parts. Truth be told, they’ve expressed sympathy when they hear I am 22 years old without kids. Here some women seem to believe I’ve become useless, with nothing to show after living my prime years.

In response I try to explain that I do have quite a bit to show for my prime years; a high school diploma, a college degree, and possibly a future career at some point (cross your fingers!).  But without an education, women here have explained to me the of use children to prove their worth – like an instant family, someone who will always look up to you no matter what you have or haven’t done. I get it, and here is a big cheers to education.

Alright, I digress. Back to that part about an agenda. Matteson’s sister has a friend here in the Peace Corp, Kenzie, who warned us we’d be bored. She said that while Las Terrenas is beautiful, it’s slow moving. Perfect for vacations, but two months is a long time in a vacation spot.

I couldn’t agree more with Kenzie, but as the weeks go on Matteson and I find more forms of entertainment amongst the calm and beauty of Las Terrenas. And while a city life is a blast, I believe that’s what the rest of my life will consist of: the hustle and bustle of busy city life. So why not take a break before it all begins?

What a great idea – a break! Bummer is, following through with the idea and actually relaxing is another thing entirely. My parents have taught me to do many things well; to take initiative, to work hard, to learn whenever possible, and to be nice to others. But one lesson they forgot was how to make the most of nothing – how to sit - just to sit - and enjoy. Matteson has the same problem. But as the time passes without agendas, internet access or TV shows, we get better at enjoying each day as it is.

And that’s the difference between Las Terrenas and Minnesota (or MI or any other of the states).  In MN, we tend not to appreciate today as much as tomorrow’s prospects. We’re always looking ahead to what’s bigger, brighter and better. I graduated from school and could hardly appreciate the days without homework because the spare time only meant one thing – unemployment. And who was I if I was unemployed? But what I failed to realize is the time I spent learning about myself. And what I’m realizing now is how lucky I am to have time here at all; even if there are moments we don’t know what to do with.

So while I’m a list-maker, note-taker, agenda focused gal, I can’t help but appreciate the challenge of enjoying these hot, sticky days with a whole new set of responsibilities. My tasks are with children, for children, rather than by myself for my future, for adults and for companies. There’s no internet for research, no lesson plans to print, no websites to evaluate or press releases to catch up on. It’s us and them, and each activity evolves in reaction to the character of whomever is participating. Now there’s an adventure!

About a Race

Throughout these four weeks we have done a lot of observing of cultural norms and have explained quite a bit on the blog regarding where they throw out their trash (or don’t), where they live, how they work, and so forth. One thing I have purposely delayed writing about is something I have yet to fully understand: the racism.

Some would say everyone in the D.R. is dark skinned. Compared to Matteson and I, this is true. But the tint of one’s skin is entirely relative. Everyone is a shade of something, whether it’s white or cream or beige or tan or light tan, dark tan, light brown, brown, dark brown, or black. But the darkest are the Haitians, and here to be labeled Haitian is not a statement, but an accusation.

We live next door to what we’ve now counted to be, at most, 10 illegal Haitians. They’re quite poor, and most of the 10 don’t work, but we chat in the morning and get along fine. Unfortunately, not everyone is so kind.

Haiti and the Dominican Republic have had political tension over hundreds of years on border disputes and government ruling. Without getting into too much detail in fear of getting a wrong fact (with no text book available and limited internet time), I’ll discuss what it boils down to in today’s world, as we observe it: racism at its finest, with building tensions.

We first noticed it at a nearby beach Saturday afternoon. We were stationed in front of a predominantly Italian-owned condominium complex, next to four elderly Italians basking in the sun. As the Italians were slowly packing up, a group of 15 Haitians and 4 French Canadian Jehovah’s Witnesses piled out of minivans with a small grill, a bucket of fish and some soccer balls. They drew a small “court” in the sand and aligned 4 coconuts as goals, two on either side of the court. They asked most around them for extra room, including us, so we scooted our towels over to avoid sand in our eyes. They were fun to watch, clearly enjoying themselves, men of all ages and a few little girls kicking the ball around.

Well, the Italians decided then that they weren’t going anywhere. Instead, they approached a security worker from their condominium complex, exchanged a number of harshly spoken words accompanied by waving arms and accusing fingers directed toward the “intruders”. Eventually, they had their way. The security man nodded, marched into the middle of the soccer game, and firmly warned the boys once about whose property they were playing on. The whole party came to a halt and while the Italians – the only other people nearby the game - headed inside, the game was shifted down the beach.

Trick is, none of the beaches are privately owned. Technically, everyone has a right to play soccer where they so choose. But when you’re unofficially considered second tier to the wealthy tourists, you’re expected to accommodate.

Later on the following week we observed an interaction between two young girls at the library which solidified our assumptions of apparent racism in Las Terrenas. The girls were no older than 8, sharing crayons and spending down time in the library. Somewhere between “Pass me the red” and, suddenly, tears, we came to understand one called the other Haitian – enough to make the room go silent, the kids mouths gaped open in awe. It’s worse than when they yell English swearwords at each other, I guess.

So even the youngest locals have learned darker skin is something to look down on. And the thing is, the difference they see between tan skin and brown skin is unfathomable to me – the Haitians may speak French, but as appearance goes there are plenty “lighter” as there are “darker”. Plus, as far as I can tell, the Haitians and locals both seem to have the same bright smiles.