El Campo II: Limonal

Returned from my se

cond campo stay yesterday. This was the one with the group, not with my family. We arrived on

Tuesday morning in Limonal, about 20 minutes from Jarabacoa. We drove through the campo dropping people off, and I ended up being last. I lived with Maridalia and her grandson. His parents live not far away in Limonal, but he lives with Maridalia now so that she's not alone. The house is pretty similar to the house in Manabao, but the part with the bedrooms is made completely of block, whereas the house in Manabao is a block foundation with

wood walls. Also, the outside

kitchen is its own building, and in between there is a nice porch

area where we ate our meals.

Everyday people stopped by--sons, sister, neices, grandkids, friends. It was pretty fun; we'd eat lunch together, sit and talk, sit

and play dominoes. I liked my doña (Mari) a lot. She told me when I first arrived that she wasn't very nice; I wasn't really sure how to respond to that though. I giggled. But she is, in fact, very nice. She's pretty laid back--she basically told me to come home whenever--I felt

like she let me run on my own schedule. The first day she saw that I didn't eat much meat, so the next day she just didn't make any. I was pretty happy with that--not that the meat here isn't good (mostly chicken criolla, sometimes pork or beef), it's just way more that I'm used to. Most days we would allgo over to each

others' houses to visit. Occasionally we'd call each other, but w/o

cell phone service in some houses, it was easier to just

show up. So we'd walk through the campo (the 2 streets of it) picking people up gradually and eventually all congregate at someone's house

for a study session

or a party. We'd hang out and either play dominoes or dance, or both. It was really fun and I

loved the relaxed atmosphere of these times with our small group and some of our families.

I'm doing pretty well at dominoes these days, and we practiced merengue, bachata, and a little bit of salsa. It was great.

We were given ridiculous amouts of food. Any time you visited someone, even for an interview, or to pick up a friend, you were offered pop

or coffee or juice or cake or

dulces. One woman sent me home from an interview with a

bag of bananas. Once we were sitting at

a closed colmado waiting for friends, and a boy from the

house across the street brought us dulce de coco. I'm not sure I've ever experienced a more welcoming atmosphere! And Gail & Janel's doña made dulce de mani--officially

one of the best things I've ever tasted! They learned how to make it and told me, so I'll give it a shot later.

Both Wednesday and Thursday I went to Salto de Jimenoa--a really

cool waterfall not far from Limonal. Wednesday I went with two of my host cousins

--both pretty young mothers--and the four-year-old

son of one of them. I'm really glad I did this for the chance to spend time with my family. At

the waterfall we skipped rocks and, after Waniel was done being shy, he and I

made "cakes"

in the sand.

Oh, and by the way,

this was the first time I'd ridden on a motorcycle!

Terrifying.

I was sure we were going to crash and die, and Yunina was even going slowly forme. Anyway I did make it there and back in one piece.

On the way back, we

stopped at Wendy and Waniel's house. Now, at this point, I was still bitter about my camera

being stolen from the clinic, even after finding out Megan's computer was stolen from her house. Anyway, we stopped and sat on the little porch and she brought us crackers and juice. I could tell the house was small, but couldn't get a look inside. "So this is where I live...for now," she said. Then we began to explain. Here's the

story I managed to piece together:

About four years ago, Wendy and her husband were living in a nice house (similar to what my house in Jarabacoa looks like) up the hill. They had a son. They wanted

to move to the States for better opportunities

for themselves and Waniel, so a year later Wendy's

husband moved to New

York--as so many men do--to try to establish residency. Though he was trained as an odontologist, he

wasn't able to keep a job in that field and ended up working in a place that prints brochures. In the early spring

of this year, Wenday and much of the family were at Maridalia's house to be with Mari's grandpa--

Wendy and Yunina's great-grandpa--as he died

(Mari's parents had

died in recent years

as well). Wendy's husband was home for a time and was with Waniel. While at Mari's, Wendy got a call that her house was on fire. Thinking her husband and son were in danger, she rushed home. They were not there ("Grac

ias a Dios," she said) but everything in the house was gone.

She showed me photos. Everything was black. They floor was covered in debris, there were jagged holes where doorways had be

en. Bedsprings stuck up out of a charred mass. A set of shelves seemed to have nearly survived

the fire--the items on it had not. Sorting through the rubble, they

found a few things. Wendy's husband's backpack had survived--this meant he still had his passport andpapers, and luckily, could still return to New York to work. Wendy's papers were destroyed--meaning she must go through the

arduous task of applying for them again. Waniel's passport and residency card were intact--she showed them to me--but

charred such that they still have to reapply. That's it--all their other belongings were destroyed. Apparently the fire was caused by an

electrical problem. Wendy mentioned some kind of legal action, but it didn't sound very promising. It will be quite a while

before Wendy and Waniel can join Wendy's husband in New York--if they can save enough money for it.

After the fire, Wendy and Waniel had moved to this habitación. Wendy's husband is in New York. When she went to put the

photos away, I peaked

inside. It was one room, smaller than my parent's living room. I saw a bed, some shelves, a stove, and I think a sink. No bathroom--I noticed a latrine out back.

Before we left, Wendy said "So, this is my house, you are always welcome here if you need anything. A su orden," At your service. I felt like someone had ripped my heart out and stomped on it.

Went to Salto the next day with the group--this was a blast. We swam in the "restricted" area where there were already

about 20 other people, and climbed around on the rocks. We wanted to jump off one of the high rocks, but apparently Mark would have gotten in trouble if he let us. By Friday, most of us were finishing up out interview questions, and some of us went out to conduct interviews. A little girl followed me to all

my interviews that day. It was annoying, but I knew it was because her parents worked dawn until well after dusk, and she had nothing else to do. I interviewed several people whose family members had died of cancer, others about their own health. Everyone was remarkably open, and usually joyful at having visitors. I interviewed one man suffering from colorectal

cancer. He and his wife and the kids grinned t

he whole time. His wife brought me fresh-made juice. During the interview, he talked constantly about how his fate was in God's hands and was glad to hear I agreed. His wife was the woman who sent me home with bananas. Andrew and

I also went to the next campo over for interviews--this one was

clearly much poorer. Many houses were made only of wood with no block at all. Our first interviews were on a crowded porch with people who turned out to be Haitian. I've never felt so out of place in my life! Not only was Spanish difficult for us, it was difficult for the few men there who spoke it. Most didn't (none of the women did) and sometimes seemed offended when we asked it we could interview them in Spanish. One man, though, gave me his name and phone number--I wasn't quite sure why. I told him if I ever

wanted to learn Creole I'd give him a call.

Another interview in this town was at an old house up on a hill overlooking ranch and farmland. We spoke with a shriveled old woman in a hairnet and her son. They were thrilled to have someone visit. As with most Dominicans, we were greeted with bigs hugs and kisses on the cheek. The old woman brought us coffee, which I made my self drink. I gathered that the son was suffering from brain cancer that had metastasized, and that his

sister had died of it. Neither he

nor his mother seemed to know what cancer was. Both Andrew and I

sat back and surveyed the scene while the other conducted their interview. Both of us later

said, for reasons we couldn't quite articulate, that it hadn't quite seemed real--it felt more like were watching a documentary about some strange land than as if we were really there our

selves. We got back late--so late Mari was a little worried. Yunina was mad--playfully--apparently I'd been supposed to go swimming in the river with her, though I couldn't remember having agreed to that. She had a party for us at her house that night--it was lovely! There was pop and snacks and candy, a bunch of my relatives and people from the neighborhood. We danced merengue and bachata and were mesmerized watching Yunina and one of the guys dance salsa. I felt so at home in Limonal, I didn't want to leave! I got big hugs from everyone, and promised over

and over that I would really come back to visit. I'm not entirely sure they believed me. Trouble is, when I do visit, I think I'll be very busy; I think I promised half the campo I'd see them again.

La Clínica

Last week I was sick all week. We think I got a bad bacterial infection from lunch at the 27 charcos, but never learned much more than that. Anyway, Sunday morning I had diarrhea. That evening I was chatting on MSN with Pat at the internet cafe, where there is AC, and started to get very cold. I didn't think much of it at first, but then I was shivering and my teeth were chattering the whole walk home. That night I had the worst fever I can remember having in a long time. I took Tylenol, but it was still pretty bad. I got up once to go to the bathroom and could barely stand up.
Since my fever was gone in the morning, I went ahead with my plans to go to see the oncologist in Santiago. It was pretty aweful. I was nauseous the whole way--we took two guaguas to get there--then we waited for awhile while I tried to stay awake, and then found out the doctor couldn't see me because he had too many patients. I wasn't very happy about it, but I was a little too distracted to complain. The next day I thought I would be able to make it through class, but no dice. Christine took me to the clinic for tests and four hours later I was heade back to stay for two nights.

As much as I disliked being there, it was, I supposed a good experience for me to have. Partly I was tired and sick and miserable, just because of my symptoms. I also had never had an IV before and disliked it greatly. I wanted to write in my journal, but the IV was in my right wrist. I still have a bruise there. But part of the frustration was a lack of communication. It was difficult for me to speak Spanish with the nurses who didn't really have patience for me. There also seems to be an aspect of the culture here that doctors don't expect to have to communicate with their patients. We had to work to find out what disease I had, and they never explained how they knew or why I needed the treatment I did. I had to ask specifically to find out what meds I was on. I never was asked if I had allergies, but I made a point to say I was allergic to sulfa drugs (though we had to show the nurse the word in the medical dictionary, as she wasn't familiar with it). When I left, they had already filled my prescription and billed me for it without discussing the medications with me. One of them actually was a sulfonamide, and I decided to take it anyway. Apparently I'm not allergic anymore.
We almost never discussed my symptoms. When I mentioned I was nauseous, I was given a calmante--in this case a sedative--directly into my IV without being told what it was. I wish they had told me. I basically passed out for half an hour, and when I woke up my right arm was in pain and I had a strange prickly feeling all over. Christine and Elizabeth walked in to me rocking back and forth, wincing and holding my right arm.
I asked the nurse the second day if I would be able to go home that day. She didn't seem to know exactly, but she said she thought I couldn't go if I still have diarrhea. After she left, Mark looked at his buddy from peace corps and they both laughed. "Never!" he said. "I haven't had a solid shit since peace corps."
Last note: the food was aweful. The soup tasted like oily sewage and breakfast was a stale hot dog bun with butter and cheese. Not that I could keep any of it down anyway. I couldn't even keep gatorade down. But I read a lot, watched movies dubbed in Spanish, slept and talked with the people who came to visit me.
On Thursday afternoon I went home. Without anyone really visiting though, I think I was more homesick that weekend than in the clinic. I almost went to go hiking on Saturday, but then I puked on the street corner before we left. So I was pretty bummed that day. By Sunday I wanted to go home. But Monday we had the last of our class, and by the time we go to the campo on Tuesday I was feeling great.

La Fábrica de Chocolate

By the time we got back to the 27 charcos center I was much calmer. We had a nice lunch (though I don't think I would eat there again, as you'll find out later) and then sat in the sun to dry off. It was glorious, really. I could have sat there and chatted all day.Off to the chocolate factory next, and I mostly napped and read on the way. I knew I still needed to keep myself in check, to relax. The factory isn't quite what you'd expect. Six women in this remote campo grow cacao. They roast the beans themselves in a little fire outside, dry them, crush them and combine them with sugar to make this fantastic natual chocolate. It's crumbly and soft and delicious. It doesn't have anything added except sugar: only the natural oils of the cacao bean. You can eat it like candy of grate it into hot chocolate--which we also got to try. They make cocoa for cooking too.
After the demonstration we all sat around talking for awhile. But inevitably the waiting around got dull and conversation moved on to other things--books, I think. I had just returned from the latrine to a flock of girls in a circle, their conversation punctuated every couple of sentences by a chorus of self-affirming "Yeah, me too"s. My herding instinct kicked in. My first thought, you see, was to join the already swollen group where I knew I would be bored. Something stopped me. Right in front of me, one of the women was sitting at a table cutting chocolate into bars and wrapping them. I had overlooked her.Why had I overlooked her? Because no one else was talking with her? Because she seemed so different from myself? She'd been available since the demonstration ended. Did I value her opinions less than those of my compadres?I immediately began engaging her in discussion about her work--with the help of a peace corps volunteer who helped translate. The success of the business had waxed and waned over the last twenty years. They sold primarily to the local area. When they did well, they were able to help out their community, donating chocolate to the local church and school, sometimes helping to make sure the school had lunches for the kids. By the tiem we finished our conversation, everyone else was in the vans waiting for us.
I shared some of my enthusiasm with those back in the van. The factory was clearly an important force in the community, it seemed. Why didn't they export the chocolate? we wondered. Why didn't the Catholic church send it to churches in the staes, like my church does with Rwandan coffee?Settle down, I told myself, you can't save the world. I've got my own mission back home. That's the thing, I think, that I've got to remember: I'm not here on vacation. I'm here for specific reasons, reasons that have real meaning for my life in the states. And sometimes hanging on to that means I have to suppress my herding instinct, however counterintuitive it feels.

Veintisiete Charcos

I hit a wall a week and a half ago. Not literally. I mean, I hit the way-too-much-group-dynamics wall. The way-too-many-people-here-get-the-hell-out wall. So when we went to veintisiete charcos (twenty-seven pools), I expected to have a great time, and I did, but I had to strive to stay out of the group so I wouldn´t lose my mind.
I´d been debating over the past few days whether to go to Puerto Plata the next weekend with some friends. I was already on the fence as I didn´t feel great about dropping over $100 for it--trying to save some money for some travel in August. But too, I knew it would get booked at an American-owned hotel. And although tourism and foreign investment are very important for this country, something just didn´t feel right about it. Seems to me at these kinds of places managerial posititons go to foreigners and Americans, the bulk of the money goes to execs in America, and the locals are stuck with low-paying dead-end jobs. Maybe I´m wrong, but it seems to me this is exactly the kind of establishemtn that contributes to the widening gap between rich and poor. Was I really ok with that?
When we got to 27 charcos and had more or less stripped down to bathing suits, taken group photos, and geared up with life jackets and helmets, we got a brief lecture on ecotourism. You see, 27 charcos grew out of the locals who would give informal tours of the waterfalls to foreigners. It´s a well-run establishment now, run by locals, and much of the proceeds go into schools and infrastructure for the local community. Now, I get excited--I mean really excited--about this kind of thing. If I had my way, everything I spent my money on here would be at this kind of place. But ecotourism is a tiny portion of the industry here, so that´s not really an option.
So you can see why it drove me nuts when the whole group got bored within two minutes. And that deep and burning frustration--the sort of righteous indignation that wells up so frequently in arrogant people--rose up in me. Everyone here professes to care about the poor. They want to join peace corps and doctors without borders and solve world hunger, etc., etc.: shouldn´t they care about this? Shouldn´t they be upset about the growing socioeconomic gap? Shouldn´t they be so excited to be here, where our fun actually benefits others? Shouldn´t they be agonizing, like I was, over the decision of whether to go to Puerto Plata?
This was ridiculously arrogant. And I knew it. So I threw myself into the river, I backed away from the other students before I lost it. I pushed myself to the front of the group where I could go as fast as I wanted, and let myself be swept up in the beauty of the river as bronze young men hoisted us over the rocks. I left myself wander among the dripping stone walls around us, shaped and colored by the soft powder-blue water. And as we stood in the seventh pool waiting for everyone to scale the last waterfall so we could take more group photos, I rested my hand just beneath the water´s surface, watching the light play on my ring. The little black crosses were dazzling as the clear water toyed with their image, letting the silver metal magnify and sparkle. I steadied myself, grasping onto my most important identity and searching for its meaning in this strange place.

El Vertedero

Well, it took me so long to write about Manabao, I´ve gotten pretty behind! Not totally my fault though--the whole next week was very busy, and all this week I´ve been sick. You can see in parts of where I wrote about Manabao, it looks all wierd because I was in the clinic and trying to write with my left hand since the IV was in my right. But I´ll get to that later.Wednesday the first we went to the museum and the dump. Let me explain: it was an all-day field trip to Santiago. In the morning we visited the Centro Cultural León--cigar factory, history, museum, art museum, library. Whatever--you can look at the pictures. Lunch at a steak restaurant--amazing! I think there were at least 10 different things on our plates! Then on to dump #1--an older-style traditional dump (yeah, not a landfill, a dump) in one of the suburbs of Santiago. It was roughly a tenth of the size of the main Santiago dump, and it pretty much looked like you would expect a dump to look. Big giant expanse of trash in the middle of a once verdant hill. Except, oh yeah, for being on fire.It never ocurred to me that a dump isn´t just a place to put trash--they try to destroy it, too. You could smell burning trash the whole time we climbed the rocky hill in the vans. A few houses appeared on the side of the road from time to time--presumably folks who live here and work in the trash. At the top I and a few others ventured out to experience it and to take pictures. Its like stepping into a burn barrel. And we didn´t even walk into the trash. The smell, the smoke, seeps into your skin, fills up your lungs. It´s nauseating. There was a guagua parked near us, a few random items in the cab. Through the haze we could see a couple of boys with garbage bags working their way through the trash.
On to dump #2--the big Santiago dump. Not that it´s in Santiago, or where Santiago used to be anyway: the city hadn´t, of course, wanted its unsightly waste so close to its inhabitants. But the city grew and now there´s a whole barrio around the dump, with more squatter houses going up all the time. It is a whole town, for the most part, of trash-pickers.We drove up and unloaded at the edge on the hill, where you could look down on the barrio on one side and on the other side wooden-pole frames were going up for new houses. Our ENTRENA guide stood so we faced him and the barrio behind him, and the dump up the hill behind that. He started talking about the dump, the projects improving it, the people who lived here. I spaced out. Off to the right of the crowd was a shack--a little better than a shack actually, a some of the walls seemed to be made of cement. A family had come to the window to watch the flock of americanos. It was jolted. Here was a group of 28 americanos, standing on these people´s front lawn, being instructed about them by another americano, who, regardless of the fact that he´s lived in the DR for 20 years, certainly doesn´t live at the dump. This just didn´t add up for me.I sidled over to the house and grinned stupidly at the kids hanging out the window. Someone--their grandpa, I think, had come out of the house, so I started talking quietly with him. How long had he been here? Did he like it? He´d been here a long time--perhaps his whole life, I couldn´t tell. He was raising some of his family here. Yes, he liked it very much. He said much more than this, but I couldn´t understand most of it. And he talked a bit loudly, and I was worried about distracting the rest of the group, so I didn´t press further. I asked if I could take his picture, and he smiled brightly at the idea and straigntened up proudly.The man when inside after a while, and his son appearedat the window. As the talk was ending, I talked to the son for a moment. Hed´come here two years ago with some of his kids (I think) and was helping his dad raise all the kids living in the house. He was guarded and much less cheery that the old man. I wanted to ask more, but the last of the group was already heading down the hill.Down through the barrio, which reminded me so much of my first mission trip in Ensenada. Past houses and shacks, the non-profit schools and health center, and guagua carrying blue 5-gallon water jugs. Through a little path between two homes down the side o the hill on steps made from old tires. We stopped here at a sort of creed of mud and refuse. Through the middle of it ran a little stream of black water--runoff from the trash. Random pieces of trash had been set in the middle of the creek like stepping stones, but they sank anyway as people walked on them. There were kids walking through here barefoot.A couple of local guys--I guess they worked for the landfill?--threw some more trash on the mud for us to walk on so we wouldn´t all get our nice tennis shoes dirty. I hopped through to the other side. I rudely ignored the guy who had stretched out his hand to help everyone (and by everyone I mean the girls) through--part of my annoyance with this machismo culture coming to the surface. The local guys bounded up the hill ahead of us when we got to the other side, and a few of us stood there for a while, not sure if we should follow. When most of the group had finally crossed, our guide told us to continue up the narrow path.It was pretty much just a dusty little plateau at the top. I wandered towards the first interesting thing I saw, which turned out the be the old dump site. It was the biggest mound of trash I´d ever seen--I swear it was at least as big as a city block. Just sitting there like a land formation. No smoke, no fire, no one working there--apparently the active dump was somewhere else, as this one was full.In the states, you don´t really think of a landfill as an environmental project. But that´s what the landfill in Santiago is , what we were here to see on our environmental field trip. Apparently as the city grew and the trash grew, and the ever-growing city got closer to the ever-growing trash, some of the more affluent residents began to get tired of the smell and the smoke. So for the past couple years Santiago had been fixing up the dump. We walked by a landfill in progress: it´s a big whole in the ground with poles sticking out of it and cement troughs creating a drainage system. The trash can be filled in, covered up, and compressesd, and the run-off gets disposed of properly. I couldn´t help wondering, though, when it´s all landfills and no dump, what will the trash-pickers do for work? Finally we moved on to the active dump. This one was burning and there were people everywhere. But at least it was on top of this barren hill, not in a grove of trees like the first dump, so the smoke wasn´t as bad. But it was pretty much a black, smoking wasteland. There was a sort of wide aisle between the piles of trash where people could come and go. On either side, they´d made piles of recyclables--a pile of paper, a pile of glass, a pile of plastic, and so on. Cows here were milling about--a food source for some of the folks in the barrio. A flock of seagulls was constantly shifting between the trash--looking for food, I guess--and the trees beside the hill. The view of the valley was lush and beautiful under the hot, crisp blue sky. It took a little while to take everythign in. We stood around for a little while, taking pictures. We were told they normally work in the big, old dump--this one is temporary till the landfilly is ready.
Then we were introduced to the president of the association of trash-pickers (no idea if it has an actual name). He was wearing more layers of filthy rags than anyone I´ve ever seen--and I´ve known homeless people who survive Minnesota winters. I didn´t know how he could stand it in the heat. He was wearing a cap and some kind of red cloth around his head, and a hankerchief--for the smoke I suppose, though his face wasn´t covered at the time.
He was matter-of-fact as he answered our questions. There used to be a lot of violence in the dump--people fighting over trash, over who got to work where--so they formed an association. They now had rules and protected each other from violence. The main health problems were accidents--though now that they spent most of their time in the dump where there´s no fire, it had gotten better. Lung problems? No, they didn´t have lung trouble (I couldn´t helpwondering how may respiratory diseases went undiagnosed). Each dump worker worked for about 8 hours a day, 6 days a week. There was no re-distribution; everyone kept what they found. Generally each would make about 300 pesos-- $US 8.50--a day. It cost 40 pesos a month to be in the association, and this money was used for emergencies and medical care for accidents.
I started off further into the dump, wanting to talk with more people. But ti was time to go. We headed back out and down the hill. At the mud creek, it seemed our stepping-stones had sunk, and the area had gotten wetter. The guys put down some more trash, but it was still pretty gross. I splashed through as carefully as I could, mud creeping up the sides of my shoes. As I started up the tire steps, I heard a splash and looked back. Megan had sunk a whole foot into the mud and refuse. Without thinking, I cried, "Oh, Megan!" in sympathy. As I turned to keep going, I saw the family of the house next to the steps--whose back porch was the steps--had come out to watch us. The young, slender mother, with her barefoot children gathered around her stood there solemnly, looking hurt. I was startled. I didn´t say anything. I wished I could stop and take a picture of the distain on her face. But that would have meant holding up the line of americanos, all wanting to leave the dump.

"'Good,' he said. 'Good! You write it down. Write it all down. Because I live in the garbage, and I'll die in the garbage, and I'll be buried in the garbage. And nobody will ever know that

I lived. So tell them about me. Tell them I was here.'"
-By the Lake of Sleeping Children, Luis Alberto Urrea