Water, water everywhere, but....

by Vickie

El Rio

El Tinaco

     So, when it rains here, the river floods, causing the latrines and underground systems to overflow, contaminating the water source. The water that normally runs through the tubes to gigantic black plastic containers on the rooftops- tinacos - is shut off because "El agua esta sucio." (The water is dirty -- and by dirty, they mean full of poop.)
     So, it has been raining for two days.

La Tuberia

     This morning before 6:00, Roberto, Maria's husband was up, had found a guagua-ita (little truck) to haul buckets and 5 gallon containers of water to the house for bathing, cooking, and cleaning. He pulled up and unloaded the water. Gloria - the doña - or female head of the household (his mother-in-law) dragged the water down to the bathroom for us to use for bucket baths and flushing the toilet.
    Flushing the toilet with water is an art form. You need just the right amount of water: too much - a geyser; too little - no results. AND, you have to aim for the hole with just the right amount of force: too much -- a geyser; too little - no results.

Gloria

     While I'm worrying about flushing the toilet, Gloria has made our breakfast, washed up after our breakfast, gotten ready for work - nice dress and heels -- flagged a moto concho and headed off to the campo for work, from 8-12, where she is a teacher supervisor. She'll be home to fix our lunch, clean up after our lunch -- which is the big, hot meal of the day with rice, beans, meat, vegetables, and fruit. Once or twice a week she does our laundry out back with a sort of wringer-washer thing. Then, back to work for the afternoon session which runs from 2-6.
     In the end it's all about the water.
     
   

 
   

Fatalism

by Vickie

     Middle of the afternoon, sol fuerte, close to 90 degrees, hot, humid, grimy. Everything in this city is grimy. Crammed into a guagua with a backpack  and motoconcho helmet on my lap, breathing the unregulated black exhaust from the hundreds of cars, busses, and motorcycles trapped in yet another tapon (traffic jam), sun glaring into my eyes, unable to move. The chofer and cobrador (person who hangs out the door of the guagua calling out the route, jumping off occasionally to round up customers, and making sure everyone pays) arguing vehemently – yes while driving – with lots of arm waving and backwards looks – careening crazily across lanes of traffic, cutting off old men on motoconchos whenever possible and laying on the horn when foiled in the attempt, I suddenly realize my only thought is, “Oh, we’re approaching the overpass. How nice, a few moments of shade.” Really, this isn’t like me. But I was returning from a 4 day trip to a batey.

This is NOT a batey --it's the beach, seen from the bus!

      In the Peace Corps training, we are learning about some cultural tendencies in the Dominican Republic. One of these tendencies is a sense of fatalism. What will be, will be. Si Dios quire. Americans generally don’t have this tendency. We tend to think we are in control of our destinations as well as our destinies. We drive carefully, following traffic laws, and buckling our seatbelts. We plan our trip, short or long, leaving enough time to get there and we expect that we will not be involved in an accident along the way. If we are involved in an accident, we have insurance. Ha! This sort of thinking is not always part of the Domincan psyche – and of course I’m making sweeping generalizations. But, for a moment, I was not thinking about impending accidents, ignoring feelings of suffocation,  certainly not thinking about what was happening to my lungs, just grateful (a Dios- or fate) for a moment’s respite in the shade.

Tim is calling on one of his neighbors.

So, the batey...

Tim has completed one year in the PC.

Fairly typical housing -- way better than the barracks.

     A batey is a something along the lines of a coal mining town in Eastern Kentucky back in the 30s and 40s – a company town, where everything is set up to take advantage of cheap, almost slave, labor. The sugarcane companies built barracks for Haitian workers which were rounded up by their fellow Haitians and basically sold to the sugar bosses, or they were tricked into coming by the empty promise of citizenship in the much richer Republica Dominicana. Barracks are cement structures with rows of homes, actually just windowless rooms about the size of a stable, with openings – no doors. Well who needs a door in this climate?  In these, whole families lived, slept, and cooked, and existed – and still today live, sleep, cook, and exist. The bateys exist only in Cuba and the Dominican Republic and the one we visited seemed to be mostly Dominican – at least no one we met spoke Kreyol – the Haitian language. Maybe because the batey has been around so long the Haitians have integrated and learned Spanish. For a lot more information, try this link:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batey_(sugar_workers'_town)

Tim's home -- Sarah is a nearby volunteer.

     The sugarcane company near Consuelo, where we were, has been gone since 1998. They just shut down the factory and left, leaving behind the workers and a dead town. The company had taken care of everything:  roads, garbage removal, leadership, and maintenance of any and all systems that existed in the town.  When they left no capacity for leadership or understanding of the infrastructure and how to maintain it existed. When the company left, the jobs left, but the people had nowhere to go.

Sarah and Tim and their new wheels--er...ride.

I'm looking at the latrine and thinking.

     We arrived by motochoncho on Thursday, down a dirt road and over a beautiful river – not bad! Then, Tim showed us his house – well shack – made of wood slats, zinc roof, and crumbling cement floor – latrine and bathing structure out back – more wood and zinc. The 13 year old latrine – a cement cylinder about a foot high, and from what I could tell, pretty full, was separated from the “showering” area by a curtain. The shower is a big bucket of water with a smaller bucket inside so you can pour water over yourself – much nicer in the afternoon when the sun has warmed the water.

     I have to say that at the first sight of the latrine my intestines seized up and everything inside solidified. The happy ending involves a Mexican restaurant, free time, cold beer and an indoor toilet with a toilet seat. I hit the Jackpot – so to speak.

Sarah is making tostones by headlamp light!

We were joined for dinner by the student group!

     Again though, very little control over where I sleep, where or what I eat, when the electricity is on or when it is off, when the water flows and when it does not – Oh and when it will rain in torrents, as it did for 2 days while we were there – adding mud, flooded (dirt) streets, and flowing garbage to the mix. Luckily, during the worst of the rain we were visiting three nuns from Canada and Cuba, who spoke a mix of French, Spanish, and English and served us cookies and tea in Winnie the Pooh cups and saucers. !Que suerte!

Computer center that Peace Corps is helping to get established.

     So, limited resources, limited autonomy, limited choices, mixed with the vagaries of nature, and the occasional good luck – fatalism. For me, a small window into the mindset of those who live very close to the edge.

The elementary school across from the computer center

     I didn’t tell you about those in the batey who work from morning until night to maintain their homes and gardens in beautiful, pristine condition, while working, attending church and civic meetings and looking like a million bucks,  never failing to take time to help a neighbor or just to sit and chat. Always, there are those who resist the awful allure of fatalism, and exert what control they can over their corner of the world.

Volunteers and trainees waiting for the guagua.

On the Road Again

by Jim

The universe is filled with the unknowable. How did it form? Is time travel possible? What is dark matter? And, how many people fit in a guagua?

A guagua is a small bus. There are thousands of them in the Dominican Republic. They have names: 10B, 27C, 23 etc. These names are only important to the drivers. They are meaningless otherwise. They have routes but no schedule, a driver and a cobrador. The cobrador is a guy, a very serious guy, who stands in the door or hangs from the side. His job is to convince people along the route that his guagua is the one to take. He collects the fare. This is capitalism at its purest and there is a lot of competition. If you can convince someone else to get on, then you are going to get them on.  Here is how it works . A guagua has four seats across. That means 5 people sit there. And, when the thing is so full that those standing cannot move their arms, and when no one else can possible get on, then if the cobrodor can convince them, he will get people to stand on the running board on the side and hang on the windows. So, the answer to our question, how many people can fit in a guagua is, one more.

There is another form of transportation in the cities. It is not nearly as safe or comfortable as the guagua, although it is faster, the carro publico. All of these cars look like demolition derby veterans, and not the winners. They are all the size of a Nissan Sentra. We know exactly how many people fit in one of these, seven. The drivers are insane. I’ve been in countries where marked lanes meant nothing and where sidewalks were legitimate driving surfaces. This is different. These guys do what they want. Stop lights are meaningless.

Sunday Vickie and I and a couple of other Peace Corps folks were in Santa Domingo and decided to head home. We decided to take a carro publico to where we could catch a guagua. We walk up to an older guy standing with the door open and he tells us to get in. In the front seat is a 9 year old kid on the passenger side.  The four of us squeeze in the back, the man slams the front door and the kid pushes a pillow into the front seat, jumps over starts the engine and puts the car in gear. I want you to know that neutrinos may not move faster than light but it’s possible the gringos can. We exploded out of the car before it had moved a foot.

I will save the moto conchos for another post.

Not only are we not in Kansas anymore, this place isn’t like Fisherville either.