Global Connections Dominican Republic 2011: Reflections from the Compass Junior Class

Reflections on our Travels

* It is somewhat anachronistic to be typing on this computer in the “kitchen” as the women make breakfast. The stove is three small cubes defined by concrete blocks, sized to hold one of the 3 blackened and dented pots that produce everything we eat, and the 4 rocks that keep the pots from rocking from their assigned spots. Even fire making is simplified, using one match if possible, then carrying fire to other houses to save energy (literally). The rest of the kitchen holds 4 sheetrock buckets used to haul water, the prized motorbike keeping dry for the night, the big 60 gallon lidded, blue drum that holds the ”good” water we haul up every third day. The sum total of the other kitchen supplies consists of the single sharp knife, empty tomato paste can for scooping water, a few pieces of wood to burn, a plastic canister of brown sugar, another smaller canister of salt, a plastic jug of oil, some odd yellow container of mixed spice, the broom made with some green twigs, and three gray and worn towels. Absent the distractions of home, we find wonder in the most simple of things—the soda from the tienda, the ice cream bars from Felipe the traveling ice cream seller, a stale cookie, washing clothes by hand in a bucket, finding someone who speaks some English, recognizing another of our friends we have met in passing. In our last full day, everyone wants to stay longer here, where they now feel so comfortable and at home.

* I am lying in bed at the campo early in the morning. I am awoken not by the light, but instead by sounds. Sounds that are filling my ears from every direction--high pitched, low pitched, in between. Roosters crow, chickens squawk, and when one dog starts barking a whole symphony joins in. My earplugs don’t help, the sounds are too overpowering. The noise makes it impossible to go back to sleep, although I probably have a good 3 hours of night left…I would rather stay awake and listen.

* I am a bean shucker- they are the ones in season and I crack their sticky shells and watch them fall into the bowl. The colors vary like easter eggs. Some are white with a blue glow and some tan with a red hue. Each snap is a surprise. We toss the shells onto a palm leaf on the dirt floor. As I sit I feel like something way bigger than a bowl of beans. I share a basin with Francia, her mother and sister in law sit in plastic lawn chairs across the way. Their Spanish bounces from one to the other like a song. I catch few words.. niño... leche... mama.. and I feel the love even not knowing more words. I am reminded how communication is more than sentence structure, more than fragments and way more than spelling. I smile as if I have understood every word and laugh along with them. I am a woman of the campo.

* I’m drawing Rachel’s curls for the millionth time on this trip.  I look across the basketball court and squint against the sun to catch the length of her hair.  Around her sit Manya, Starcie, Phil, Olivia, Sophie, and some locals.  They are all here to watch basketball and I am here to try to capture them all on paper. I draw Rachel’s eyes in my standard way and I use my own eyes to take in all the different faces across from me sitting on the red concrete bleachers.  When I turn my head slightly I realize I have a small fan club sitting a few feet from me watching my actions.  The locals continue to watch me, not embarrassed that I caught them looking at me.  I return to my drawing, pausing to think.  I thought I was the traveler here, I’m the one seeing new things and opening my eyes wide to experience as much as I can.  I thought that when I travel the locals wouldn’t look at me the same way as I look at them.  “Foolish,” I realize, was my previous thinking.  Of course I am as new to them as they are to me.  I finish drawing Rachel and hold it out for the people near me to see. A conversation begins and soon enough I am not just a tourist taking notes from a bubble; I am a traveler putting myself out into a community so we both can learn from each other.  

* I’m standing outside on my first morning of living in the campo. I can smell summer, sweat, and the stink of the outhouse. Even this early in the morning my skin feels like it’s steaming. I feel like I haven’t gotten an hour of sleep, I feel like my body is awake but my brain is still sleeping. I feel like I’m camping, even though I slept last night in the only nice bed in the house. I squirt some bottled water and toothpaste on my toothbrush, brushing my teeth, like I do every morning. I hear a giggle from behind me, followed by a long string of baby Spanish. This is the first sentence I heard from 4 year old Emily.....the sentence that starts six days of constant, indecipherable chatter. I turn around and spit toothpaste all over the ground.  She giggles again and sings something else in Spanish. I don’t understand a word she says, but I can tell by her face she thinks the foaming stuff on my face and the ground is ridiculous. We walk back up the muddy hill to our house, amidst constant giggles and endless chatter.

* I am dancing to the merengue beats. Drums, guirra, accordion and voice all coming together to create beautiful music. There is a Dominican boy across the room wearing a CSI shirt who is trying to make eye contact with me. Our eyes lock and I quickly look away as a wave of nervousness washes over me. What if I get clumsy and step on his feet? He comes towards me, making his way through the dancing couples. He takes my hand, pulls me in, and we dance. All my worries wash away- this boy knows what he’s doing! And it seems as if I do too. The beats move my hips and make my heart pound. I have never experienced anything like this, feeling so free, in the music, in the moment. It is only the first song and my mouth hurts from smiling. I can feel the curls in my hair turn to frizz, and I can feel the sweat drip down my forehead and under my nose. I can feel cramps swelling, but I don’t care. I just keep dancing.

* I am feeling free and alive, healthy. I am dancing the merengue watching my partner’s feet and hips while trying to coordinate mine with his. I am letting myself go.
I am taking in a deep breath and jumping. Then crashing into the beautiful cool waters below. I am letting myself go.
I am groovin with the moon. On the balcony, letting my body be free. I am letting myself go.
I am playing some b-ball on the court with a bunch of boys. Where did they come from? Attempting the tricky shots they are also trying. I am letting myself go.
I am free
I am alive
I am healthy

* I am standing on top of a waterfall, staring down at the pool below. Behind me the guide is saying, “Just go. Jump there. Is easy.” My classmates are awaiting my leap into space, between me and the blue waters, 8 meters below. I am too high up, I don’t belong here, but the only way down is to step off the ledge into space. I take one more look at my peers in the water. Breathe.. breathe.. breathe... I jump. I don’t remember the fall or whether I scream, all I know is my throat scratches. I don’t remember hitting the water. All I remember is suddenly being surrounded by cool, wet and racing bubbles to the surface. As my head bobs to the surface, I look upwards towards the ledge. I did it. I've learned not to overthink what life throws at me. Just to stop, take it in, let go, and fall.

* I am in the air. I have disregarded one of man’s most primitive notions not to leave the safety of the land and am plummeting into the water below. I have lost most control of my upper limbs and they flap as if trying to return me to dry land. From previous jumps my body keeps expecting to hit water, but this leap is considerably higher then the others. At last my body comes to rest in the water below.

* I am jumping off the boat into the clear blue water. I have bright yellow flippers on my feet, an orange airplane-like lifejacket around my neck, a snorkel squeezed around my braces and goggles covering my eyes. I am not looking forward to snorkeling. Every time I've tried to do it before I've pretty much just felt like I was going to drown. Which is not particularly pleasant. I follow my classmates towards the reef. I notice that I can in fact swim and breathe. As I get closer to the reef I see tons of beautiful fish. Trying something again can lead to better results.

*  City scum is crawling on my wood smoke skin. I’m winding through the concrete barrio. Amazed at what’s similar to the village. Here and there, fold up tables spilling dominos clatter, plastic trash abounds, bored dogs lie sullenly. Where are the rooster yells and familiar smells? I miss flowers, trees, rice and beans.

* It's hot even when the moon is out. The stone steps are cool on the back of my legs and lead up to a statue of Columbus, green and covered in bird poop. In front of me a little boy is racing around on his plastic tricycle. His face is determined as he picks up speed and cuts through a cluster of pigeons. They fly up all at once, creating a breeze in the otherwise still air. A few yards ahead, strangers filter by Phil’s magic bench. He traces lines across their palms predicting their future and making my stomach hurt from laughter. His group grows and mixes with us and we spill over into the rest of the park. I’m sitting next to a man who calls himself a vagabond. He’s preaching, telling us we’re crazy because of the cosmos. He grabs a handful of hands after every point and passionately shakes them.  His big, silver rings push against my fingers. The conversation quickly switches ideas and I can barely soak one thing in before he’s on to the next. “Edgar Allen Poe. He’s the only one. Be honest! SAY he’s the only one.” Rum breath shouting the names of poets, the highlights of Manhattan, visions of life—“What I’d say?” he demands. We repeat each thought and are met with a handshake and booming laughter. I look around amazed at how openness attracts people. The boy on the tricycle rides faster through the park, he cuts through the loose cluster of people and they flutter less than the pigeons.

* The water smoothes over my skin and shimmies out the dirt.  I take a shower almost every day when I’m home.  This is my first shower in a week here. In the village we bathed in the river sharing the water with cows.  I remember lying on my back with my hair fluttering downstream. How I would be washing the soap out while looking up towards the shade of dinosaur trees and open sky.  One time, one of the little kids stretched across my belly and made it impossible for me to get up.  Now I scrub extra hard between my toes, where dirt from wearing flip-flops has stayed there, multiplying.  The window is closed and I long to be outside.  I finally start to feel clean when the dirt frees itself from my skin. I am trying to estimate how many bucket hailing trips to the stream it would take to use this much water for each bath.  I feel guilty. The water stops even though soapsuds still cling to my sides.  I grab my towel and ponder, how much water is there? And, do I deserve my share?

* Santiago
I am walking down the street with my backpack full of yogurt.
I’m scooting between piles of underwear, rubber watches and staring eyes.
My ears are full
My nose is stuffed
My eyes are darting,
Trying to find a balance between friendly and safe.
Same sidewalk over and over.
No breath today.

* The cathedral is serene, opulent, simple, chaotic. Hundreds file out from Mass, Dominican friars and nuns, priests, children; parents struggling to keep them in sight at best. Tourists and school groups pile in, replacing the pious with the curious, cameras flash, snickers follow those escorted out for inappropriate attire. Some, like me, slip into the solace of a chapel, some with their eyes on God.

* I am sweating yet again this time in the Tupperware aisle of a mega store. There is plastic everywhere. Bowls, lids and Barbie plastic popsicle makers, even wicker chairs of plastic. I have realized in this hot, humid, tropical climate, even I melt but plastic doesn’t.

* My feet slip all over the muddy hill. I’m hugging a plastic bucket of water from the stream. It’s sloshing all over the front of me and leaving clean rivers down my shirt. Walking for what feels like forever so I can lie in the river, rocks dig in my back and clean water rushes over me for the first time in days. My first shower in Cabarate is equal to 10? 15? buckets of stream water and it’s only a 20 minute drive away. It’s so weird I have to jump out in the middle and turn off the spray.

* Eli.
My hand is getting tired.
He is reminding me of my father,
But crazier.
He tells me I’m way out there, that I remind him of Cat Stevens.
He knows what he thinks. What he believes.
You’ll know if he doesn’t like or agree with your answer to his question.
What’s your vision? HE asks me
He makes me think about his lifestyle
He makes me think about alcoholism
He makes me think about what to do with my life
He makes me think about music
Crazy man!
Say it.

 * The horns blare out the first notes and everyone breaks into clapping and hip swaying to the beat. Layers of musicians fill the stage and fill the air with the big sound of Merengue, the pride of the nation. The crowd stretches up the street and up the hillside, beneath the stunning backdrop of the ruins of one of the first cathedrals in the Western world. We are surrounded by sound, led by 4 or 5 or 6 singers on the stage, and mirrored by nearly every person in the audience, some moving their lips without even noticing, the song ingrained in their hearts.

* I am chilling in the park with my new “brother,” Leo. It’s our last day here so I’m kind of sad about leaving. We are playing a lot of games that he showed us and games that we showed him, having as much fun as we can on the last day before we leave. Philip and I are in the park attempting to catch pigeons and play around with the birds. Next thing I know we are packing into a van without having any room on our way to the airport. On the way home I can’t stop thinking about my favorite parts of the trip and thinking about how much I miss everything already.

* The van whips around another curve while the Dominican Republic countryside races past my eyes and the trip marks it’s midway point.  My hair smacks against my neck and I apologize to the person next to me in case it hits them too.  The van is carbonated with excitement for Santiago, music, packed luggage, and memories being retold.  I push my face further out of the van and the wind makes my eyes squint.  I must look like my dog, I think, so happy to be going for a car ride.  Philip leans out of his window to wave hello.  I smile back at him.  I try to take a picture of the rolling hills, unripe banana trees, and broken down blue walls.  The world is moving too fast; I’m only left with the memory and a blurred screen.  My eyes are trying hard to see more than the slide show of snippets but all I get is a second of the people’s stories that live along the passage of these places.  Frozen people, suspended places fill my mind. I forget that while the van continues through Santiago so do the actions of those lives that I had a moment to peek at.  There is a past and a future, that in most cases, unfortunately, I will never know.