Santo Domingo Sleigh Ride

Another Sunday night in the zona colonial. Christmas is poured down our throats, pounded into our eardrums, inhaled up the nose, flashed before our eyes and rubbed vigorously up against us: the dancers, the music, the colmados and the crowd. The man in the white hat has become the man in the black hat tonight. All the regulars are here. Everyone seems a little more unsteady as they make their way to the dance floor. People are playful...as I pass one man with my grocery bag in hand he leads his friends in a chorus of “quita la funda” and we pass my bag around until it gets back to me. We make our way, optimistically, back to the parque independencia to catch our public car home.

I didn't trust this car from the very beginning. You see, it was a Subaru. Although Subarus are Japanese and may make great rally cars, they simply cannot stand up to the rigours of life as a public car in Santo Domingo. “Go Toyota or you won't get home”. (A useful motto for making your way around this busy city en carro publico). The seven of us piled in, nevertheless. The driver started the engine and off we went. Someone said something about us being Americans and I quickly corrected them as I handed some pesos to the driver. Even in this country (which worships baseball, eats hotdogs at an alarming rate and has a million of its citizens living in New Jersey alone) Canadians are more popular than Americans. Probably because we are easy to take advantage of and almost too polite to function. As we make our way down the street Steph and I look at each other knowlingly, thinking that the muffler will be falling off well before we make it to our stop. The driver beats us to the joke and asks his passengers if we are enjoying the music.

As we pull up to our first red light the car stalls. “Probably just saving some gas,” I think “these old engines really are inefficient”. As the light turns green the driver turns the key and the engine sputters back to life. After coming to a stop once we are all reassured that the brakes do in fact work. The second red light is a repeat performance, but as they say, third time's a charm. The driver hops out to check his gas tank (which is a giant steel cylinder he keeps in the trunk). He runs back to his door in time for the light to change to a hopeful emerald. This time the starter makes some sickly feline-esque noises but the engine does not spark. The gas peddle is pumped, the driver hunches over the steering wheel and says something to the effect of: “come-on-baby, come-on-baby, come-on-baby”... but we have paid the price for our naivete (“go Toyota or you won't get home”). Luckily an empty twenty-five year old Corolla has pulled up behind us. Our driver hops out and makes some inaudible deal with the man behind the wheel of the Toyota. We all get out of the Subaru and pile into the Corolla. “But what about the stranded Subaru?” you may ask. Have not fear... it just so happens that it is “lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with 'Su'”.

As the light turns green a second time the Corolla eases up behind 'Su' and starts to push her down this four lane street. Faster, faster, faster. We race between cars, nobody the wiser that 'Su' is no longer running under her own steam. At each light we re-establish our tenuous relationship as our original driver works 'Su's brakes and steering wheel. We exchange amused looks with our fellow passengers and keep an eye out for our stop. “Cuando cruzen” we say as we approach the corner of our street. Our new driver winks at us, presses the peddle to the floor and sends 'Su' charging through the intersection. He slams on the brakes when we get to the other side of the intersection and pulls over to let us out. We see 'Su' continue on coasting past a Land Rover and get out quickly to let the sleigh ride recommence as soon as possible.

Merry Christmas!

A Christmas Poem

Alegria y Felicidad

Christmas consumes the country:
cars dressed as reindeer
sit in traffic jams,
inflatable snowmen
lie flat, dead
by day
and like white bulbous vampires
rise from their grassy coffins
at night.

Merry Pringles!
(30% Mas!)
Pooki had her puppies
Meringue screams
Bachata croons
into hearts
ache yearlong for this season

Fruit stalls full
apples from Washington
grapes dangle from roofs.
Here just as there
Christmas consumes
fruit from far off lands.
Shopping carts full of
exotic booze,
Bailey's in a red bow.

Along the highway
MaryandJoseph threewisemen babyJesusinthemanger and Shepherdswatching
the endless line of cars
grinding, honking, whistling their way to the beach.
The nativity scene blesses
all who pass:
“May death die
for these enchanted weeks
this time at the apex
when there is no time
for accidents”.

You miss parties
to go to parties.
You put your shoulder
to the wheel.
You sway your hips
to keep the Christmas
machine running at full throttle
the speakers clipping
as eardrums burst.
“Feliz Navidad!
Prospero año y”
for good measure
just a little more
“felicidad”.

The View From Steph

It took a while to understand what was expected of me here. The SONRISAS office where I work is very laid-back and at first I found it stressful but now I realize that when the power goes out the coffee still works.

That being said, I do have a job here. I am developing a manual with charlas or chats on 10 different health-related themes. This manual will then be sent to each of SONRISAS’ 10 clinics throughout the country for use by the local educators. Educators give talks and workshops in the clinics but also in local schools. Some of the clinics are more like community centers, where computer classes and English classes are taught and people just hang out. Charlas are given in these community centers as well.

Like the restaurant business, education thrives on consistency. The manual I am working on will be useful because it will keep the talks consistent within SONRISAS and it will save the educators time as they will not need to do much of their own research.

I have now developed 6 of the health charlas including: basic nutrition, hygiene and habits, drugs, the environment, breastfeeding, and vaccinations. I am currently working on charlas for HIV/AIDS and adolescent sexuality. These are pretty hot topics whether you're in the DR or anywhere else. It has been a very interesting experience for me dealing with hot topics in a culture other than my own. Even if they don't like what I have to say about adolescent sexuality, they love my powerpoint presentations.

SONRISAS is an amazing organization. It was actually started by a Canadian dentist and now has 10 clinics throughout the country. Other than Alex (my supervisor), all of the employees are Dominican. Alex is from Thunder Bay (believe it or not) and came to the Dominican Republic 5 years ago as an intern just like me. He married Shamira, a Dominican, and is still here working with SONRISAS.

It is great to see a self-sustaining NGO that employes a staff of almost entirely locals. From what I understand SONRISAS fits in somewhere in between the private and public health care systems. They offer high quality dental care but at a price much cheaper than the private clinics. It is almost free for children to see a dentist. They will not turn anybody away (in other words you don’t have to be ‘poor’ to see a dentist at SONRISAS).

After spending most of my adult life studying the apparent futility of trying to save the wold, it is truly inspiring to be part of an organization that is succeeding in helping people. Maybe things aren't done the way I would do them, but Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.

Bonus Photos

This week I've donated my blog space to Steph so she can tell you all about the work she is doing with Sonrisa's... but I couldn't resist adding some random ruffage to your diet!

Molondrones (Okra), Potatoes, Avocado, chickpeas and Polenta. So good.

Mutant Guineo (Banana)

Yes, that is a bottle of rum strapped to a bag of Doritos... all for only 300 $RD

Race tee... so hot!

Every city's got one.

From on top of a 500 year old wall

It is Sunday night. The churches are full, the colmados are full, and the streets are full. Tonight I've chosen the streets of the oldest city in the Americas. Every Sunday evening a couple thousand people gather in the colonial zone amid crumbling masonry to take in music as if it were sacrament. They drink, and most importantly, they dance. With a clear view from atop a wall I see the crowd, the band and the colmados, restaurants and street venders conducting their business at the peripheries.

The Crowd

We gather while the sun is still up. Burning off one final stubborn hour of daylight. Many have brought chairs or rent them from the neighbouring establishments. We clump together in groups around the designated keepers of the liquor. Each group has one, a benevolent fatherly figure who has brought a bottle of whisky to lace the drinks, or a young man casually dangling a half-gallon of rum from his right hand as he strolls through the square to meet with his friends. There are plastic cups filled with ice waiting to be filled. There is the constant fetching of “jumbos” from the colmados near by. The icy bottles of beer are fetched by delivery boys and arrive in paper bags with small plastic cups turned upside down over the mouths of the bottles. As the sun's energy wains the crowd's energy mounts. Some get up and dance to recorded Meringue that is played to warm up the sound system. There are three or four couples churning their legs around the small dance floor, testing for the soft spots. Inevitably the power goes out, just as the sun goes down and the tension of waiting is wound into the crowd. Generators fire up and colmados light candles and make space in the ice-cream freezers to keep the beer cold. We are not angry or anxious. We know the power will come back on; we know the music will start. This is only an intermission. We drink beer and wait as the street stones give back the sun's heat they have absorbed throughout the day. The stone's actions are involuntary, just as the cheer that we give with the return of the street lights is involuntary.

The Band

Although they seem redundant the five front men are all you really notice. Most of the time they are not even singing, one has a set of maracas and the one in the white hat is constantly bouncing around the stage. He waves his arms around making gestures that fall somewhere between conducting and dancing. When the chorus finally rolls around the five front men step up to their microphones and sing the one line chorus over and over again. They are window dressing to distract the eye from the motionless rhythm section that is really making the music. So too are the brass players, interjecting every so often with trumpet screams and saxophone noodling. They are athletes, pushing themselves higher, louder, faster. But they give nothing you can dance to. Their riffs are gimmicky and banal however impressive their athletic performances may be. They must spend hours a day blowing as hard as they can just to maintain their chops. The heart of the band beats although you cannot see them. The percussionists are hidden behind the man in the white hat, but you can just make out their faces. They are focused and stoic. The guitar player is seated with his back to me and the piano player wears a look of disdain for the theatrics of the front men. Every note of the bass player ripples through the dancers' bodies. The notes are simultaneously anticipated and unexpected.

The Dancers

I have never seen an old, portly, bearded man in jeans and suspenders look so sexy as this one does on the dance floor. His partner is oblivious to the substantial gut between them as they sway their hips in and out of my range of vision. If you focus on the shoulders and heads of the dancers it would appear that they are skating or at least sliding around the dance floor. They are ducks on a pond: legs churning furiously, heads completely still. An aisle has formed amid the white plastic chairs to accommodate the dancers as they exit after each song and then return with a different partner. An old lady with silken white hair dances where she stands, reverent. A white haired man with a pony tale dances where he stands and leans up against the wall between songs. Everyone stops to sing happy birthday at least two times each set. I can never discern whose birthday we are honouring because there are so many cheesy affects on the microphones.

The Peripheries

I've read that a Spanish colonial city is always oriented by a plaza central. We have formed a sort of city within a city. The band and dancers at the centre of the square where the music takes place. The dance floor is at the very centre. The crowd spreads out from there, until we reach the venders. There is a large charcoal barbeque across the square from me and I can see the smoke, smell the meat cooking on it. Just below me is a man with a propane burner deep-fryer, serving up empanadas. The dough is made from processed yuca (the staple food of the long eliminated Taino people) they are filled with cheese and served with ketchup. There is a man in a bright orange linen jacket offering tables to paying customers of his restaurant that have an excellent view of the stage. The most prominent colmado in the square is dispensing bottles at an alarming rate. There are blue portable toilets too. Perhaps the only public washroom in this city. Yes, we have all we need. For these few hours each week it is as if nothing else could possibly be happening, but just a half a block away I can here the familiar slap and shuffle of dominoes.

We turns into they as I quit my perch atop the wall. I can never make it to the end because tomorrow is Monday and the public cars stop running late at night. I have no proof that the music stops. Like a root fire, dancing in the streets may flare up at any time. If you listen you will probably here this same pulsing music crackling out of a cheap clock radio next door or hammering at the windows of a passing car. On Sunday nights they let the fire blaze for a while.

A bit about the foundation we volunteer with

Alex had been waiting so long that he had learned how to play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” on his cell phone. The container full of dental equipment from Canada was supposed to have arrived on Friday some time in the morning. It is now supper time on Wednesday and the container still isn't here. The shipping company only gives you a couple of hours to unload the container until they want it back, so a bunch of neighbours have been on call and are now waiting around for the container to arrive. We've cleared away some space in the cluttered warehouse to make room for the new donations. Some of the older donations include such “useful” items as hand knit scarves and toques for all those nippy mornings we get around here, and bags full of stuffed animals. Reports say that this container will, mercifully, be only dental supplies and equipment.

I have just finished my second day of teaching English and Steph has been killing time waiting for the container just like everyone else. Alex calls Regino for the fourth time and he assures him that the truck is on its way but that it has been stuck in a traffic jam for a while. More waiting. We watch the chickens flap up to the hood of a truck and then up to a branch to roost. The rooster clucks and struts around the gravel parking lot. The night watchman has already arrived, apparently the rooster is an early warning system for intruders. Although, I'm not entirely sure how much good it will do because the night watchman will probably only ply the intruders with the hard candies that he carries around in his pocket. Despite the fences and razor wire all around the Sonrisa's clinic in Pentoja, it is apparently necessary to employ a night watchman.

The truck has finally arrived, but we are still waiting on Regino, who has the official documents. Regino arrives with a big pair of red bolt cutters and the men begin circling the back of the container like moths. The women stand back waiting for their brothers and husbands to stumble across some way to unload this colossal blue steel box. Someone brings out a couple of boards nailed together that will serve as a ramp. Someone else brings a McGyvered light fixture to put inside the container. It quickly shorts out and needs to be re-wired. At last the unloading can begin. Fuelled by testosterone, Christmas Meringue music and the energy stored in waiting, men hurl the boxes down from the truck and pandemonium ensues in the warehouse. Sometimes the chaos forms into a line and the boxes pass from hand to hand and are stacked on top of old dentist's chairs covered in dust, waiting to be rehabilitated. But before too long, their favourite song will come on again and they will starting hurling and dropping the boxes in some attempt to outdo one another. The women retreat to the office and return with coffee. The box hurling halts briefly each time a three hundred pound dental chair needs to be unloaded. Four men walk the chair down the ramp while another steps on the bottom of the ramp so that it won't slip out. The chair is slammed onto a board with wheels attached to it and is wheeled off to the nether regions of the warehouse. The hurling commences once again and the mountain of dental supplies continues to grow.

After an hour or so we are half way through the container and it is time to stop for beer. Four one-litre bottles of light beer arrive on the back of a forty year old motorcycle. Everyone stops and drinks until the beer is gone. Some get into the container and dance a little bit. And like the wheels of some chaotic train engine beginning to turn, the boxes come flying down the length of the container once again and it is a mad scramble to find spaces to pile them inside the warehouse. After another hour and a half there is only a couple of large chairs left to jockey into the increasingly limited warehouse space. Then, as if by magic the world of the container is drawn away and we are left waiting once again for cabs to take us home.

Waiting on the weather

I only saw Waiting for Godot once and it wasn't under circumstances that would lead to focusing on the intricacies of Beckett's celebrated text. All I really remember is a couple of homeless guys waiting for this Godot fellow, who never shows up. (I remember the bit about the carrot and the turnip too, but that's beside the point). I wish I would have paid more attention, because I think I would have a lot in common with those homeless guys after spending a month in the DR. Perhaps I could find, in that play, a method for dealing with the frustration of waiting. Unlike Godot, the people here usually do show up, but they always make you wait. I feel like I'm on the outside of an inside joke. For example: someone tells me that the bus to the beach is leaving at eight in the morning. I'm not so naive as to think it will actually leave then, so I come half an hour late, but I'm still the first one there. The thing that really makes me think that it is a conspiracy against people who lack the ability to interpret DR standard time is that the twenty other people all arrive between 9:05 and 9:15. How did they all know that the bus would actually leave at quarter after nine? Why didn't they just say that in the first place?

It can't be said that things happen more slowly here, because really important things happen quite quickly. Steph had been feeling feverish all day. So Merecedes, a very kind Dominican friend, brought us to the clinic. Within five minutes, Steph had had a blood test and within another forty five minutes we had the results and a doctor confirmed that she did not have Dengue fever. After another hour the doctor had determined that it was some kind of infection and written a prescription for some antibiotics and we were on our way. That would have taken all day in Canada if we had simply walked into a clinic or an emergency room. We hardly had to wait at all. The same is true of the public cars here. They may be crowded and falling apart, but you never have to wait for them. They are always there when you need them. The things that make you wait are the things that are scheduled. Things happen when they happen, despite when somebody may have said they will happen.

Dominicans deal with schedules the same way they consider weather forecasts. All figures are approximate and dependant on several variables. They treat their clock like I would treat a thermometer, only trusting it to give accurate readings for the exact moment in which they consult it. “Who knows, if you look your clock again in what seems like an hour, you may find that three hours have passed.” I come from a place where everything is supposed to happen at a certain time. If class is supposed to start at nine, it does. When you go to emergency you are supposed to wait for five hours before seeing a doctor, and you do. Things follow the schedule pretty steadily. What can't be predicted is the weather. There could be any sort of precipitation blown in off the lake, snow, rain, sleet, hail and the temperature could fluctuate more in a day than it does in a year in the Caribbean. Here, the schedules are more transient than the weather. Every day is hot and sunny with a few clouds, and every day you get about twelve hours of sun, burning its way across the sky. Chances are, if you look at your thermometer, it will say twenty-five degrees (or thirty-five in the summer) add ten degrees worth of humidity to get the “feels like” temperature. There are a couple months of rain, but you could set a Swiss watch by the time of day the rain comes. On the other hand, you never know what you will find when you look at a clock in the DR, why bother to set it at all?

Learning to wait is an invaluable lesson. It teaches two things: preparedness and faith. Preparedness because you always need to be ready for something to happen at any moment and to continue happening until it is over. We waited for an hour and a half for the bus to take us to the beach once, but we didn't get back until late that night. Faith because the things that we wait for here do happen, even if it is not when we are expecting them to.

Juan Dolio

But it is beautiful,
and almost enough
to make you forget the cramped
hour of Bachata polluted
bus ride it took to get you here:
children falling asleep on your shoulder
then nodding their heads
down your back
forcing you forward
their head between you and the seat.

The sun soaks deep and hot
into the sand,
for a moment
(after looking into a radiant – unbroken
sky)
you can't see the sprawl of burned
white skin
(the casino-resort down the strip)
you can't see your own pinkening
flesh.

There are things so perfect
that they draw out the human presence
as if it were venom
as if it never existed.

High above the surface
the palm invites such
inhospitable elements as raw sun
wind
and below the steady crush of salt
and the bake of sand.
Still, it takes these elements
from which we hide,
and makes something
alive.

Another View of the City

It's not so much that the charms of certain things wear off. The charms are still there, but slowly, the stink filters through the perfume.

I've spent a lot of time in Universities. I barely know what to do with myself if I'm not on campus and don't have access to a good library. This is something that I am only realizing now that I have spent the better part of three months away from the familiar patterns of University life: sleep in until panic sets in, read a little, write a little, eat breakfast, go to the library, read more, write more, go to the gym, watch a little t.v. and so on. University life seems to be a constant struggle to delay or deny deadlines. It is structured around procrastination. This is even true (or perhaps especially true) of administration: a maze of committees and requests and repeals of requests. Finding myself lacking this familiar structure of procrastination, I took a crowded bus to the Universidad Autonoma de Santo Domingo, hoping to find a library and the energy of more than a hundred and seventy thousand procrastinating students. I wander around for a while, comforted by the institutional architecture and the omnipresent construction of newer, better buildings. Walking up to the library I am told by what appears to be a bouncer, that I can't go in. I asked why and was informed that people wearing shorts cannot enter the library. It's forty degrees and I am expected to cover my legs out of respect for the gods that live inside books? Walking away I realized that it seems I was the only one on campus not wearing long pants. We do what we do because it is done. Self consciously, I walked around the rest of the campus wondering what is so disrespectful about my legs. Just a few days before, Steph had been kicked out of a church because her dress only went down to her knees.

It took a couple weeks to realize that my hair and my finger nails are growing like crazy. At first I thought I was imagining it, but it's true: hot climates raise the blood pressure and increase the blood flow to your hands and head, which in turn increasing hair and finger nail growth. I need to cut my nails twice a week. I've already had a haircut and am just about due for another one.

When the rain comes, it's like someone is turning on a shower. Usually, it pours straight down in a torrent of all consuming flood waters and completely transforms the view. If it rains for more than a day the walls begin to leak and the water creeps across the tiles forming inexplicable pools in the middle of the room. Sometimes the rain is a welcome relief from the unrelenting sun. But when it comes as a tropical storm it shuts down the whole city and nobody can stay dry.

You make it through a couple weeks without too many encounters with ants and cockroaches. The weather has been good, it's not so hot that you can't breathe and so far no hurricanes. You haven't even had a sunburn, yet your skin is bronzing nicely and hair is turning blond. The food is good (no Diarrhoea yet) and the rum is cheaper than wine. Guilt hasn't overcome you when you see the poor people, because they're not that poor, right? You are finding enough to do so that you don't go crazy. You don't have cholera or Dingue fever or Malaria. But this is not like home. You don't belong here. You will always be called “Americano” or “gringo” when you walk down the street. What are you doing walking anyway, in shorts and sandals no less. Daily things are consolation for the inevitable turmoil of the planet. The view of earth is so serene from the moon and this Island is a paradise from ten thousand feet as your plane approaches the runway, just a twenty minute air-conditioned bus ride from the resort. On the ground the streets are clouded with the haze from burning (still) leaded gasoline. You can smell the garbage and can't escape the ants, mosquitoes or cockroaches.

In too many ways I came here to escape real life and find a little bit of paradise in the sun. Perhaps I wanted to keep procrastinating my life away, but I'm beginning to realize that it's better to accept the realities of where you are. It's better not to be caught in the heat without your nail clippers.

A poem

Perception

Hearing the world from
behind a wall
is an act of conjecture:
the sound of the rain as it pools off a cement roof
various pumps and generators
whirring water up to cisterns
and power all around,
dogs barking
cell phones ringing their songs
like pathetic digital birds,
“yes, that's Doña's phone”
someone has just walked by with the same
bird/phone as me
“Nunca y nunca”
“aguacate”
(shouts from the street, someone selling something)
cars and motorcycles
and always, somewhere
the vigorous shuffle of dominoes.

En Carro Publico

Most of the Public cars are older than me and no, this doesn't mean that they are antiques. It is a small miracle that these cars can (more or less) stay in one piece, let alone run. Here is a survival guide for riding in public cars if you ever happen to find yourself in Santo Domingo.

General Purpose: To move a maximum number of people a short distance in s straight line along major streets as quickly*, comfortably**, and cheaply*** as possible.

*traffic can be quite bad during rush hour, so it is often faster to walk

**Dominicans define comfortable transportation as anything that isn't walking

***make sure you are actually taking a public car and not hopping in a car with someone who will rob you

Recognizing a Public Car: if you are walking along a major street in the direction of traffic, you won't find a public car, it will find you. You will probably here a muffler dragging and an anemic horn welcoming you into the cars dilapidated interior. Don't be alarmed if there are two or three drivers vying for the privilege of packing one more passenger into their already (to a North American eye) packed cars. If you do not wish to take a public car, ignore them, or shake your finger “no.” All other gestures will be considered informed consent. If you are looking for a ride, here are some things you can look for to ensure that you are in fact getting into a genuine public car:

• Toyota Camry/Carrola or Honda Accord built between 1975 and 1990
• Smashed windshield held together with packing tape
• Lack of mirrors
• Radio playing from the one speaker that still (barely) works
• At least three people plus a driver already on board
• A sticker on the door or a little sign on the roof that says the route
• Specially painted roof (colour depends on route)

Bonus points:

• The car rolls to a stop in front of you because it has stalled
• There are already a total of seven people in the car and one of them weighs at least 300 lbs.
• Once inside you may notice other sure signs of a bonafide public car like lack of a knob on the shifter, general lack of upholster and no functioning gauges

Etiquette: Before you enter the car, be sure to find your seat, and always enter from a door on the right hand side of the car. Two people can sit in the front passenger seat (make sure the driver can still use the shifter). Four people can sit in the rear seat. The third person from the left hand door scoots forward. Also, these cars are fragile, so be sure not to slam the door on the way in (Note: you may have to use the outside handle on the door when you leave, because the inside one is broken or missing). Don't worry about sweating on everyone, it' s the polite thing to do in this situation. When the driver puts his hand toward you he is ready to take your fare (either RD$20 or RD$15, depending on the route) but if you are going to be traveling most of the route, he will probably charge you double. If the driver doesn't put his hand out towards you, you should tap him on the shoulder and pass it to him. Don't worry about having the correct change. The drivers are multitalented and can carry on a conversation, drive a broken down standard, and count change all at the same time. Don't be shy, chat to the stranger sitting on your lap, it makes things seem less awkward.

Public cars may not be the most comfortable way to get from A to B, but they have a way of bringing people together. If we didn't use them, we would be missing out on the great opportunity of sitting on a strangers lap.

The View From My Front Door

If God isn't in daily things, I don't know where to find him.

He is not in my neighbour's red Acura NSX. Or the exploitation of Haitian construction workers (my neighbours to the other side) who get paid three dollars a day to lug bags of cement up jerry-rigged scaffolding in forty-five degree heat. He is not in the razor wired, dog guarded, digital cabled palatial compounds that surround me. I may be wrong, but he doesn't seem to be in the rolling blackouts or water shortages. He is not in the genocide of the Taino or the history of brutal colonialism. It seems that people have made these things without need of too much help. It seems that these things are too flashy for God to have much to do with them.

I had a most exquisite cup of coffee this morning. I am not, traditionally, a coffee person, but I've recently been persuaded that coffee can be a beautiful and delicious thing. Besides the obvious (to me at least) socio-political implications of drinking coffee the biggest reason I didn't like coffee was the sheer volume one was expected to drink. Guzzling a vat of weak, Luke-warm coffee seems to be a quintessentially North American thing to do. One need not look far to find a better way to enjoy coffee. This morning I brewed a cup of coffee in a small espresso maker. I filled the bottom compartment with cold water. Then I filled the middle compartment with freshly roasted Dominican coffee, screwed the whole apparatus together and carefully balanced it over the gas burner. After a couple minutes the thing began to splutter and in another twenty seconds I had about three ounces of delicious coffee. I poured it into a small china mug and added a little bit of honey for sweetness. I could get used to this elegant ritual.

There is something sacred too about fruit. Bananas picked ripe that morning and brought into town to be sold on a fruit cart, or one of the many different kinds of mangoes. Like the Colmado, everyone has a fruit stand, they are every bit as frequent and convenient as the neighbourhood stores. From a block away you can see Papayas the size of footballs crowning the carts. If there's a patch of shade on the street there will probably be a fruit stand with a couple connoisseurs divining out the perfect mango as noisy, overloaded motorcycles smoke their way past.

There is also a small moment of grace at the end of each day. After the sun has burned a path across the sky and just before it sets, the heat suddenly dissipates. For about twenty minutes (before the cement begins giving back the heat it has been absorbing all day) you can sit outside in perfect comfort. Another day of relentless heat is forgiven just as the people begin to come home from work.

In this honking, roaring, sun soaked city, the daily things are often tucked into corners. But they are there, waiting to be found.

Our Colmado

Almost every block of Santo Domingo, RD, has what they call a "Colmado". This small store sells everyday essentials such as food and water, but more importantly it is a place where the neighbourhood meets to drink ice cold beer, play dominoes and sit in the shade. It gets better: they deliver! Steph and I have only been in the Domincan Republic for about a week, but our Colmado is already a life line. It is less than a hundred meters down the street so when we call for a new jug of water or some eggs, they arrive at our front door within a minute or two on the back of a moped.

I'll use "My Colmado" to deliver a fresh taste every week of some of my creative output and the culture here. Friday is delivery day, but if you need anything in the meantime, don't be shy, give me a call.