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.