one month already

"Guagua al servicio de Dios" or "Bus at God's service" was painted across the windshield of this 1980s sixteen passenger van, capacity twenty-seven. I am growing accustomed to bold declarations of faith en la Republica. For example, I buy fresh mangos and pineapple on a stick from the lovely folks at "Fruteria a la gloria de Dios" which means "Fruitstand for God's Glory," and we buy bread from "God is Good Bakery." I'm told its a product of charismatic Christian missions and Haitian Christian tradition, in which public declaration of faith elicits blessing and protection. Either way, this was the first time that I had seen public transportation with a divine mission and I knew then this would be no average bus ride. Two hours in a public guagua, weaving through Dominican shantytowns, sitting on strangers laps, holding their babies, sticking my head out the window so the rest of my body would fit. A designated worker showed people how to squeeze in, packing us the way people pack their cars full of luggage for long trips. The unfortunate souls who boarded last had to hang outside the open doors. The assistant undercharged the Haitians, giving them the Dominican price, and the driver started yelling, reaching back with his big black palm and slapping the man on the head as if he were a school boy. We stopped every few miles to let on the old woman with her crate of chickens, the pair of Haitian carpenters with their lumber, the flock of chirpy school girls, the fragile old folks. We piled in, we piled out. We stopped every time somebody wanted to buy something off the side of the road, candy, avocados and the like; they shared this really yummy almond dessert with me. I laughed, I smiled. Thing is, its not funny to them, this is life. Although I think they enjoyed watching me watch them.



I was on my way to Rio San Juan with several of my friends from the program. We stayed at a hotel owned by an old French woman and staffed by a very friendly Haitian cook and bartender. It was built on a rocky cliff jutting out over the ocean; the place was a little run down, but the waves crashed against the cliff all night, spraying me through the open window and jerking me to sleep. The town was tiny and out of reach for most tourists, with cows grazing in the town square and kids playing baseball in the streets with sticks and coke bottles. The beach was stunning, the most beautiful I've ever seen. I hope you enjoy the photos.

Santiago has a way of snapping its fingers and waking me up from the dream that is...well, everything beyond Santiago. But this place is full of relational charms and challenges that keep me springing out of bed in the morning. Genarina certainly helps! She is back from South America with all the spunk and energy I love so much. She pounds on my door at six-thirty in the morning, shoves a cup of coffee in my face, and we're out the door to go walking. We never get very far because she knows everybody and always stops to chat, or we end up buying fruit. We have a fruit tab, its great. I remember being disappointed that I wasn't placed with a larger family, but now I realize that I'm supposed to accompany this person at this very point in her life and mine. She's lived alone for most of her life and is very set in her ways; sometimes I just have to bite my tongue, its not always easy. Apparently her other students didn't speak much Spanish and weren't very interested in spending time with her. Its an adjustment for her to be living with somebody who is as individual as she is, but I know we're both growing in this relationship. I'm taking her out to enjoy some jazz this week.

School is still challenging. I really enjoy my profesors so that keeps me motivated...but this is a serious university. Some days I feel confident, and others I feel like I have the communication skills of a first grader. The poetry in my contemporary lit class is killing me. But for all the frustration there are small victories along the way. I made an A on my cinema paper and my prof told me I wrote like a film critic! My hope is that it will become easier as my vocabulary becomes more collegiate. I have my first round of exams over the next two weeks.

Struggling to learn, its worth it. Now instead of speaking those words to myself, I can speak them to my own students again. But let me back up, and tell you about jumpthegun Katy. Homesick for the shelter in SA, I arrived in the Dominican Republic like a labrador puppy, ready to love and slobber all over everybody. As it turns out the organization I had originally planned to work with was not at all what I was told, to no fault of their own. This really upset me though, mostly because I knew I should have done my homework. I set out to find another organization to work with and hit one dead end after another. I pushed and pushed and finally decided that I just needed to turn it over into bigger, more capable hands. I don't do the wait and pray thing well at all. Its hard to live amidst such poverty, experience its aesthetics and its inconveniences (even for the gringa living with a middle class family) and not be able to work in it or see any of it being redeemed in any way. Its like my senses were heightened and everything drove me crazy, the safety issues, pollution, parasites, trashed streets, broken toilets, cold showers. It hurt me to watch little kids shine peoples shoes, wash car windows, beg for money in the streets and get slapped by fearful strangers. I started to notice them everywhere. "Who works with those kids? Hey Father, can that be me? Please?"

God is faithful. I ran into a fellow American student at a gas station who is taking a semester off and working at a public hospital downtown. Before I knew it we were discussing the cultural barriers that complicate volunteer work here, and sharing our experiences. In passing I commented on how the shoe shine boys here remind me so much of my students back home. He lit up and told me about Accion Callejera, an NGO that works with the shoe-shiners, providing meals, counseling, tutoring and health services. In the blink of an eye I found it, I had an interview, I was given a "Senorita Kati" nametage and told "welcome to the team."

Today I found myself sitting at the head of a table, surrounded by seven grimy, adorable faces, all staring at me with mischievious grins. Hungry children who have been raised by other hungry children. Sociologists call them urban tribes, to psychologists they are victims of "alternative socialization;" in this city many see them as a safety threat, a fiscal drain or a simple nuisance. Strip away the labels and you'll find a brother or sister. I don't know that I have ever encountered a more challenging culture than that of desperate children, but it excites me so much. They are many, I am one, yet society has taught them that they are the "out group" and I am part of the "in group." Today was a day to create unity, to get to know them, to inform them that unlike before, this would not be coloring class. We are going to learn to read. They are full of energy, and to be quite frank their social skills are all over the place and they're not at all well behaved. As street children they have every care in the world, and learning to read is not one of them. I can see now that maintaining their motivation will be my greatest challenge. By the time I left though they told me they were excited that I was coming, the little ones drew me pictures and they promised to be good next time if I would just come back. I'll be back, with materials and a plan next time.

Most of these boys come from the Cien Fuegos (one hundred fires) community outside of the city. It is built around a giant dump that the locals use for "treasure hunting," digging up appliances, car parts etc. that can be resold for a few pesos. Thing is, parts of the dump spontaneously combust in the heat and many people suffer severe burns and even die in the fires. The boys' families cannot afford to keep them, so they commute back and forth from the city center to the dump, working in both and sometimes going to school in between. Due to their jobs, their attendence is spotty and they are mostly illiterate, some entirely.

Accion Callejera's goal is to provide them with all the services they need to work less and attend school regularly. The organization also works closely with the families, trying to get the boys birth certificates so that they can enroll in school. Some enroll in accountability programs with their whole family, but most come and go on their own or with their sibblings. I was able to talk to the resident psychologist at length, and she explained the role that child prostitution and substance abuse play in their behavioral patterns. She's willing to let me sit in on the intitial intake therapy sessions. I also met two catholic missionary guys that work in the education wing, one from Guatemala and another from Colombia. They are very friendly, very sincere and I'm looking forward to working with them.

Family and friends I covet your prayers! I am well here, I am happy, I am learning so much, but all these sights and all this information requires a lot of processing and dialoguing, mostly with God. I can't do this on my own, as it should be. Please pray that I will be a blessing as I have been blessed, that I will plant seeds of hope in their hearts, and that everything I do there will bring peace and joy to these little brothers. I love you all. Please tell me how you are! Send me an email or drop me a note, I always love to hear from you.
Senorita Kati

several hundred feet into the ocean...a sandbar!







Rio San Juan, Playa Grande







lunch is served







In the DR, rain happens.






Mi casita amarilla, home sweet home






exciting new fruits

















my lovely host mama Genarina, on her birthday






some light reading for the semester...






First place at the Cibao stock show. Craziest day ever.







Rooftop neighbors...just four feet away from my open bedroom window. A very lively bunch indeed.

Thoughts from la casita amarilla

Family and friends! It it such a joy once again to be sharing these photos and stories with you. So far I've done well to squeeze in a weekly update, and I wish I could promise the same for future weeks. Life is getting busy in Santiago de los Caballeros and I am loving it.
Genarina is still flitting about South America with her lady friends and I miss her very much. Her niece, Cesarina, is staying with me and we've been able to go out a few times with her friends. Its been nice to get to know Regina better too as we are usually the only two people in the house. Its really starting to bother me though that she showers out of bucket and I don't. She sleeps in the utility room and I sleep upstairs. I feel really helpless sometimes, so I make coffee for both of us in the morning and bring it to her. I ask her about her family and her poor health and try to be a friend.
This past weekend I went to the countryside with several other students to volunteer at a rural school. The school is run by a French-Canadian woman named Paulina, who moved to the DR in 1985. She adopted two Dominican children, word spread, and suddenly she was presented with several more kids that needed homes. She has adopted and raised 31 Dominicans since then and there are thirteen children and young adults living with her right now. Legal adoption is almost unheard of in the Republic; it is however normal for children to be taken in by friends and relatives when their parents cannot afford them. Paulina felt that it was important for these children to legally be part of her family, although they don’t call he Mama and they often visit their biological parents in the neighborhood. I still don’t really understand their family dynamic. The community school is next to their home and the surrounding area is dotted with brightly colored shacks that Paulina’s older married kids live in.

It was all very surreal and my mind can only reflect on it in snapshots. As you will see, these are as random and lacking in continuity as the photos I did or did not remember to take. Children run around barefoot yelling in French and Spanish. Boys shimmy up coconut trees, machetes clenched between their teeth, and use a pulley system to lower clusters safely to the ground. The kids are lean and muscular, the kind of muscle you get from living outside from sunup till sundown. There are latrines, kerosene lamps, dirty feet, broken skin, pigs the size of small horses, babies with big black eyes. Five children squeeze on the back of a small donkey and make their way up the muddy hillside to Paulina’s, hoping to find some lunch--they found it. Baseball games in the dirt where I learned to “pitchear la bala” and “eswing la bata.” Chores are divided into neatly gendered categories with all girls in the kitchen and all boys beyond. Swimming is never premeditated, it just happens.

I was able to climb to the top of this giant hill above the main jungle base, where the vegetation was smaller and the views were stunning. Our goal: to pick wild avocados and oranges! The boys moved fast. On this three hour hike, I got to know Tonitino. He was in need of some encouragement because he just failed his entrance exam for high school and will have to repeat 8^th grade. He wants to be a taxi driver when he grows up. The panoramic shots below are all thanks to him, he showed me all the best spots to take pictures.

God is good, love you all.

Dominican art in our home

Genarina 1972

Regina and I gave Chuchi a haircut...and then some

The family, minus the big boys and girls

wild avocados

trusty ecosneaks

Tonitino

picking avocados

buddy nico

not so happy after the pig stomped on his truck

Vladimir playing beisbol

fotos de la playa Sosua

one happy girl

Haitian fisheman, stretching before a deep sea swim

bathing suit? what for?

the bare necesities

blue water on black skin

my swimming instructors

delicious dinner

new friends!

hola Earl....

about to chug some mamajuana, Dominican after dinner spicy rum. never again.

welcome home sancocho

paz, perspectiva y playa

“For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

I don’t know where this verse is found in the Bible, I committed it to memory three years ago, riding the metro to school in my other Santiago, Santiago de Chile. It was when I first realized that God, His love and His truth would be the only constants in my life; it did not depress me for the first time to acknowledge the transient and changing nature of everything else. My home, language, relationships, perspective and knowledge are in constant transformation—as it should be. I have Him to look for all the permanence my heart desires. In this foreign country, the rug of familiarity has once again been pulled out from under me. Once again I am reminded what the bare earth feels like beneath my feet. Once again I see Him so clearly as the God of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

So yes, life in La República changes as often as the weather, that is to say, every single day. Every morning I arrive at class soaking with sweat and return home for lunch soaking wet from the rain. The rain here doesn’t fall, it swirls about so umbrellas are useless. Genarina always laughs at me when I walk in the door…as in five solid minutes of hearty Dominican laughter. Everything is funnier in the DR. I dry off, change clothes then she drenches me in mosquito repellant before I walk out the door again. Love it.

My schedule has totally changed but I still love my classes. My new Development of Gender Roles in Caribbean Society class is actually helping me process and understand the way women are treated in the streets here. The priopos or cat calls are constant, more so than in Chile or Mexico. Due to the high unemployment rate (double that in the US during the Great Depression) men sit around outside the corner stores playing dominos, visiting with neighbors and sharing beers. The next day they are still there, doing the same thing. They call to every girl that walks by, Americanas in particular. They would never harm you, to them its just part of being a man and even little boys do it. They even compete to see who can come up with the most clever piropo; my favorite so far is “tu con tantas curvas y yo sin frenos! You with so many curves and me without any brakes!” Unfortunately, not all are so harmless and oftentimes they can be sexual and truly degrading. It has required a new strength that I didn’t know I had (or rather it was given to me). I so often want to scurry around them, change my commute or just stare straight ahead. I now greet the groups I pass by each day before they can say a word, “Buenos días caballeros. Good morning gentlemen.” in response “Buenos días mi linda, que tenga un buen día. Good morning my lovely, have a good day.”

Poverty. Its everywhere and blended in a way that I’ve never seen in the US. Mansions are next to shacks, kids with uniforms and ipods wait on street corners next to beggar children, poor fruit vendors set up shop next to tall modern bank buildings. Then there are those areas where not a trace of wealth is found, “el canyon” is one such neighborhood. I must pass through it on my way to school each morning. I used to fear it, even though Genarina, CIEE and a policeman told me it was safe to pass through. I stomp down a rocky hill, dodge this mean billie goat that will hopefully be somebody’s dinner soon, cross the bridge over the sewage filled river, step around chickens then climb upward again toward my gated university. I take every precaution possible, I tread lightly but most importantly I have learned that there is security in making myself known, especially in a culture where solidarity and community come first. These people that live in shacks and blare evangelical praise music now know my name. I am greeted by all and even get the occasional “God bless you my blondie” from the women. Oh yes, here I am called “rubia” or blonde because I’m white.

I went to the beach this weekend! Everybody was talking about going to Cabarette to the reggaeton festival, but I didn’t want to pay thirty bucks to listen to reggaeton all night so I initiated a different trip. Four boys and four girls came with me to Sosua, a beach town founded by a group of Jews who escaped from Germany during World War II. We stayed in Hotel Dr. Roseman, run by New York Dominicans or "Newyorquinos" who had retired there. I was served my first full cup of black coffee by these lovely folks! We visited two tiny deserted beaches and one touristy beach, all were absolutely gorgeous and if I wasn’t thrown in I probably would have just sat there all day, entranced by the blue water. Because of hurricane Earl I underestimated the power of the waves and took a few tumbles, there’s still sand in my ears. We swam out towards the bay side where you could see straight down to the bottom of the ocean! We also got invited to dine at this brand new restaurant with a five star chef; as part of the promotion our full meal was about ten dollars each. Fish never tasted so good.

Because prostitution is legal in the DR, sex tourism is very visible in Sosua. Old, white American and European men were everywhere with young black girls. At night dozens of prostitutes lined the street. The sight turned my stomach. We met several American police officers, one high school principle and multiple businessmen who have made Sosua their escape for that reason. It was truly sad to see these girls and women; many are single mothers with children to support. We girls stayed glued to our guys that night to minimize the invitations they received, but it was no use. It seemed like more and more kept driving up and piling out of cars. It became overwhelming, so we headed back to the hotel, went swimming and played cards. The hotel owner explained to me that Americans discovered Sosua five years ago and now the industry has just exploded. I cried a little for them that night, they were all very kind and apologetic in their tone.

I must admit, it was hard to get back on the bus and return to smoky ole’ Santiago. Sosua was beautiful, so beautiful that at times I almost forgot the desperation of its people. I find that’s the way it often is here, beauty and brokenness side by side. But I’m growing fond of this place and its people. It was nice to come back to the house and feel like I was home. Genarina of course had cooked up a storm. Fried pig fat and sancocho with chicken feet in it. Sancocho is yummy, yucca, banana and random cow and chicken parts in a stew. Eating fried fat was not so easy. My tummy is confused these days, but we eat a lot of salad so that seems to placate everything. Mom, Dad, thanks for teaching me to eat what’s put in front of me.

I’m receiving details on my teaching position this week. Its taken a while. I’m ready. I miss my boys at the shelter so much. I miss using my words in that way, I miss navigating all the tricky relational dynamics of teenage boys from third world countries, I miss being called miss. I’m ready to do something with my hands.

For now that something is writing three essays in Spanish and practicing my merengue routine so the dance teacher doesn’t yell at us today (terrifyingly awesome woman). I love you all, thank you for sharing openly in this adventure. I am well and learning oh so much about this world.