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.