Well, I have 110 interviews under my belt, and 226 pages of notes (and still climbing!). Next week will be my last week of interviewing community members. I have 23 questions I typically ask, written out in a nice tidy logical order on a sheet that is now dog-eared and rain-spattered. From these 23 questions I am compiling a data set on my computer, but this neat confined quantitative form doesn’t do real justice to the 110 conversations I have had. Some highlights from the past few weeks:

One lady, after firmly telling me that her decisions mattered more than luck, asked for my birth date so she could play the numbers in the lottery. She thought it might be lucky because she had dreamed about a man with brown hair and green eyes (“he had a beard though,” she said).

A white-haired lady in her seventies, who repeated a litany of health problems which kept her from starting a business while referring to me as “mi amor” and practically leaping about the house acting out her various pains.

One of the group members in La Barquita, who is always trying to get me to pay for a massage in her massage parlor/nursing school/dubious health products store, spent half of my interview with her describing the various problems with having a Dominican girlfriend.

Another group member, when I asked about luck told Agustin and I the story of how a car pulled up to her house below the bridge (definitely off the beaten track), and some people came to her door and gave her 8,000 pesos out of the blue. She has never seen them since and has no idea who they were or why they did it.

A lady who we interviewed and who then sheltered us from a rain shower showed us the bottles of a dark suspicious looking liquid she makes which she claims helps women get pregnant. She also does healings for extra money.

110 faces and voices, each with a life which will continue entirely apart from mine, most likely little affected by our interaction. Some days it is exhausting to talk with so many people (usually 10-12 a day), but it is always rewarding, and I have one more week of it. After that I’ll have to try and say something sensible and helpful about this place that’s been my home for three months. What a summer!

Well, I´ve been away from the internets for a while, but let me wish all you americanos a happy belated Independence day.  I didn´t actually realize it was the 4th of July last Friday until about 6:00 in the evening, which was kind of strange.  I celebrated by singing the national anthem while walking down the street to a meeting with Ciprian.

That night I was sitting on the porch after having an interesting conversation with Ciprian about America, and the incredible power it has in the world.  I had to consider both what I love and hate about my home country.  I do love America, and I love her more the more I travel, but I have some questions.  I doubt she´ll answer, but if you´ve talked to her lately maybe you could tell me the answer to some of these:

America:

Why are the ghettoes black and the suburbs white?

Why, 50 years after desegregation, are the inner-city schools still underfinanced, under-performing and dangerous?

Why are you killing your children?

Why are a higher percentage of African-American babies aborted?  Is this what equality of choice is supposed to mean?

Why are third world nations denied the opportunity to compete fairly in the agricultural and textile markets, even as we pour aid money into the corrupt hands of their officials?

Why is each wave of immigration met with the same dislike and disrespect?  Have any of the immigrants to this country ever taken more than they´ve given to our culture?

Is ever-increasing consumption really the goal of the American Dream?

Can we find a way to ensure freedom for those trapped in poverty without curtailing the freedoms of those working their way out?

Why has a war against stateless terrorism so far resulted in the invasion of two sovereign states?

 

Yikes.  If you take offense with the implied political perspective of any of these, just remember I am young.  Maybe I´ll change my mind.  Anyway, it doesn´t hurt to ask, right?  Happy Independence Day!  God bless America, and the Dominican Republic, and the world.

This week has been very, very good.

If I could, I would leave it at that and let you go about your lives, but I’m a blabber-mouth, so I’ll tell you a little about it.

I interviewed thirty women this week, the beginning of my final labors here. In three weeks I will be done working in the community and will retreat to my computer to write my final reports. Right now I am learning about La Barquita in general, broadening my scope from the groups I have spent my time with up till this past week.

Also this week, Ciprian’s other daughter came to stay with us. I spent a lot of time baby-sitting, even changing diapers. I learned a lot about what I’ll be in for when I’m a parent. Little Noelia is a handful, that’s for sure. But just check out that smile:

In the evenings I have been reading Walden and Oscar Wilde’s plays (thanks Kate, for letting me borrow them). I have rarely had time to really think and contemplate what I read like I have had here. I’ve been living life poly-chronic style, sitting out on the patio and not counting minutes before I move on to something else. Consequently, I’ve been able to think, react and learn from what I’ve read more than I usually do.

Yesterday it rained. I love it when it rains. Hilda was mopping the floors and I retreated out to the patio with Mr. Wilde (after drawing water from the cistern, I’m not totally useless). Motorcycles hurried past, trying to beat the downpour and a little moth managed to struggle its way to the colmado roof. Then it really started to pour. The wind sprayed the water under the patio roof, enough so I closed the book but not enough to make me want to move. I thought it was beautiful. Then Hilda came out to empty her bucket and reminded me that when it rains this much the river rises and houses flood. I was reminded of the beginning of Eliot’s The Dry Salvages:

I do not know much about gods; but I think the river

Is a strong brown god–sullen, untamed and intractable.

I stopped to pray that the God who knows every rain drop would not let there be one drop too many. Eventually I went inside.

I wrote in my journal that evening, “today it rained and many things happened that seemed very important.” It is hard to explain this feeling, but my thoughts throughout that afternoon were all of a piece, all driving toward something that stills seems essential.

For the rest of the day I thought back on Walden, which I finished on Friday. I thought about what I wanted my life to look like, what physical possessions I really needed, whether and when I would be married, and day-dreamed a lot. I decided I want to learn a craft, preferably pottery (probably because Thoreau mentions being delighted with it) and that I want to learn to write poetry as a craft. Using the word craft enables me to take poetry seriously without taking myself too seriously. I don’t need to be a POET in the sacred Shelleyan sense. I can just be a poet, who tries as hard as he can to write poems. I decided brown is my favorite color and I want to paint my house in different shades of it.

I was thinking about this all day, and took a nap about three. The Sunday afternoon nap is one of my specialties. Hilda woke me up to tell me she was going to the salon (a little yellow concrete building with “D’Yerissa’s” painted across the front wall). Awake now, I reviewed my day-dreams. Trying to match my mostly aesthetic decisions with what I know to be good, I finally felt like I understood what it means to “do all to the glory of God.” That every single thing, from my job, to the place I live and the way I treat my friends is worship finally hit home. I’ve known that this was true for a long time, but for some reason I finally got it. All my day-dreams matter little if my life is not a constant praise to the creator. Worship is where beauty and virtue unite.

So that’s what I’m thinking about. What I learned from that Sunday contemplation:

I am (if you’ll pardon the term) a spiritual smart-ass. I know a lot of concepts and quotes (though I could still learn more) but I have comprehended little and apprehended even less.

Contentment, as Paul tells me (Phil. 4:11-12), is something to be learned.

So in that vein, have a little taste of Thoreau:

“Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off track by every nutshell and mosquito’s wing that falls on the rails. Let us rise early and fast, or break fast, gently and without perturbation; let company come and let company go, let the bells ring and the children cry,–determined to make a day of it.”

So make a day of it today. Don’t knuckle under. Have a good think and figure out what it is that you are really supposed to be doing. Read Walden.

Oh, and I wrote this poem. It’s not very good, but it’s about the rain.

Some Different Kinds of Rain

The late summer rain almost chuckles

As it cools for an instant then rises

Bid take up its bed by the sun it surrounds me

With damp sick-bed singing and smothers with

Kisses. But winter rain is more aloof.

It syllogizes me with drumming downbeats:

“Will die, dying, dead” and never

Drying beats my head till I agree with it

And wiser pick my way through frozen puddles.

But best of all is the cordial bachelor rain

Of April, falling, calling on the streams

In come-a-courting clothes: the silk-worm sunshine.

Until when wed with snow-melt it begins—

As fits a lover—to withdraw impassioned

To its bridal chamber pearled with salt and sand.

That was long. If you read all of that you get a special Seth star to be claimed the next time we see each other. Love ya!

The above onomatopoeia is intended to express the fact that a lot has happened, both good and bad this week.  Let’s just summarize on the front end:

1. I got sick.

2. I went on the retreat with Smita and the other interns.

3. I got better.

4. My little buddy Ronan got baptized.

5. I was appointed official ambassador of rock n’ roll to the Dominican Republic.

The last one isn’t true, but the other four wore me out.  Especially getting sick.  Last Tuesday was the day I learned that “vomitar” is a cognate.  I ended up in a clinic with a needle in both arms and one in my butt.  I had some sort of bacterial infection, probably from some dietary misstep.  To make a long story short, I ended up going on the retreat anyway, so I got to recuperate in a nice air-conditioned room, and I got the opportunity to share experiences with Kate and Jason, the other two Covenant interns here in the DR.  By the time I got back I was much better.

The other big event in my little world was the baptism.  Ronan is sort of my cousin for the summer (if I am Ciprian and Hilda’s temporary son, and he is their nephew, that makes us cousins), and he was baptized into the episcopal church on Sunday.  It was a lovely ceremony, and it made me wish that I had godparents.  His godfather gave him 500 pesos.  Lucky.

So now here I am back in the office on a Monday, getting back to my routine.  The next four weeks will involve surveying the community at large in preparation for my final report July 25th.  I hope you all have a safe and happy week!

Well, it’s now been six weeks. I’m halfway through with this little adventure. This week I’ll be going for a little vacation with the other interns—Jason Furman and Kate Davidson—and our professor, Smita Donthamsetty. We’ll be catching some rays at a beach resort for a couple of days. Hard life, huh? It couldn’t come at a better time. I kind of feel like I need a little break from La Barquita. I’ve caught myself wishing I’m home, or back at school. I need to commit myself to being here. So what better way to do that than to go away, right? Well, I don’t know. But anyway it’s going to be fun.

 

Let me tell you a little about my church. The Iglesia Episcopal de San Pedro y San Pablo is very small. Most of the members are elderly. The services are at 7:00 in the morning, so every Sunday I get up at 6 or 6:15, take a cold shower, intensified by the cool air, and walk down the street and around the corner to street. The Book of Common Prayer guides the service, and gives me practice pronouncing Spanish words as we read the prayers and responses.

Reverenda Milquilla’s (yes, she’s a woman) sermons are very theologically pointed, at least from what I can tell. Last week she preached about the importance of passing the faith on to the next generation. This Sunday she was gone, so Alexander, our deacon preached. My mind was wandering so I’m not sure what he said.

Each service ends with communion (with real wine) and a time where we sing and walk around embracing each other saying, “paz” to everyone. It’s wonderful. I’ve had to get used to crossing myself when I receive communion, and whenever the Reverend mentions the persons of the trinity.

The communion ceremony has struck me lately with the very physicalness of the bread and wine. We actually eat (ingest, consume, digest, and yes, expel) the symbol of Christ’s body. Who do we think we are? Every time, Reverenda Milquilla begins the ceremony by taking the first wafer and the first sip of wine. I watch her chew and swallow and I wonder, is there something else going on here? Or is she just eating a bit of bread dipped in wine? Why is the most poignant symbol Christ gave us also the most mundane? Is it simply a symbol or is it something more? I think more churches should hold communion every week.

 

So that’s a bit of my life. Prayer requests:

Once again, that I will remain content. It’s a constant battle, but God is building within me the ability to abide in Him, rather than circumstances.  Besides, I really do like it here, and I want to savor every minute. 

That the next step in my research will go well. I’m now going to start surveying random women in the community to see what the potential for growing the program is.

That Ciprian and Hilda will get better and I won’t get sick. They´ve both been hit with a bit of the flu I think.

For my hall, the Catacombs. If you don’t know, I’m the next Resident Assistant, and I’ll find out soon who the new freshman are. I’ll be spending a little time in the next few weeks writing them letters and praying for them specifically.

Things I thank God for:

Hilda.  She is an amazingly gracious hostess.  She cooks for me, cleans my clothes, and does a million small things to make my life better.  Even if I were fluent I couldn´t thank her enough.

Basketball in the street (with a tiny metal ring for a hoop, barely big enough for the ball. That didn’t stop me from sinking a sweet hook and working the give-and-go like it was going out of style with this kid named Christopher)

Guanavana: or guava for you English speakers. It’s like a spiny green pear-sized jelly-bean. It tastes real weird and the seeds will kill you.

Poetry: Mr. Hopkins continues to speak to me, and I’ve written a couple poems of my own and posted them in the poetry page above. Also, here’s another bit of Pablo Neruda for your enjoyment:

The Birds Arrive

 

By Pablo Neruda (Translated by Seth Morgan)

All was flight in our world

Like drops of blood and feathers

The cardinals bled

The dawn of the Anáhuac.

The toucan was an adorable

Box of varnished fruit,

The hummingbird guarded

The original sparks of the lightning

And their miniscule bonfires

Burned in the immobile air.

The illustrious parrots filled

The profundity of the foliage

Like ingots of green gold

Newly come from the past

Of submerged swamps,

And from from their circular eyes

Watched a yellow ring,

Old as the minerals.

All the eagles of the sky

Nourished their bloody stock

In the inhabited blue

And on their carnivorous feathers

They flew to the top of the world.

The condor, king assassin,

Solitary friar of the sky,

Black talisman of the snow,

Hurricane hawk.

 

Hasta lluego amigos!

Morning is my favorite time of day here.  Every day I get up, take a cold bath de bucket (the pump is broke again) and have hot chocolate and rolls.  If it is a nice slow morning we have coffee, then the “pan con chocolate.”  The air is still cool, the chocolate tasty and my thoughts clear, though still difficult to express in Spanish.

This morning however, started all wrong.  I was the first one up so I decided to try my hand at preparing the hot chocolate.  Just milk, coacoa and sugar, right?  Not that hard.  Sadly, I added too little powdered milk, then when I tried to add more once it was hot, the milk powder clumped.  I didn’t even know that happened.  So it came out thin, with milk clumps and not enough sugar.  And we didn’t have rolls.

To make things worse, in the gua-gua on the way here I got stuck on the backwards seat next to the door with only one cheek’s-worth of butt space.  Let me explain.  A gua-gua is a mini-bus about the size of a 15-passenger van into which 25 passengers or more are crammed.  The door is taken off and a guy called a cobrador stands on the running board yelling at pedestrians to get inside.  Once you’re in he manages to balance himself by sticking his head under the door opening in order to keep his hands free to take money and count change.  All of this while the gua-gua is navigating crazy Santo Domingo traffic.  It’s a real trip.

Anyway, things began looking up as soon as a few people got off and I could claim enough space for both my buttocks.  We arrived at the office in plenty of time for the Monday morning devotional and Jason Furman (other Covenant intern here in the DR) dropped in for a visit.

So yeah, God is good, and once again I am learning to appreciate “the dappled things” that make up my life here in Santo Domingo.  That phrase comes from this poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins which I’ve take as a sort of theme song for the summer:

Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things—   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;     For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;   Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;         5     And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.   All things counter, original, spare, strange;   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)     With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:         10                   Praise him.

I’m here in Esperanza’s office listening to Frank Sinatra with Ciprian and this guy named Milton. We are waiting for the women from the new group of borrowers in La Barquita. Today they come in to the office to receive their loans. I haven’t said much about my work here, despite the fact that for the past two weeks it has absorbed nearly all my time and most of my waking thoughts. Let’s start by introducing you to these women:

These are the members of “La Solucion,” as they have dubbed themselves. Every one of them has lost most of their possessions two or three times since coming to La Barquita. The last time was only this January. Each time they rebuild, knowing it will happen again.

All of them have a very strong sense of self, and a surprisingly strong feeling of control over their own future. Otherwise thy would not be here, borrowing money and acting as guarantors for each other’s loans. They are strong, resourceful, and very cautious. They do whatever they can to reduce the amount of risk they face.

Esperanza means “hope” for those of you who aren’t hip with the lingo. Hope has something to do with it, but for most of these women Esperanza’s program is something more substantial and specific: a business proposition, with costs and benefits. Here’s what I’ve learned so far, stripped of some of the com-dev jargon:

There are two broad categories of women in La Barquita (for the purposes of my study, anyway. You can’t categorize people, but sometimes you have to categorize their observable characteristics in order to learn about their situation). The first group, while by no means wealthy, is not in extreme poverty. They have several sources of income, live in houses made of concrete with solid metal roofs and have access to both loans and savings from several sources. The second category is worse off. They generally have only one source of income, or several small and unsteady sources. They live in houses with poorly constructed wooden walls and have little access to loans.

The primary reason why women in the second category do not participate in Esperanza’s program is because they fear the risk involved, the risk of failing in business and the risk of having to help pay the payments of others who might fail in their group. Of the women in this category who decided not to participate after attending the training, every single one told me they had no control over their future.

I am still trying to learn more about the first category. It may be they simply don’t need Esperanza’s services, or it may be they have other more attractive options. That’s what I need to find out. As for the second category, 6 or 7 of the ten in the group are more or less in this category (in order to be useful, the categories have to be somewhat inaccurate, that’s life). They are very strong, self-sufficient people. I can only hope that they will succeed and others will see their success and follow suit.

The other thing I’ve been learning about is the process of group selection. The women above are organized in two groups of five members. Within the groups each member guarantees the loan of the others. That means if one fails, the others may have to pay. In order to avoid this, there has been a certain amount of team-picking that has genuinely hurt some feelings. It is important to have people you are confident will succeed in your group. Honestly, the process has been a bit brutal sometimes. These women are certainly worthy of your respect, but they are not saints, and they are willing to do what they have to do to reduce their risk in this venture.

I hope you found that summary interesting. Please pray for the members of La Solucion, and pray for Ciprian. He is very busy, stretched at all ends and to top it all low on money. Pray for me that I would remain content here. I have been longing for familiar things (I generally do when I feel tired, which has been often lately), for family, friends who speak English and hot water. I need God to give me peace and rest this weekend. I know He will.

To end this quite long post, here’s what I do with my down-time:

Some Beasts by Pablo Neruda, translated by me

It was the twilight of the iguana

From the crest of the rainbow

His tongue like a dart

Sank itself into the undergrowth

The monasterial anthill tread down

The forest with melodious feet.

The wild boar, fine as the oxygen

In the broad, brown heights

Was putting on wineskins of gold

While the llama opened guileless

Eyes in the delicacy

Of the dew-filled world.

The monkeys braided a thread

Interminably erotic

On the banks of the dawn,

Pulling down walls of pollen

And frightening the violet flight

Of the butterflies of Muzo.

It was the night of the alligators,

The night pure and pululant,

Of snouts sticking out of the mud

And of somnolent marshes

An opaque noise of armor

Returned to the terrestrial origins.

The jaguar played the leaves

With his phosphorescent absence

The puma runs in the branches

Like a devouring fire

All the while they burn in him:

The alcoholic eyes of the forest.

The badgers scrape the feet

Of the river. The scent the nest

Whose palpitating delicacies

They attack with red teeth.

And in the bottom of the magma-water

Like the circle of the earth

Is the gigantic anaconda

Covered in ritual mud,

Devout devourer.

That’s a part of the Canto General, in which Neruda tells the story of the entire continent of South America. I’ve just now gotten to the part where humans come in, after learning about the plants, the minerals, the rivers, the birds and–as seen above–the beasts. If you’ve read a real translation and find that mine is full of errors, you can keep it to yourself.  Anyway, I’m a geek, God is good and I’ll type at you later.

Well, nobody worry. Despite the tragic loss of my debit card, I have money. This week I was able to share the experience of many many Dominicans who use Western Union to receive money from their family members.

Another important event this week: the water pump was fixed. No more bucket baths, no more flushing by pouring water in the bowl. Here’s a look at my bathroom, with my beloved blue bucket there to the left:

Here’s Ciprian and Hilda, hanging out in the kitchen:

Speaking of the kitchen, let’s talk food. There are three ways to cook plantains: fried, boiled and mashed. There are two ways that people generally cook eggs here: hard-boiled and fried (the only time I had scrambled eggs it was with rice. Quite good actually). That makes 6 possible combinations for platanos con huevos. I have tried them all with the exception of mashed plantains with hard-boiled eggs (probably just haven’t got around to it yet). Below is boiled plantains with fried eggs:

I’m not complaining. I like platanos con huevos. My favorite is the both-fried variety. The key to good fried plantains is to fry them a bit until they are soft, then take them out and smash them flat (we have a special smasher thing, but a fork would probably do), then put them back in the oil until golden brown. Mmm. Me gusta.

In other news, this afternoon is the final review session for the trainings Ciprian has been holding with the future Esperanza borrowers of La Barquita. There is an interesting story here, because we started with about 20, and now have only 5. My job is to get that story, but I haven’t really figured it out yet. Pray that I’ll be perceptive.

Until next time, amigos.

I lost my debit card.  I don´t know how it happened, but no money was gone from my account, so if it was stolen, the thief didn´t figure out how to withdraw the funds, gracias a Dios. 

Speaking of theft, apparently a man tried to rob a house down the street the other day.  He made the mistake of breaking into the house next to the iron-bar workshop (they make the bars for the windows that everyone has on their houses).  The guys in there are huge, and they apparently hate thievery.  All I know is I saw a truck drive by with half the neighborhood following it and in the back were the two big guys holding down a dude with a gun to his head.  Augustin (my translator) said he was lucky they were taking him to the police.  Two men were beaten to death for stealing a cell phone in his neighborhood.

Crime doesn´t pay kids.  That´s all I gotta say.

I said I owe you a description of my surroundings.  For picture see the post below and my flickr site.

Ciprian’s house is a long low concrete casa, open to the air with large windows covered by swiveling metal blinds. It has a narrow porch on which there is a metal rocking chair—a wonderful place for thinking in the evening—and it is surrounded by bright pink cast-iron bars. The floor is black-flecked yellow tile. The rooms are divided into one long room extending from the front porch to the back which contains kitchen and living area, and three bedrooms to the side. The one farthest back is mine. Ciprian, Hilda and the baby sleep in the room closest to the street. One room is empty. There are two bathrooms, one connected to Ciprian and Hilda’s room, the other between my room and the empty room.

Next to the porch, a trap-door opens up to the water cistern, where we draw water with a bucket for washing and flushing the toilet, but not for drinking. A truck comes by every once in a while to fill it. The stores sell large plastic jugs of drinking water.

The street outside is unpaved dirt, covered in rocks and pock-marked by pot-holes. Cars drive slowly by to avoid bottoming out. Trucks and motorcycles go faster, mule-carts go slower.

Two colmidas—small shops selling groceries—face each other on the street right next to the house. The closer one is constantly playing bachata music at high volume. For the first week I was here they only played one CD, over and over again. On the rare occasions this stops, as in between tracks or when the electricity is out and they don’t want to use the battery, you can hear music from all sides, coming through the wide-open shutters the surrounding houses. This is not a private place, and it is never silent, though it is much more peaceful than the streets of Santo Domingo proper. Dogs are barking, horns are blaring, motorcycles roar and grumble, people are talking, shouting and crying. In the morning the scraggly neighborhood roosters take turns crowing. All of this eventually fades into a constant white noise, without which I would instantly know that something was wrong.

There are always four or five people sitting in the driveway across the street, a few in front of one colmida, and a few across from them, sitting around and chatting. The same pattern repeats itself on every street in La Barquita. Though the Dominican national sport is baseball, the Dominican national pastime is Sitting Around. Possibly alternated with Standing Around and sometimes Walking Around. But mostly Sitting Around. In these little gatherings in the street, the shared life of the community happens. Lately the main topic of conversation has been politics, almost to the exclusion of anything else. But now that the election is over I’m sure other topics will come in.

La Barquita consists of Calle Ozama, the main road leading to the river, and a circle coming off it which surrounds the upper part of La Barquita. The lower part of La Barquita, the part closest to the river consists of Calle Ozama and various tiny alleys and paths off of it. The lowest area, beneath the bridge, is the poorest part of the community. Here the houses are mostly wooden shacks instead of concrete.

La Barquita as a whole is a very mixed place, with a relatively broad range of incomes represented. It is known for having a low crime rate, and most of the more prosperous people I meet like it here. The entire area floods every ten years. The last time was only six months or so again when the hurricane came. Many people here lost everything. This sort of impermanence is felt, especially close to the river.