White people, aka Bank of Gringo

So if people are really just people, where ever you go...which is where I was going last post, then I need some shoe polish, and a rag...but maybe its not ' looking white ' that is so bad. Actually today my gripe is not just the feeling but the fact that everyone casually asks for and expects free flowing money ..to "borrow". When I was first here , living on the boat, finding my way, I put myself out there to help and made many "loans" but never with the expectation that a poor Dominican could pay me back. I worked up crazy contracts trading labor , or whatever would make the loan meaningful(obviously only to me) ..I loaned the money for a motorcycle purchase for free boat washing for a year. I got three days of boat washing and not a word more. I paid salaries in advance, paid for services never rendered.....but learned and made each deal with the knowledge of my borrowers. Many more requests and loans have come and gone, but things are very different here on the Samana Peninsula. And the reason a black face is not enough to 'save face'. The extranjeros , the whiteys from everywhere, and living here, are now elbowing each other out of the way to be the next "borrower". With the same repayment plan as the Dominicans. I came to understand the honest direct eye contact way a Dominican sees white people as walking banks : it is on their tvs and cell phones everyday. We have everything and have to do nothing to receive...But how is it that the Europeans see through the same eyes? Everyone I know has asked me or my boyfriend for money. Everyone. And the few people I was almost to the cliff to consider a friend.. have all felt comfortable repeatedly asking for something. And it is usually up to me to ask to be paid back, like some Charles Dickens tyrant, plus the extended expectation that I will pay for each shared meal, ride...I do love it as I watch them smoke their cigarettes, drink, take their recreational treats, and then ask for money... I have always been happy to be the worrier, the one who watches each dollar , each peso find a new home. It is my job to claim to be poor, to keep the borrowers away. It is not working well, but I wake each day in a sweat knowing there is less for me , less of what I worked so hard for...and I want to continue to be generous and help the Dominicans who are in my close-knit neighborhood, the local school, the health crisis, the jailed son, the motorcycle accidents, cancers, and life changing events that the poor cannot answer to. But spare me the cocaine snorting, person who pays for alcohol, sex, smokes, and tattoos, and needs some cash!! Exit soap box stage left. People are just people, and I prefer the Dominicans and their open honesty, clear eyed needs and willingness to share to any other ethnic commodity I have experienced so far. Back to a beautiful country and a beautiful first day of December 2013.

People are just people where ever you go

This is theme, about people, all people, came about as some friends living here from the US related being peppered with questions about living here. For instance do we have stars and rainbows here, like in the US. Yes, and unicorns, and fire-breathing dragons! I guess its better than the view the DR is a step below a third world country. Then come the questions about crime, drugs, with that preposterous self-centered superiority of a country plagued with ignorance, fear, and greed. Its back to the people, what its like here is the people, not the breath-taking beaches, mountains, agriculture, wildlife(yes I am talking about tarantulas!)...or the stars or rainbows, or extreme patterns of Monty Python clouds cavorting across the southern hemisphere's blue blue sky. I love the people here. I have enjoyed them the most away from the more 'cosmopolitan' areas of the country, in small villages and towns. They all have a similar readiness to smile, to offer to help, to talk to you despite the communication barrier with their own brand of rapid-fire sloppy home-grown spanish, where they often drop the entire last syllable, and run it all together without moving their lips...and they are genuine in their desire to share what they have with you, offer you a coffee or a cup of their beer, fix your flat tire, or whatever they perceive the need to be. I was amazed one morning driving to Samana the number of children walking to school, uniformed in light blue shirts, kakhi pants and skirts, knee socks, black shoes, hair in multicolored baubles. Lots and lots, all sizes, holding hands, in groups, alone, several on a single motorcycle whizzing by, all full of big white-toothed smiles. On the way home the same day around noon there they were, all running and skipping home. What they actually are taught or learn is up for debate as the education system, government budgeted at 4% annually and a known 2% funding, is very little. And families send their kids at great expense for uniforms, books, and the required government paperwork. In assisting my previous Haitian farm manager to get 5 out of 7 of his kids in school, it was a private tutor for Haitian creole to Spanish, many trips to obtain documentation, and a very pricey trip to the department store to outfit the five in two sets of uniforms , underwear, belts, shoes, socks , books, paper, pens and pencils, and lots of erasers. None of these things are part of everyday life here, all specialty items for the privileged and able. The local elementary two-room school does not have running water or electricity. The teachers there are a set of twins who switch on and off, I never know which one I am speaking with, and they have varying states of poor health themselves , having been separated at birth, and seem quite fragile and gnome-like in their bespectacled middle age...So far the neighborhood has put some tubo, aka cheap plastic pipe that was probably pre-cracked in places, in a shallow gutter along the road, and across it in several places, for water run from the street up a tortuous hill and rocky with grand canyon sized potholes. And we are working with the mayor to donate electrical wire to run from the nearest box to the school. Back to people, and children , and the genuine quality that comes across their faces as they come at you ,driving on the wrong side of the road, or going the wrong way on a one-way road. They can stop on a dime to talk to a friend on the road, or back up at a rapid-fire pace to return to a storefront , or to talk to that friend on the side of the road. They love the road, the "calle", the street where they congregate each evening, and pull their chairs out to sit during the heat of the day. Alone or in groups, sometimes with a hot domino game in progress, they will sit, balance on the very edge of the street and visit, watch the cars and motorcycle pass. Babies are passed hand to hand, held out to the next family member, and the events of the day, stories of love and affairs, the weather, long conversations day in day out make what could appear to be a boring, hard existance into a deeply social animated culture.

another perfect day

it just struck me what a nice day this is. I have everything I want, with the exception of afew enemies I never asked for, or actually did anything to...but that small bitter taste is nowhere today. The daily alarm clock is the sun streaming into the bedroom, , never an unpleasant sensation as I wake up and stretch into dogs, cat, a beautiful man. I have delicious coffee, grown here, I have homemade granola and yogurt, fresh pineapple...fresh coconut water and a nibble of sweet meat from the nut. I wash the dried mud off my leg, a slobbery gift of last night from Rico, the sweet great dane I shared dinner with(and his owners.) How did I miss that big glob of goo last night? Off it comes, no problem. Oh, that means I have running water, indoor plumbing, electricity and hot water. I feed the dogs and cat, do laundry, pick seeds from my flower bed that I am saving to plant around the elementary school down the dirt road... the little things that start my day with a smile(yes, even doing laundry makes me smile.) All the while, the breeze blows. the sun shines, the clouds scatter across the sky like puff balls. Francisco is mowing a small part of the grass he missed yesterday, making a putting green. He and Eric go off in search of scavengable palos, lumber from the countryside... and I hop on the 4-wheeler and go to town for groceries. It is a beautiful ride, and I stop at a dominican bakery that also sells fresh chicken, and buy two fat birds, feet and all. One for me , one for Francisco's family. Then on to Supermercado #1, and buy fresh tomatoes, onions, peppers and carrots for tomorrows curry. I am tempted by the giant bright green avocados, but know Francisco will bring me more from our tree later this week. I avoid John the nasty German man who is now a persona nongrata, and Jose checks me out fast so I do not have to wait behind him in line. Now thats personal service! No time to dwell on anything unpleasant here! And I splurge on a cheap (325 pesos) Sangiovese that cannot be any worse than the Carlo Rossi I am forced to drink on occasion. One more stop at the french bakery for a bagette, and I am back on the highway , happy to be going home. I drop off the spare bird with Chela, Franciscos wife, and I am home to start cooking the chicken, hang out the laundry in the now stiffer breeze, and snack on a slice of bagette with homemade garlic mayo, fresh local cheese and tomato, and a dash of hot sauce. And I am not sure it gets any better than this. No, I am positive that this is the way to be spending my Saturday morning in the DR.

If time passes more slowly in the DR....

what have I been doing all these months, years, and why am I still a Magpie on dry land? Obviously my commitments are not taken as seriously as I would have liked! More resolve comes to me in my advancing years...I do attend yoga on a regular basis, thats commitment .While I have let dear Magpie go to another, there will always be Magpies, in memory , in the fact that I remain in the Dominican Republic, carried here by her. And I am a Magpie, always and forever. Yes, I am still in the DR, but moved to the end of the earth, end of this island, to the Samana Peninsula, to Las Galeras, the tip of the northeast point. The bustle of Las Terrenas and the heavy Euro population were not for me, and while I could stand the wonderful restaurants and beaches, I had no space, and my love for the people and culture was harder to find among the snooty french and absence of Dominicans unless in a service mode. I have much to say, about being here, about living on boats and on land, about food and plants and nature that is abundant and peculiar. And people of all ethnicity and relationships that are like meteors and amoebas. The locals, the Dominicans, the Europeans, the family and friends that are here, that visit, that do not visit. The dogs, cats and burros in my life. The tarantulas, scorpions, snakes and flying & crawling things that are part of my day to day. More later, and yes, I am happy to write to myself and will take my commitment more seriously in the future, even if I am only writing to myself!