The Colonial Zone

I enjoyed being in the Colonial Zone, which surprised me. Normally I like to get away from the touristy areas of cities and be where the people live. But the DR is different. There were a lot of neighborhoods where I would not feel comfortable - mostly because there are few comforts (like air-con), and I would stick out like a big, pink, sore thumb. But being in the Colonial Zone allowed me to see some of Dominican life (unlike in little France by the sea aka Las Terrenas). When I arrived on Saturday it had been raining all day and I found the air very fresh and cool. Normally I didn't like to walk too much because unlike the locals, after walking two blocks I was usually drenched in sweat. But on Saturday I was able to walk and not sweat, and when I got hot, I found some little parks to sit in. I began to get adventurous, mostly because it was cool and pleasant to walk, but also because as we drove across the country on the bus and I saw these little pueblitos, I got a strong feeling of nostalgia for Nicaragua where I walked around fearlessly with my expensive camera hanging on my shoulder (and everyone saying "hey take my picture"). I realized that something had changed for me as a traveler since those days, or maybe it was just that Nicaragua was a special place and it was a special time. But anyway, I decided to walk around and explore some of the back streets of the zone while the weather was cool. What I found was a very vibrant, very loud, very open lifestyle - open meaning it was all out there to be seen. People did not have air-conditioning, so many of them sat in their living rooms with the doors and windows open, some sat outside, some were in little shops that sold groceries but also had snack counters. Everywhere there was music, and the music was really loud and because of this, conversations were like shouting matches. I walked around as if I were invisible. No one gave me a 2nd look (or a first one for that matter). The only time I ran into uncomfortable situations was on El Conde, the pedestrian shopping street that runs for a few blocks to Plaza Colon. There prostitutes and hustlers tried to hit me up, and there were a few seedy types among them. On top of that, taxi drivers continually said "taxi", which I found quite odd since I was obviously walking on a pedestrian street - where would a taxi even take me anyway? Anyway, it was a pleasant experience being so close to the action, and, my hotel was quieter than the other places I had stayed in Santo Domingo. On my last night there, I went to a restaurant that is on the first floor of an old hotel at the end of El Conde, on Plaza Colon. They have tables set up under a big tree outside, and also have tables and a classic old bar inside. It's the kind of place you would likely see old men wearing guayaberas and straw hats and smoking cigars back in the day. Now it is filled mostly with tourists mixed with some Dominicans. In front of the restaurant, taxi drivers, shoe shine men and boys, and locals congregate and talk, laugh and sing. It's a great people watching place. I lucked out when I went on Sunday night for my last meal because even though the outdoor section was packed, there was one table right in front. I grabbed it and ordered chicken and rice - the one thing I know that they have that is fairly typical and good. As I devoured my meal, it suddenly started to pour. A really, heavy, tropical downpour. The square had been full with children playing, friends talking, lovers walking hand in hand, and suddenly everyone ran for cover - some under the eaves of buildings, some under the trees, and some just ran home. I was lucky because I was under and umbrella that was under a tree. A guy who had been standing under the big tree in front of me and checking me out, came and stood behind me under the umbrella I was under. He said something and I didn't realize he was speaking to me until he said it again. Long story short, he wiggled his way into a chair and pulled himself up to my table, ordered a beer and then tried to convince me to take him back to my hotel. I tried being polite and just saying I wasn't interested, but I was feeling hassled and a little unsafe. As the rain stopped I told him I was going to go inside and pay the bill. Normally the waiters would bring it outside, but I didn't want to pull my money out in front of him and then have to listen to some sob story about a baby needing medicine or something like that. I asked the waiter if he knew that guy and he said no. He then took my money for my check but brought the bill out to the guy who was sitting with me for his beer. I yelled out that I would pay for the beer, because I did not think the guy had any money. I then snuck out through another exit and walked the block back to my hotel. Again, feeling nostalgia for Nicaragua, I wondered why it was that when I was in Nicaragua, I was never once approached by people asking me for money, even though it was in the middle of a war and economic blockade led by the US. I never felt unsafe there, and people were always calling out to me to take their photos or just to stop and talk. The only thing I was ever asked for were pencils by children. I left the DR feeling very sad about what appears to be to be a culture in dysfunction. At its heart, the Dominican Republic is a warm, happy place with people who have an enormous spirit and beautiful smiles. But over the years, something has perverted it, I blame it on capitalism, which has left a huge division between rich and poor, and a strong emphasis on materialism, which makes those who have not jealous and even angry at those who have. They don't see how the system that they participate in has created the conditions under which they are forced to live, but instead look at tourists as sources of quick, easy money. I don't know what the solution is, but now I plan to revisit Nicaragua and see how much it has changed after 20 years of capitalism and "democracy". If it is the same as what I remember, I'll revise my thesis, but if it has changed and become like the Dominican Republic, I can only conclude the the way of life that we value so much that we insist on exporting it (often at the tip of a gun) is actually the reason for so much inequality and unhappiness in the world.

My Date

I had a date last night. The last one was sometime last century, or maybe last year when I was here? I don't even attempt dating in San Francisco. My therapist will explore that with me, I'm sure.

Anyway, I met this guy named Manuel online. We chatted a bit while I was in Las Terrenas. Messenger is big here, everyone wanted my msn, which I had but didn't know how to use. With Manuel, I figured it out. We could see each other while we chatted.

He is an unemployed graphic designer. He showed me some of his work, which is good commercial stuff. I don't know the ins and outs of the advertising business here, but it seems like it would be tough to find a job unless you were REALLY good. I didn't think he was REALLY good, but what do I know about advertising? I'm kind of turned off by people telling me I need to buy something to be happy and fulfilled.

We met at my hotel and walked to Plaza Colon. He had no idea where to go, so I suggested the large plaza by Columbus' palace (maybe it was his son's or brother's - can't keep the mythology straight). It is called Plaza Espana.

When we arrived there was a stage set up at one end and some traditional carribean dancers were flitting around in big skirts. We went to a restaurant called Angelo.

I didn't bring my glasses and neither did he. It was dark and we couldn't read the menu. The waiter suggested some sort of seafood platter. I wasn't sure all of what was on it because I had a hard time understanding him, but I ordered it and a glass of wine. Manuel had some stuffed chicken breast.

He had two cell phones that he kept playing with while we were walking and after we sat down it rang a few times. He would stop talking mid-sentence and answer the phone. He did most of the talking. At first I asked him if he had finished his portfolio, which he told me he was working on so he could get a job. He went into a long discussion, or shall I say monologue, about the difficulties of graphic design and how clients do not understand it and how letters come in different styles than can't be mixed, etc., etc. To me it sounded like the client was always wrong, and he was always right. I was beginning to understand maybe why he was unemployed.

He seemed very sweet online, he kept sending me kisses and calling me 'bello' (beautiful) but in person he was kind of cold and detached. Anyway, I listened politely and eventually got him on to a different topic.

I asked him what he thought about the French owning businesses in Las Terrenas. He told me that basically the Dominican government sold the country to foreigners. In Boca Chica the Italians own most things (which explained all of the pizza shops I saw there), in Punta Cana it is the Germans. He also said that each nationality owns their own hotels and restaurants and they don't like each other so they don't mix. It was very odd. Fortunately, the Americans don't seem to be in that business (I am sure we just own most of the good agricultural land).

We talked a little about Haiti. I got on the subject when he mentioned free markets, which is how the country was sold off to foreign interests. I think this is where I may have lost him. He basically blamed the Haitians for their plight, saying that they need to work for a living and not depend on the Dominicans to rescue and help them. Wow! I knew there was some rivalry between Dominicans and Haitians and I knew there was some resentment of the Haitians who come here to work (sound familiar?), but this was kind of unexpected. Since there is no work in Haiti, and no food, and people are dying and eating dirt, and when they democratically elect a president, the US overthrows him (with the help of the Dominicans) I found it strange that he was suggesting that all of this was their fault. It's the blame the victim syndrome.

When I mentioned Aristide, the president who was elected twice and overthrown in US backed coups twice, he told me he was very bad. When I asked him why, all of his reasons had to do with the Dominican Republic. I didn't catch most of it, just that the usual reasons that we hear in the US, of him being a socialist, communist, or whatever, were not given. The reason Aristide was bad was because of his ideas about the Dominican Republic (I think he was advocating for the DR to allow Haitians to work here and send money home - sort of like what the president of Mexico urges the US to do).

That was pretty much it. He asked me about myself once but mostly he talked about himself.

Then on stage a woman started to sing a Mercedes Sosa song. Mercedes Sosa is this incredible Argentine singer who sings popular revolutionary songs. She was exiled during the Argentine dictatorship and I saw her in a concert in Nicaragua once. The song was beautiful and the woman who sang it was very good. Manuel told me she is a popular Dominican singer. She went on to sing songs by Silvio Rodrigues and Pablo Milanes, two Cuban singers and then some of her own songs. Manuel knew all of the songs and sang along, explaining some of the words to me (in Spanish) from time to time.

This was nice. Here we were, sitting outside in this beautiful plaza with a full moon, a nice cool evening breeze and this beautiful music, live, right there. I was really enjoying myself.

Then Manuel's phone rang. I heard him say he'd be there in 10 minutes. I guessed our date was over.

I was wondering if he had arranged to have someone call him if for some reason he felt the date wasn't going well and would have a reason to escape. It was a bit strange to me. He walked me to my hotel and shook my hand and told me we could do something today if I wanted and then nearly ran in the other direction. I was left feelign a bit confused. He knew what I looked like, so I don't think it was that. I didn't talk much, mostly because I don't talk much and talk even less in Spanish and he was talking a lot about himself, or singing, but I am not sure what could have gone wrong.

What I will take with me (once I get over the apparent rejection) was another beautiful evening sitting outside and talking to a Dominican about his country. I enjoyed that, I enjoyed the music, and the meal, while incredibly expensive, was pretty good. It was a good way to spend one of my last nights here.

The Journey Is Half the Fun

I'm back in Santo Domingo and it's nice to be here. I got up really early, I'm not sure why. I might have slept about 5 hours last night. After watching a movie that I've only seen when I am traveling (it might have been the last time I was here that I saw it several times) with Janet Jackson called "Why did I get married?" or something along those lines (I actually enjoyed it - again), I tried to go to sleep, but couldn't sleep. I sat on my terrace a bit until the mosquitoes started to feast on me and then went to bed. I woke up and could not fall back to sleep, so I went out into my kitchen/living area and the sun was just beginning to lighten the sky. I decided I would enjoy the "amanacer" (a word I really like in Spanish, meaning the "dawn", but in Nicaragua after the revolution, countless songs talked about the "amanacer" - which was soon snuffed out by Reagan's dirty war.....) Anyway, I took my time sipping coffee, playing on the computer, watching the sun light the sky and hearing the birds begin to awaken. I packed up, ate a light breakfast and wheeled my broken suitcase (the new backpack with wheels that I bought just a few months ago at Macy's in Philly didn't survive its 2nd flight) and began checking out. The sweet young man who has been so helpful was there, smiling as usual. I asked him where he was from because I thought he was Haitian, but perhaps could have been French. He confirmed he was from Haiti. He seems extremely well educated, and dresses in very fashionable/casual chic. I asked him to call me a taxi even though I had promised El Chivo, the grandpa who brought me from Sanchez, that I would call him on my return. The taxi arrived and was a nice, comfortable, air-conditioned mini-bus. The driver was very nice and we chatted on the way up over the hills from Las Terrenas to Sanchez. His Spanish had a very different quality to it and I imagined if I had been able to speak to anyone in that area, I might have found that it was a regional variation. As soon as we left the beach road and ventured into Las Terrenas town, signs of the French influence disappeared and was replaced by Dominicans, dark-skinned, walking, three on a motorcycle, trucks carrying construction workers, market stands with fresh fruit, meat laying out in the open air, auto parts, etc. It occurred to me that with all of these people that I was seeing, I had never seen any of them at the beach, or swimming in the ocean. Perhaps there was another more local beach that they went to. Perhaps they were prohibited from mixing with the tourists, or using the "french" beaches. I found it odd. Up we went over the hills, through several small villages. I asked my driver if the people who lived there were "campesinos", thinking that a campesino was a farmer. He told me they were and that many of them worked in Las Terrenas, some were moto-concho drivers, and some worked in agriculture. I then realized there was a difference in meaning and my question might have seemed a bit odd to him. He then pointed out the different things they were growing - corn, coconuts, a sort of rubber tree. As we swept up over the mountain he pointed down to the bay where the whales come every winter. Every person who has driven me up over that mountain has pointed out that bay, well, except for El Chivo, because he was too busy complaining about how there were no tourists. We pulled into the bus station, well, more like a bus stand, at about 9:15. The Caribe-Tours website said the bus left at 9:30. It was the last bus in the morning, according to the website, which is why I was worried about oversleeping and therefore didn't sleep well (oh, so there was a reason for it). The young man in the ticket office (who I remembered from last year) told me there was a bus at 9:30 that took the old highway, and one at 10:30 that took the new one. Ugh, I wish it had said that on the website. I told him the 9:30 one was ok. I had calculated arriving in Santo Domingo around 1:30, eating lunch, and checking in whenever I could (check-in was supposed to be at 3, so I didn't want to arrive too early). I figured I could sleep on the bus. If I had taken the 10:30 bus, I would have had a shorter time on the bus, but would have had to wait for an hour in the bus staion where there was an extremely loud radio program blaring that sounded like it was horse racing (it was coming from inside the office and also from the street - I think everyone in Sanchez could hear it). I saw El Chivo wobble down the street in front of the bus station. I was hoping he would not see me. As the bus pulled up, I pulled my broken suitcase down the driveway, and there was El Chivo waiting to open the door on the side of the bus to load luggage (I think I was supposed to tip him for that, but I didn't). I was hoping he would not recognize me. He looked at me fiercely and said something about a guagua. Guaguas are these funky old mini-busses that are jam-packed full of people and spew black smoke as they roam around Santo Domingo. I knew what he was asking me, but I pretended I didn't understand as I threw my bag in the compartment and headed towards the bus door. Again he said something about which guagua I took. I told him I didn't understand, and he said "unh?" as I climed the stairs and boarded the bus. I am sure he was putting some kind of curse on me. I settled in to my seat and off we went, through countless little villages that line the coast. I remembered much of the scenery from last year when I came in the other direction. Little shacks, many of which were quite cute, painted in different colors, or some just made of cinder blocks with corrugated tin roofs. After reading about how the poor in Haiti live, with mud floors and banana leaves for roofs that do nothing to keep out the rain, these little shacks looked kind of luxurious. Dignified poverty was a term used a lot in Mountains Beyond Mountains (my book for this trip), and I was thinking that perhaps this is what that meant. All poverty being relative (whatever that means). I dozed off for a bit and we pulled into our first stop, Nagua. It is a cute little town with lots of cute little shops with brightly-colored hand painted signs on the buildings. We traveled a little more along the coast and passed some incredible, virgin beaches lined with palm forsests. I fantasized about setting up some sort of retreat center that would be open to the community there for free, would emply anyone who wanted a job, would be self-sustaining (growing its own food) and environmentally friendly (solar power, and all of that). Maybe it's better that those beaches remain untouched. I fell asleep again and must have missed the miles and miles of palm plantations. When I woke up we had begun our ascent into the mountains (I think). I don't remember the order, but we passed through some mountains which I assume were rain forest because it was raining and we crossed some pretty mighty rivers. People lined the road selling coconuts, and then beautiful tropical flowers. We then passed through a rice growing region and I saw rice fields in every stage, from those being freshly planted, those that were fully grown, those that were overgrown, those that were burnt, and those being plowed. I wondered how long it would be before the US began forcing government subsidized rice on the Dominicans and drive these rice-growers out of business - the same thing we did to Haiti, contributing greatly to their inability to sustain themselves now. As we headed down the mountain, signs of city life began to appear. More crowded living conditions. People sitting around with nothing to do. Traffic. A TV-tel (a motel with TVs, which I thought was a funny thing to advertise). We pulled into Santo Domingo and I saw lots of people, men and women, walking among the traffic, selling gatorade, bottled water, ice cream, snacks, all competing for the few people willing to buy their wares. I wondered how much they could make in a day, if they made anything. Our bus pulled in, I got in a taxi and am now in my hotel. This is the third place I have stayed in Santo Domingo. It is a hotel in the Colonial Zone, much closer to the tourist area than the two places I stayed before. I have a nice clean room with no kitchen (since the two apartments I rented before had kitchens and no utensils, I decided to skip the kitchen). There are no horns honking outside of my window (though there is a yappy dog), and other than the air-con not being very cold, it's very nice. I just had lunch sitting on the front terrace overlooking the Conde, a little pedestrian shopping area that reminds me of the old downtowns we used to have when I was growing up before malls put most downtown areas out of business. Because it rained today it was quite pleasant outside - almost cool, with a really nice breeze and very little sun, keeping it cool. I'm ready to take a nap and then might meet up later with someone I met online (perhaps a date?) Tomorrow I am going to brave the heat and the hawkers and explore the colonial zone to take some pictures.

Las Terrenas - French Outpost

I don't know why I didn't see it as clearly last year when I was here, but this place, Las Terrenas, as beautiful as it is, is also a tale of two cities. On the one hand there is the Dominican life - fishermen, cooks, maids, security guards, motorcycle taxi drivers - and on the other hand there is French life. My little hotel complex apparently is run by someone French - it seems that way anyway, since the people who seem to be in charge in the office ar French. There was a nice young French woman there last year who was very helpful. This year, there is an older French woman who seems to be always busy even though the complex which has 64 apartments, probably has 5-10 guests. A nice young man who works in the office, who I thought was Dominican is actually Haitian, and was hired, I suppose, for his ability to speak French (he also speaks English and Spanish).

Last night I broke from my normal routine of cooking at home and decided to walk into "town" to get something to eat. I went to a pizzeria I went to the other night. I had fish, which was very good - cooked with coconut milk. I noticed a blond guy who seemed to be in charge, even though the cooks and the servers were Dominican. I assumed he was the owner. On both sides of that restaurant were chic little restaurants, also run by French.

After dinner I wanted to go and pick up a snack. I went to a little grocery store I went to when I first arrived last year. I passed a new, and very chic little cafe that recently opened, trendy pleatherette chairs in red and white sat by little tables with candles and red mood lighting as poor Haitian construction workers went home from working all day in the hot sun.

The grocery store last year reminded me of a Zimbabwean supermarket I had seen on the news. I was exaggerating. This year I was not. Where I remembered there being shelves and aisles, now there was a big empty space with some shelves along the sides and back wall. There was not much to be bought. Dominicans sat around talking. I left.

I walked further down, past the car/jeep/motorcycle rental, run by French, and came across a little shopping center. I thought they might have a grocery store with some good snacks. I walked past a bar that was filled with - you guessed it - French - with French people working, and French people sitting around drinking and smoking.

I went into the center of the shopping center which was beautifully landscaped and came across a chic jewelry store, a French woman working inside greeted her customers with a kiss on both cheeks. A money changer with a French man inside and little French children playing outside stood across from the pharmacy, which had some French name. This shopping center was little France. I did not see one Dominican or Haitian inside the complex - well, actually I did - a few security guards.

I left and walked out to the main street where a large group of motorcycle taxi drivers waved at me, held up a finger to see if I wanted a ride - I shook my head 'no' and crossed the street to another little complex. I passed a French bakery and found another grocery store, seemingly run by Dominicans, I thought so because there was very little to buy.

I was feeling angry and kind of sick by the whole scene. I turned around and started to walk home.

The little French kids who were playing inside of the shopping center were now in front, taunting two darker children who were standing there toyless, while these kids each had some sort of toy in their hands.

I passed through the former fishing village where the pizzeria I ate at now stands, and the little shacks that used to be the fishermen's huts now house fancy little restaurants with menus in Spanish, English and French, many of them serving French or European food. French people dressed in casual evening wear stood outside chatting as Dominican security guards sat expressionless holding large rifles.

As I walked along the beach road, the only other people walking were the Haitians, returning from somewhere, going somewhere. Most of them do not raise their eyes when I pass. Some of them will look at me, raise their eyebrows in a gesture of greeting and continue walking. All Terrain Vehicles with blond children passed and large SUVs and mini-vans with tinted windows swerved around the Haitians and myself - you can guess who was inside - neither Dominicans or Haitians.

I really like this place, but I feel like I am contributing to the inequality of it all by giving my money to the French. Sure, they pay rents and taxes (I suppose they pay taxes), but that money just goes to the Dominican elites. They apparently employ some Dominicans, and I am sure in their homes (for those who do not live in hotels), they have Dominican servants. But I just wonder why there can not be a more equitable sharing of the wealth here, especially by those who gave us the French revolution. Where is the equality and fraternity that was promised by the event that overthrew the French monarchy and supposedly changed the world?

To me this seems like the perfect vacation spot - it is quiet, beautiful, and I love the hotel complex with my own little apartment, but I can't stand seeing this division of wealth that is so stark, so blatant, and so self-conscious.

I just wonder how the French or anyone else would feel if the tables were turned - if there were a huge foreign invasion and people ran restaurants and cafes and flaunted their wealth while the locals were left with the scraps that came from providing security, cleaning, or selling trinkets on the beach.

Las Terrenas

It is a complicated place for me this Las Terrenas - I have so many conflicting feelings about it. I love the beach, and the peacefulness of the place that I am staying. I enjoy going into town to buy groceries and see real Dominicans (and Haitians), but I detest the motorcycles, all terrain vehicles, jeeps and mini vans that zoom past as I am walking in the only place possible to walk - the street. I wish more people walked, but it seems like the only ones who do are the Haitian construction workers. Everyone else either hops on the back of a motor concho (motorcycle taxi), or drives something themselves. It is especially infuriating for me to see tourists, most of them French, zooming around with no regard to people who are walking on the streets, many of them with their dogs perched in a little basket on their vehicle.

I first noticed the dogs when I came in from Sanchez. After reading about the horrendous situation in Haiti, which exists partially thanks to the French, and then seeing these people treating their dogs like royalty, I was disgusted. Of course, I am not without fault here. I am benefitting by my country's part in the global inequality game, and am here exploiting it by spending my dollars which go much further here than at home thanks to the fact that there is inequality.

Like I said, it is complex.

I'm reading a book about Paul Farmer, a doctor who set up a hospital in a very poor part of Haiti. It is an incredible story. Inspiring and thought-provoking. The question for me now is how I can use what little money I have, the skills I have (whatever they are), the power and influence I have (little though it may be) to help bring attention to people who desperately need help - especially Haiti.

I am so disgusted by the situation there, which started with the slave trade and got worse through years of US interventions, the last when under Bush, the democratically elected president was deposed and kidnapped and taken out of the country, an embargo was imposed (before his kidnapping) which predominately affected poor peasants. We were ironically "defending" democracy in Iraq, criticising Cuba and overthrowing a democratic government in the one place that really needs democracy - Haiti. Reading about the results of the embargo (I knew about the other stuff) just made me hate Bush even more.

But anyway, back to Las Terrenas.

I went to the supermarket this morning and walked back into town after 5 when the sun was not so strong to drop off laundry, change money and buy some mangos. I bought 5 mangos from the cutest little boys. I had one for desert and it was yummy. I think if I can I am going to try to support the small, local, independent business, like the little stand set up on the corner selling mangos, rather than this French-run supermarket.

I'm about to begin ragging on the French, so I guess I should stop, because again, I am not sure I am totally innocent here, but it does seem to me that they really kind of miss their old colonial days. I see them lounging around, drinking wine, running chic cafes here, all of them driving (rather than walking) many with dogs, and even wearing nicely pressed shirts and blouses (this is the tropics for god's sake). How is it that they are so far from France and yet treat this place as if they owned it? How can they come to a place like this and run businesses for other French people and completely ignore those who call this place home? I think the thing that I like least about being here is that I have no contact with the locals. I say hello when I pass them, but that is about it. I wonder how they feel about us all being here.