Imagina

For the past two months, my schedule has limited my free time to write. Aside from finishing my academic pursuits and our projects in the campos, I have filled my time with trips to the coasts and city excursions. I have truly come to love this country and the culture that exists within it. While I wish I could have written more of my experiences, I am preparing to leave with incredible memories. I hope to write more in the future of my time here, of both the goodness and the injustice I have witnessed. But for now, I leave reminiscing through a wind of memories that fall and melt into my senses like the snow I will soon find myself surrounded by back home:

My days
They have been filled
To the brim
With a beauty and an ugliness
That emanate from within
Of which do I choose to remember the best?
I think of them equally.
I believe that’s the test.

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I spent my nights running through the streets with the children of Bacumi. And when I say running, I mean it to be true. I felt like Peter Pan leading his Lost Boys as we raced past the houses of wood and tin, escaping into the forest with the moon overhead. I remember playing Tablero under a single dim streetlight, the children’s hands racing to make all of my moves for me and cheering when I won through their doing. I remember entering their homes, several a night, to meet their families who smiled at me humbly and offered me fruit. I remember learning bachata by candlelight as the kids fought to twirl and push me in every direction. I remember laughing; laughing so hard that a bit of my soul seemed to escape into the air and unite with the sounds of steel guitars and the scent of something burning in the distance. But there is a sting in my heart when I see certain things too, when I know part of humanity lives the way I have observed here, and when I realize that almost everything in my life has been but a luxury. And it burns when things that I have only imagined to be true in the prisons of poverty turn real right before my eyes.

I feel this burning when I see Laura, an eight-year-old holding her infant brother whom she cares for while her mother is bedridden and her father is absent. I see her in her doorway every night, illuminated by candlelight. I know she wants to play like a child, but a more mature role is demanded of her because of circumstance. And so there she is smiling at me from the wooden stoop with her dark, coffee-colored irises, of whose depths attempt to hide her desire to be free.

I feel this burning too when I watch all of the teen mothers picking up their children in the street, some with a child on the way, some with a husband they were married off to at as early as twelve, and some who struggle to feed themselves without an income as single-mothers.

But I feel it most when I wonder if Laura will end up like them, with a baby always in her arms.

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I sense a throbbing creeping into my soul when I see the children of Bacumi jump into the irrigation ditch to swim and bathe in. It hits me harder when I learn later that all of the eye problems I have seen in the community are a result of using this pesticide-containing water. I am unable to count on two hands the number of muscular and vision problems I have seen within the community's population.

I sense the throbbing again when I walk into a shack with one room, a dirt floor, and no latrine or place to bathe. It pulls at me when I learn six men live here, all brothers and a father. And that they share the one mattress I see and the rusty chair in the corner. There is literally nothing else in the home.

But I sense it most when I watch the hundreds of insects crawling out of the wounds of the children I hold. When I see the stems growing from their warts that have been left untreated for years. When I see that only a few of them have shoes and that most of them show up in the same dirty outfit everyday to play. Or when I watch them devour the fruit I sneak to them because they have had little else to eat today.

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And I would argue that a part of me even breaks sometimes, such as when I watch a family shutter as their termite-infested home literally collapses before our eyes in our attempts to repair the structure. Can you imagine not knowing where you will sleep tonight? Can you picture watching the destruction of the one thing in this world you have to call your own?

Yet above all, it stings most to see the reality of my little sister’s life, my little Linmarit. She lives with a couple in their 70s. She is three, very intelligent, and in the mornings, she sits in my suitcase and babbles Spanish phrases in her tiny voice, murmuring “¿Hermanita?” at the end of every sentence to make sure I am listening. Her caretakers (and my campo parents) like to joke that she will leave with me in that suitcase, as she often asks if she can come home with me. For a few days, I wonder why my sister is looked after here. Soon I learn that her mother is a prostitute on the coast who visits on the weekends. A few days later, I meet her mother and sadly witness her physically abuse my little Linmarit.

It’s no wonder she sits in my suitcase. If only I could provide her a permanent escape.

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And so you can see, I have seen a lot of ugly here in my experiences. I have lived everyday with my eyes wide and awake, trying to visually absorb everything in front of me. I have seen so much. And why do I speak of some of the worst of it? Why not write of the best, of my fondest memories? Why not describe to you all of the goodness I have shared, of the generosity I have come to know as part of the human condition through this experience, or of the many projects we have taken part in to improve the lives of people here?

Because having seen all that I have, I believe I have the responsibility to tell you about some of the worst to help us imagine together some things that we may never have imagined before.

Jesuit Michael J. Himes once wrote, “The cause of opposition or lack of interest may often be the inability even to imagine how the world looks and feels like to someone else.”

But now I can imagine how it might feel to that someone else: to Laura, to Linmarit, and to the other children of Bacumi. It has sparked a burning, a throbbing, an interest in me to know and do more on an entirely new scale.

And in some small way, by writing of these inequalities that exist among populations in poverty, I hope I can help you imagine and gain an interest too. Positive change can be made in the smallest of ways. You do not have to travel abroad and experience what I did to do something. Reach out, gain awareness, and learn about a new need that exists in your community.

But above all, please: IMAGINE.

Dicen que el agua da vida, y yo les creo

Have you ever heard the rain? Have you ever seen them dance?
When the rain pours upon the roof of tin, the little ones begin to prance.
Have you ever seen them laughing as the water hits their face?
With a lack of running water, rain is needed in this place.
Have you ever heard the rain? Have you ever seen them dance?
I have seen them, I have danced there, I have held their hands:
Entranced.

***

They say that water brings life, and I believe them.

In the campos, rain is something special. It sets a rhythm to life all its own. Upon waking up in the morning, the people of Gajo tell me whether it is going to rain. They know this earth, these skies, and this air. They have lived here all of their lives, some for generations, and their weather wisdom never fails. But as the lightening hisses across the sky, it sets an electric energy in the souls that inhabit this mountainside. This rain means that later, they will be able to wash their clothes, dirty from a day in the fields. This rain means that they can have tea tonight during their dominoes game, the scents of the storm tickling the spices of the drink. This rain means that they can take a shower, standing on a rocky ledge behind their house with a bucket and a dried up, yellow bit of soap. You can see why this rain can set a soul aglow, can light a fire within someone; an irony as its properties normally extinguish flame.

In the mountains, the best part of the storm is the beginning. You can be standing anywhere- at the house of your family, near the ledge overlooking a valley, near the tank above the community- and you can hear it start. It whispers far away and when you look out, the trees murmur to each other as the rain bounces from one to the next. Soon the storm is getting close- you can see it touch the trees just a few feet away and a low mumble strokes the leaves nearest you. Now it is upon you, patting the ground below your feet as it moves on to meet the forest behind your back, and leaves you sometimes sprinkled and other times soaked.

But the noises are not solely in the trees. The houses, every one, have tin roofs. Inside, families cheer as the first drops spatter upon the metal. You look up, as this new sound enters your mind and allows you to process the moment. Sometimes the tin is only lightly brushed and the storm passes with a hush. Other times, the rain is loud, foreboding, and generous as water from the gutters spills into the collecting buckets your family will use later. The cheers continue and you might run outside with your little cousin to splash each other near the plastic pails. Maybe you will stand outside and just open your mouth to take in the current converging from the sky. Or you may simply nod with a smile at your family, a tinge of shame behind your eyes knowing how you take water for granted in your home country. But no matter what you do, the power of the rain is undeniable. In the dances, in the cheers, in the smiles it is true: This celebration for rain is unlike any other.

They say that water brings life, and I believe them.

When we started the job of building an aqueduct in Gajo la Yuca, we were there with the motivation to satisfy a need. We came in with few expectations, ready to dig, to pour concrete, to cut pipes, to pickax the soft earth away. And yet, we found there was so much more to this project than the tangible.

The project itself sounded simple: build an aqueduct for a community with no running water. But just what did something to this scale require? There were many people necessary to the aqueduct’s success: an engineer, local handymen, and ILAC coordinators and directors. However, the most important people, as any of us in Encuentro will tell you, were the men, women, and children of the community who worked alongside us. As we dug trenches, tore out piping, laid the tank foundation, and connected the homes to the new system, our Dominican brothers and sisters of Gajo la Yuca worked right alongside us. This created a powerful dynamic of motivation. Watching the excitement grow throughout the week as we came closer and closer to finishing the aqueduct was extraordinary.

There were moments of laughter, some because of the communication barrier. At one point, I accidentally told my grandmother I was a dog. Never have I seen a stranger look on someone’s face, except perhaps mine later, when my mother asked me in all seriousness if I really was one.

There was other humor too. I learned some is universal and requires no language, such as when my two-year-old cousin ran into the family’s pet goat during a temper tantrum. Scared tremendously, a roar of laughter ensued as we attempted to calm her down in her fit of confusion.

As a unit, we shared moments of frustration too. One morning, while transporting sand, everyone in our assembly line kept slipping down the mountain mud. It was not long before everyone was angry- at the mud, at the person next to them who handed the bucket too slow, even at the bug that had just flown into their eye. Within a matter of minutes, the job was done and suddenly, the accomplishment of the task was all that mattered. Unexpectedly, the group fell to silence as we realized we had lost sight for a moment of our purpose.

Yet, most inspiring was the sizzle of anticipation in every ounce of teamwork the project required. Men left their day jobs to dig with us, the children crowded around and held tools for the men gluing pipes, and young people who grew up in Gajo even came from nearby cities to contribute in any way possible.

And at the end of the week, there it stood: A tank atop a mountain with pipes stretching over 2.5 km into the community that would provide running water to dozens of homes. It really appeared a thing of beauty, with a loveliness all its own. Now, the people of Gajo will have water often, and not just when it rains.

But something tells me that every time those faucets turn on, someone will dance a little, another will giggle, and the sound of the water reaching through the faucet from the pipes below will provide the same exhilaration as that of the rain on the tin roof.

They say that water brings life, and I believe them.

Un poco de sabor

Una introducción a Gajo la Yuca

After a two hour bus ride and an hour truck trip up a winding, muddy road blasting bachata in true Dominican fashion, the camioneta stops and I realize: This. Is. It. I open the door and my feet hit the ground with a hiss of uncertainty. I have been waiting for this moment since I first heard of this opportunity five years ago: The Campos.

This semester, Encuentro Dominicano chose to help serve the people of Gajo la Yuca, which is a rural farming community located in the mountains of the Dominican Republic. Our mission? To live with the people in solidarity, to further explore Dominican life and culture, and to build an aqueduct to provide the people of Gajo with running water.

Walking up to Juana’s house, (the cooperadora), I smile as one of the men in the community steps in to help me with my suitcase. From the moment his dry, callused hands grasp the navy blue handle of the bag, I get the feeling that bringing water to these people is not going to be a great enough gift for all that they are about to teach me.

As their families whisk some of my group away, I try to remain patient. Where are my parents? Will they have little kids? Which house is theirs? Will this be super awkward as my Spanish is minimal?

An older man in the group of Dominicans that swarm Juana’s taps me on the shoulder and points to a box of dominoes.

“¿ Jugar?” I ask.

“Si.” he smiles crookedly, several of his teeth absent from his genuine grin.

As we move up the road to a flat spot under the trees, a group of the men and other Encuentro students join us. Intense rounds of dominoes ensue, losers switching in and out of the plastic chairs that surround the wooden table. I soon learn that these plastic sillas, are scattered throughout the community. Upon entering any home, one is instantly offered a place to sit in the thrones of red, white, or green. I observe this truth as another signature of Dominican hospitality.

Back in the domino game, each man is focused, some give me hints, and others laugh at the obvious mistakes we gringos make as we throw down the black and white pieces in a game they have played almost since birth. Watching their hands firmly strike down the pieces strategically and with a whisper of conviction, I notice each man has a signature way of planting his dominoes upon the wooden table. Some toss the pieces and watch as they skid into place, others slam them down with an almost violent confidence, and a few are so quick, it is as if they knew what piece to play before the game ever began.

Soon, I hear my name being called from Juana’s down the street. Abruptly standing, my excitement ensues as I patter down the path to meet the family I have been waiting for. Climbing the rocky steps to enter Juana’s, I am met with the eyes of my mother, Victoria.

As she strings a fast phrase of Spanish my way, I reply, “¡Mi espanol es muy malo!”

She laughs. “¡Vamos a mi casa!” she says.

“Ah-hah!!” I return with a smile, “¡Yo entiendo!”

I understand. And something tells me Victoria and I are going to get along just fine.

As I climb into my father Ramon’s truck, I wonder how far away my family lives, as everyone else walked away with their families for the night. A few hills later and down a flat path, I am met with the wooden walls and concrete floor of the pink and blue place I come to call home. Inside, Victoria first wants to show me one of the few photos she has: of her and Ramon’s wedding day. Married at 19 and 22 respectively, Victoria and Ramon have been together 22 years and their pride in this outweighs any other.

“I married my best friend.” Victoria admits in Spanish as she pulls out two other photos, of her daughters Yamili and Karina, who I meet later in the week.

Yet, as my time in the campos continues, I learn that not all are as happy as my parents. With the machismo attitude that envelops the men of the country, infidelity is not uncommon in the marriages of the Dominican people. Furthermore, in the reality of the campos, I would argue that not all women are free to choose their husbands. Sometimes, such decisions are made between families and lack the American norm of one’s pursuit of love. One woman I met had been married at 12 to a man more than double her age and birthed her first child at 14. I struggle to believe that she consciously and rationally pursued such a life for herself, living in a small home that has been in her husband’s family for over 80 years. As she cares for her 2-year-old son at the age of 16, she seems to me still a child herself.

Back with Victoria and Ramon, it is time for evening tea. As we walk down the hill to the home of Ramon’s parents, I meet Ramon’s brother and his wife. Their two children, Alvin and Aslyn, run by me in pursuit of a large beetle. As I find a plastic chair to sit at near the kitchen, Victoria hands me a teacup brimming with a golden liquid. Taking my first sip, my taste buds water from the spices and heat of the tea. The drink reminds me of Christmas; mixed with ginger, various leaves, and the names of roots I cannot now recall. Throughout the week, it becomes customary for us to have this tea every night, and I can see Victoria’s delight each time I express its deliciousness. It becomes almost a part of her, a warmth she can share with a small, foreign, white girl who struggles to communicate in broken Spanish. Thinking back now, it is a familiar taste, a speck of glitter than shines among the treasures I found in my experiences at campo.

Walking back up the hill one telenovela and twelve domino games later, my parents lead me to my room. Victoria hums the Christian song she famously teaches me a few days later as she hangs my mosquitero and wishes me sweet dreams. I lay down, ignoring the spiders and cockroaches that skitter on the floor before I crawl into bed. Closing my eyes, I feel the rhythm of a bachata beat playing in the distance. This. Is. It. I am here.

Muchas Gracias

While I do experience a great many difficult things here, there is also much fun to be had. Every week, I am met with the smiles of the orphans at Hogar Luby and let me tell you, these kids know whaz up! We have brought bubbles for them to chase, markers and paper for art time, and a ball to play catch with. My desk at ILAC is decorated with their scribbles from days past and we plan to take pictures with them soon, which I will add to the slide show. Slowly, I am beginning to get to know several of them well: Luis likes to go on secret missions where we hide from other kids and review the colors of dinosaur stickers, Tommy likes to babble about what’s on television while sitting in my lap, Joshua likes to try and play catch with a chair (this is always interesting), Dabo enjoys climbing me…and the cribs, and the walls, and the gate…

I could not have chosen a more rewarding place to spend my time. Every week, the children teach me more about a level of human communication that I never knew existed. I am starting to understand the group dynamics- who is bossy, who is a bully, who is the caring one, etc. and it has been fascinating to do so in a non-verbal environment.

Our Communidad Diez has also discovered fun outside of our service sites and class work. We have explored several fun venues over the past few weeks, and last weekend, they planned a birthday gathering for me as my 21st will occur while we are constructing an aqueduct in a nearby campos over a 10-day period. I was surprised that a community of people I have known for such a short time were willing to make a night so special for me- I can’t thank them enough for the planning and pesos they were willing to spend for my memorable birthday night. From the live band that sang me happy birthday three times (most of which we didn’t totally understand), to the fun crowd dancing the night away, to blasting Waka Waka in Elfi’s taxi all the way home, we had an amazing time!

I am incredibly blessed to be in this country living the life that I am and to all those supporting me back home and my Communidad Diez, thank you! I love receiving your questions and comments! And thanks for reading! :)

Santo Domingo

Living in Santiago the past few weeks, our experiences have been limited to the city life here and the beach scene a few hours away. Our horizons were broadened over the past few days as we spent time in the capital city of the Dominican Republic: Santo Domingo.

Entering the most heavily populated city of the Dominican Republic, we immediately noticed the similarities Santo Domingo shares with Santiago. The streets are cluttered with debris- it clogs the sewers, piles the corners, and I watch as a woman finishes a pastry and throws the wrapper to her feet before walking to catch a guagua. In a developing country where poverty is vast, proper waste disposal is of minor concern to most residents. Public trashcans are a rare sight and unfortunately, this provides a breeding ground for disease through the rat population that feeds on the waste. After seeing the creatures scurry around ILAC and the city, I no longer questioned why there were so many public warnings for Leptospirosis, a health issue I would never have to worry about in the streets of my homeland.

Also similar to Santiago is the bustling street life of the inner city. Peddlers and the craziness of public transportation overwhelm the streets. The smell of propane that most taxis and guaguas run on (as opposed to gasoline) sometimes makes it difficult to breathe as the thick, dirty exhaust sputters into the air.

As we moved to the historical district that we planned to stay in, it suddenly became quieter. The streets became narrower, the buildings were of nicer quality, and litter was minimal. Over the next few days, we witnessed the sights most foreigners see when they encounter the Dominican Republic: the tourist zones. We spent our time visiting the shops of Conde street, where larimar and amber jewelry are sold, Haitian art is plentiful, and other handmade trinkets are available through barter. Unlike anywhere else we had been in the country, it was assumed we spoke no Spanish and most street vendors catered to our interests in smiling English.

Touring the streets with our Dominican English-speaking guide, we learned to connect what we have been learning in our EDP class with the historical content of the area. Many of the original architecture remains (or has been restored) including Christopher Columbus’ home, the famous Cathedral, and several court and governor buildings that were the first constructed in all of the Americas. The old original entrance to the city stands as well, along with parts of the huge wall that used to surround Santo Domingo in its entirety.  The beauty of such aged constructions brought me into a realm of antiquities. Days of pirates, explorers, and slavery overwhelmed my imagination with the life that once existed here. Was that Jack Sparrow sailing in before making his way to nearby Tortuga? Alas, such fictions plagued me as I attempted to connect all that was before me with something familiar.

At night, we spent our time relaxing in the beautiful plaza near the gate of the city. We dined at an expensive Italian restaurant under the stars and for a moment, became lost in the glamour of tourism. Enjoying my pasta, I found myself people-watching. The crowd around us was posh- men in suits with cigars, women in classy fashions with champagne flutes in hand. The breath and bubbliness of the atmosphere was alluring, exciting. Glancing around, I found my eyes rest on the doors to the entrance. As they opened, an older white man with a young, beautiful Dominican woman waltzed in. With his hand situated on her waist in a possessive manner and a nervous glimmer in her eye, I was suddenly faced with an ugly reality of tourism here: prostitution.

Currently the Dominican Republic is third in the world for sex tourism (behind Amsterdam and Thailand). While most women are looking for a permanent escape to a country outside of their own, others are available for a mere 300 pesos a night, which is roughly $9.00 US dollars.

As I became fixated on analyzing the body language of the pair to justify my intuition, a few people at my table pointed out similar couples in the room. Looking around, we noticed several men of American and European descent with attractive Dominican women.

Before the original couple I had noticed sat down, I caught the eyes of the young woman. At that moment, I was sure of my suspicions. There was some sort of understanding in the fact that we were both women. I could see it in behind her iris: a pain secret to her that I would never know simply because I was fortunate enough to be born in another country. Could I fault her for her desperation to survive? Never. And as a woman myself, a part of me hurt for her; a part knowing that while she remained chained to such a lifestyle, I was free in my country to vote, to have an education, to further myself in ways she never could. Part of me wanted to hug her, as if that would provide any comfort to a woman entangled in intimacies to subsist. I looked away, somewhat ashamed to be a human being.

Later that night, we watched a live meringue and bachata show in the plaza. Different groups performed in costume, coming out into the audience and pulling us out to dance with them as the band played on the stage.  We checked out the local night scene, bought some ice cream, and eventually made our way back to the hostel to sleep.

As I laid my head to rest, I said a small prayer of thanks that I was sleeping here alone; that I wasn’t forced into the company of a stranger as a source of income in a country where women’s rights do not exist as they do in my own. I prayed that the woman I had seen would someday be free of the hard choices she had to make in present time. But as my thoughts crossed over in my mind and I began to drift to sleep, I realized that woman, like so many other people I have seen here, was not one I would soon forget. Her pain will occupy a place in my heart for some time, for as I awoke the next morning to visit the haunted lighthouse of Santo Domingo, I knew she was waking up somewhere too. And that somewhere was a place I wished no woman had to call her reality.

Algunos de Mis Experiencias Reciente

Waking up at ILAC each morning always starts similarly: First, there are the roosters. Before the sun rises, the cocks begin their cacophony of calls well up until the time that our cascade of different alarms begin chiming. From 5:15 a.m. for our early morning runners until close to 8:00 a.m. for our sleepyheads of the group, the chirps and buzzes of our watches and battery-operated devices ring like a smooth, symphonic waterfall flowing from one room to another over our open ceilings (and sometimes back again for the snooze button can be quite popular after a night of listening to dogs fighting in the allies or loud motorcycles racing by). Soon afterward, life on the streets begins: a loud bachata playing in the cars that speed by, the Spanish chatter of neighbors catching up, a child crying out in the cinder-block shack next to us, and then, our beloved breakfast bell.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, after a meal of bread, cheese, and Dominican coffee, we're off to our service sites. Let me update you a bit on some of my experiences and observations this past week:

Catching our first guagua of the day all by ourselves, Cody, Kellie, and I squish between the Licey locals for the 20 peso ride into the city. As the guagua races past the motorcycles and taxis of the road, the wind from the open van door hits me with a tinge of excitement. This is our first time venturing into Santiago by ourselves and I am looking forward to the possibility of playing with the boy in the green shirt again.

As we communicate with the cobrador as to where we'll be getting off, I watch the movement of the merchants that crowd the Santiago streets. Here, the Dominicans have the spirit of a true hustler. From bottled water, to pirated movies, to phone chargers, to stolen goods, to the popular apple popsicles from the men in neon green, the street vendors come right up to the guagua windows at the stoplights attempting to find their next sale. Darting through traffic, pushing their carted goods along the street sides, or calling from the sidewalks to gain the attention of onlookers, it is clear there is a component of desperation mixed with the hardworking attitude I've observed in the Dominican people. Some I will see working shifts from dawn until dusk. Some will claim a corner for sales; others will move throughout the day attempting to follow the crowds. Some will take "No gracias" for an answer; others will continue trying to earn your second glance at their product until you are out of sight. Yet all share a common goal: to make enough money to keep living in the urban poverty that plagues this city.

Passing through the landscapes of both Licey and Santiago, I am reminded here of something well noted by many of our Encuentro group in regards to urban poverty. Neighborhood separation does not exist here. One moment, we may pass a beautifully built colonial style home with gates and a night guard, and their neighbor will have a home made of cinder-blocks, trash, and barbed wire. The disparity between the wealthy and those in poverty is thus visually overt.

How does the wealthy man with his trendy watch and BMW feel looking down into a shanty from his second story window? How does the pregnant woman scrubbing her concrete walls feel looking up to see a home six times the size of her own only a few feet from her front door? I may never know for sure, but the blatant honesty of the rich and poor in their choice for home construction is something that sparks my curiosity. Partly, I believe this is because in the country I come from, such impoverished individuals are banned to the ghettos, the projects, and the barrios, out of sight of those who wish to have no association with their poverty.

As we approach the bridge where we exit the guagua and walk a few blocks to Hogar Luby, I am reminded again from the stares I receive that I am an outsider here. Sometimes it is easy to forget that the Dominican people find me so visually different as I become caught up in cultural comparisons to the life I knew in the States. Still, no matter where we travel, there are whistles, hisses, and shouts of "Gringo!" and "Americano!" It sometimes feels daunting to be recognized so verbally in a place that is already unfamiliar to me in its mere existence alone. As one woman in our group, Christine, described it, "Sometimes I just want a mask." Hearing her comment, there are times I wish we could blend in and avoid the extra attention. Simultaneously, I am thankful to be learning what it feels like to be the minority and I can't help wondering: If everyone knew this feeling, would they hold prejudices against groups outside of their own?

Jumping up the steps into Hogar Luby for the morning, I am greeted by several of the children. Some howl and grunt, others poke at me excitedly, a few readily jump into my arms and wish to be held. Walking upstairs (which is where the youngest children are kept) I am met by a girl who loves to lead people around. Each of the children have activities specific to them that they enjoy: some want to play peek-a-boo over and over again, some wish for a piggy-back ride every time I walk into a room and communicate this by trying to climb me, and others simply want to sit on my lap and watch Spanish Barney wiggle around on the television in the corner. However, this particular girl loves to hold my hand and walk around the entire building each time I visit Hogar Luby- no final destination in mind, just an attempt to have me to herself for a little while.

As she leads me around, we walk into one of the rooms where the children sleep. Each room is similar- there are large, white, metal cribs or beds with high rails. Each is set against the wall. Some of them contain children (sometimes for a day's entirety) and others are empty as the munchkins who occupy them are presently running around. Pulling me around the corner, she stops and drops my hand to run away. Confused for a moment as to why she chose to run off, I look down and see my little friend in green from last week, a boy I later learn is named Luis. Smiling up at me, Luis tugs at my jeans and attempts to stand up with his rickety knees. Grasping at me to lift him, I can't resist, and he is soon situated on my hip as we walk towards the room with the television. As I hold up his twisted neck to watch the show, he grabs at a cottonseed that has blown in through the window. Tossing it up and watching it fall a few times, I find myself fascinated by his attention to the wispy seed. Pushing it back and forth at each other, I find us both giggling. Still, this quiet moment of entertainment is one of few in a place where the ratio of workers to children is low. Soon, several others are in the room vying for my attention and I wander around to be with each individually, leaving Luis to play with his new toy for a bit.

As I give airplane and pony rides, I quickly become aware of a disturbing feature of Hogar Luby: While each child has different verbal and mobility issues, most express communication to each other solely through violence. This week, there was one child who literally just walked around biting everyone in sight- it was like Twilight on steroids status. It was my conclusion that he was trying to seek recognition from someone, just like the children who hit, kick, and strike each other with toys and chairs. Yet, the fact that some of these children are defenseless to such actions (and that the workers do not discipline except by yelling or hitting the children) made it difficult to get this particular boy to stop.

Later, a smaller boy attempts to throw a chair at me and I catch it. As I go to gently set it down next to him, he flinches as if he believes I planned to strike him with the chair. I cringe at his response. Did the other children, the workers, or both bring about his immediate reaction of defense and fear? Regardless, to see how quickly he responded in this manner breaks my heart. It is difficult to watch these children abuse each other with physical and emotional scars. Furthermore, it is challenging to know that such abuse is forming who they become, whether they remain at Hogar Luby forever or are adopted.

Another fascinating factor of the social interactive abilities of the children at Hogar Luby rests in the defense they attempt to provide me from their peers. For example, at one point, I was holding Luis and carrying him to the window to look outside. It was not long before another child was crawling up my back and trying to look out too. When he realized I couldn't help him climb up me, he began hitting me. Before I even had the chance to respond, Luis had already turned around and was kicking the other child away from me. While this was not a reaction I promoted, it was interesting to see that Luis felt responsible for protecting me while I held him. I also wondered if he could have had a more selfish motive, as if he wanted to ensure he was the only child I was paying attention to. While I'll never know Luis' true motive behind his reaction, his response was remarkable to witness.

Leaving Hogar Luby drenched in sweat, my t-shirt stretched out and twisted as a testament to my playing with the children, and my back sore from providing pony rides, I found myself left with a single feeling of peace. In any other situation, I might have been miserable with my eyeliner running down my face, my shirt soaked in drool, and a bite mark on my left arm (from one of my new little vampire friends). But there is something different about being here, and to me, nothing seemed to matter but the smiles I saw all morning and the air that hit my face as I sat again near the open door of the guagua, our driver honking and laughing with el cobrador all the way back to ILAC.

Hogar Luby

Early last Friday, we had a group discussion on what has been the hardest thing to see during our first week abroad. For most all of us, the answer was the same: our visit to Hogar Luby.

Before leaving for Hogar Luby, we were told many times that what we would see would likely be very difficult for us to process, as Hogar Luby is essentially an orphanage for children with physical and mental disabilities. While nicely put, I found Hogar Luby to be something of a different nature, in truth, Hogar Luby is a place of abandonment. Families unwilling to, or unable to, take care of these handicapped children leave them in the hands of the caretakers of Hogar Luby, which is now funded by the Dominican government. Although it is considered an orphanage, the children here are highly unlikely to be adopted. With the constraints of poverty surrounding many Dominican families, care for these children is difficult to afford and most of them are hard to manage because they have no way of communicating with others. Thus, they are left at Hogar Luby, forced to live and die within the cartoon-painted walls that surround them, often with minimal human contact.

Let me describe for you my own experience at Hogar Luby:

As we approached the barred entrance, a small boy came running at the gate, grunting as the guard searched for his keys and pushed away some of the older children who were excited by our presence. This particular boy had severe deformities- he was missing an ear and the other one curled into his head as his bony arms swayed at chest level. As his eyes met mine, I could feel what these children were searching for: any form of human recognition, no matter how small. Unlike the children at Cien Fuegos, who were bartering for candy through the fence when we first arrived, these children were searching for human touch through the bars at the entrance of Hogar Luby. Once inside, their need for attention only grew. Suddenly, we were swarmed by children: small ones with misshapen heads running and begging for us to pick them up, larger ones with severe deformities who wanted to hold our hands as we walked, and older children who attempted to lead us around and kept touching our hair. That's when it hit me: If only here for today, I would be giving some of these children the most attention they had received in a long time. However, I soon found that I would be spending more than just today at Hogar Luby.

Walking upstairs may have visually been the most disturbing. At the top of the stairs, a guard opened a gate to let us onto the second floor. Behind the gate, a child crawled around on the floor with his hands fully bandaged. It was clear he used them to move, as his legs were immobile. He grunted at us and tried to pick himself up, falling onto his hand casts with a frustrated screech. There were several other children, asleep on the floor in their own piss and drool as flies swarmed their faces. It was my assumption they were immobile as well.

One little girl ran toward us, though it was first hard to tell she was female as all of their heads are shaven to prevent the spread of lice. Her legs were the thinnest I have ever seen- she looked like a skeleton with a head too large for her body. It wasn't long before she wet herself and was crying. It was then that we learned where the the largest of frustrations resides: the employees (what few Hogar Luby has) provide very little care. With a large number of children with disabilities, and a small number of employees, it is impossible for them to assist every child on an individual level. The few that we saw looked exhausted and were watching television in a room with children passed out on the floor.

As one of the girls in our group searched for a clean diaper for the little girl, I was approached by a boy with what appeared to be spinal deformities. Having scoliosis myself, I felt an instant connection to him as he hobbled toward me with his twisted spine. Unbalanced and in a green shirt, by the time he reached me his uneven hips struck my side as he had put too much weight forward trying to reach me. Looking down into his eyes, I saw him smile up at me. With his distorted neck attempting to look at me fully, he pulled at my t-shirt. Picking him up, I decided to carry him around while Mary showed us around the facility (as there was not a director and none of the employees were interested in doing so).

In effect, Hogar Luby is two floors. There are several rooms per floor with beds. A few rooms have televisions. The walls are all painted with fairies. There's also a kitchen, which I learned of through my new little friend awhile later. As we spoke with Mary about the poor care these children receive, she explained that the fact that some of them were moving and that most of them were in fresh clothes was a huge improvement from what Hogar Luby used to be. In place of beds, the children used to be kept in cages where they laid in their own waste all day. While some are still tied to their beds, Mary said their sheets and clothes are now changed more regularly. These small, but important changes, were due to the fact that the government took over funding for Hogar Luby. It was owned privately before, and instead of any money going toward health improvement, it went straight into the pockets of the owner. Now, she explained, the children were at least fed and their clothes changed on what appeared to be a daily basis.

Walking upstairs, I felt like I was in a house of misfits. Physically deformed and mentally unable to communicate, these children were left here to die because no one else wished to be around them. In fact, I would go so far as to say that no one else wished to even admit that this part of society existed.

It was at this point that the boy I had been carrying all day tugged at my chin. I looked into his eyes, turning my neck to match his twisted gaze.

"Agua!" he whispered.
"Agua? De donde la agua?" I offered back. As we had not been shown the kitchen, I was unaware as to where I could find him some.

He just stared at me. I was surprised that he had even made the request, as I thought he was maybe mute since he had not said anything when I had talked to him earlier. Therefore, I figured I'd need to find where it was on my own. Carrying him around as he kept gasping "Agua!" I looked for an employee, Mary, anyone. Stopping for a moment I replied, "Lo siento. De donde la agua?" Looking at me, he pushed with all of his force the phrase that I feel it had taken him this long to express: "En la cocina!" Gasping for air afterward, I could tell how hard it had been for him to get the words out. Still, it was as if he had wanted to tell me the entire time, but had just been working up the strength to.

"En la cocina!!! Gracias!!" I laughed, excited to see that he had been able to tell me something, anything.

Walking downstairs, I found the kitchen and was able to get him some water. My new little buddy drank three or four glasses, smiling at me the entire time, content that we had just enjoyed a small moment where we could communicate together. As I put him down to leave, I knew in my heart that this was where I needed to be during my time in the DR. To my relief (as we cannot choose a site alone), two others felt the same way. Hogar Luby is now our service site for the semester.

Looking back, the three of us soon realized what a challenge our time at Hogar Luby will be. Several of the people in our group left Hogar Luby with bruises, bite marks, and scratches because some of the children were so frustrated that they could not communicate. There was one particularly strong boy who crawled on the floor, much like a large ape would, and insisted on pulling everyone he could down to his level. Many of us remarked that it would be difficult because, unlike working with youth who may grow to make a difference here, these children will die within these walls and will make minimal progress in the four months we have to spend with them. Still, if I can have moments like I did with the child in green-just one child- I think my time here will be well worth it.

Leaving the site and grabbing a Coke to share with my group down the street, I was thankful to have found where I fit here. Today we're off to buy some toys to bring to Hogar Luby, which we will spend two hours at every Monday and Wednesday. Hasta luego!

Cien Fuegos

Yesterday was enthralling, but then again, I get the feeling that will be my response to life everyday here. Still, it has taken me a full 24 hours to fully process all that I saw. That being said, I have a caveat for my audience: The things and experiences I have here in the DR are incredibly hard to describe. In some ways, I feel I cannot give justice to the Dominicans, to my readers, or even to myself when it comes to defining the way of life, the poverty, and the culture I am experiencing. While I will do my best, I am nothing but a humble observer trying to understand the lifestyle here the best that I can. If what I write is confusing, disturbing, or beautiful, it is likely I have only captured a small part of it in the sentences I string together here. That being said, I will do my best to explain to you the slums of Cien Fuegos we traveled yesterday.

Hopping onto the ILAC bus with Alfe, one of the first things our Encuentro group noticed was something that had been absent from our lives for a few days now: air conditioning! At ILAC, we live without it, which has been an adjustment for all of us, especially with the sticky humidity. Laughing and enjoying the air, it was not long before our chatter turned more serious. It took only a few minutes of driving to the poor area of Cien Fuegos to realize how spoiled we are to have ever even experienced the quality of life that allows for something like air conditioning.

Likely to the disdain of my bus partner, as we approached the slums of Cien Fuegos, I became very quiet. Lucky to have a window seat, I became engrossed in what I saw. Cien Fuegos is an area that is essentially surrounded by and built upon a garbage dump. The main source of income for the people there is through scavenging the mounds of trash and then selling what they find. As a whole, the streets of Cien Fuegos are littered with trash. Walking outside, you'll see bottles in the gutters, rotting food on the sidewalks and streets, and broken or twisted objects pile the corners. However, in Cien Fuegos, the amount of waste exceeds that of any I have ever seen.

Passing shanty after shanty, I noticed that many were built upon trash themselves. People sat on chairs outside the shacks, which were constructed within inches of each other. While I have seen such slums in movies, documentaries, and even television advertisements, seeing them in person brings on an entirely new emotion. While in some ways, I felt the area to be familiar to the places I had seen on television, it was simultaneously different and new to anything I had ever witnessed or pictured.

Outside of the shacks, people sat on chairs, talking or just watching the dirt blow on the unpaved roads. One family was cooking something over a fire in their front yard, which was littered with pieces of metal and mechanical parts. Nearby, a naked boy around the age of three ran around, playing in the trash that overwhelmed his home. People walked to their local colmados, hung their clothes to dry on string behind their shacks, and some even waved at us as we passed. Looking in the eyes of a small girl I would later be surprised to encounter again, I thought to myself: She could be anyone. She looked no different than any American child I might see, yet she lived a life so different than any child I had ever known.

Pulling up in front of the school at Cien Fuegos, we were greeted by dozens and dozens of children. As they bartered to buy sweets from vendors on the other side of the school's barbed-wire fence, they squealed with excitement at our arrival. This was their recess and chaotic does not even begin to describe the scene. Everywhere we looked, we had small children pulling us in different directions, jumping on us, and asking us questions in Spanish. Some of the girls were fascinated by my eyeliner and kept laughing as I tried to communicate with them in my broken Spanish.

Out of the crowd that surrounded us, a little boy ran up to me and grabbed my hand. Placing a folded piece of notebook paper that was to serve as an envelope for a note inside, the makeshift envelope read: "Para bien den" which I roughly translated to "For a good gift." Opening the little paper inside, I was delighted to find a hand drawn heart with a flower in its center. As I looked up to thank the little boy, I realized he was gone and with the crowds of children jumping in every direction, I realized I'd never identify the little artist.

As classes resumed and recess was over, children ran, crawled, and pushed each other into the overcrowded classrooms. There is one teacher for each grade and there are tons of children per class. I don't have an estimate for the number at this time, but will try to find that information later. As the principal of the school gave us a tour of each grade, we noticed there were still children running around. As she yelled at them to get to class, we couldn't help but laugh.

Our tour here was quite short as we didn't want to interrupt their classes. All of the children were of elementary age. In the DR, this age goes to school in the morning and the older children come in the afternoon, as mandated by the government.

Leaving the Cien Fuegos school, we saw several children still out in the yard eating unripened fruit and chasing each other. At this point, class had been back in session for awhile and at first, we wondered aloud why they were not in their classrooms. It was not long before we learned that, because of the overwhelming class sizes, teachers cannot pay attention to students on an individual level. To attain an education is then, essentially, at the hands of the child as to whether or not they participate during the day or wander around the yard.

Traveling a few streets away, we made our next stop at a place called Caritas. Caritas is a before and after school program for the children of Cien Fuegos. When they are not at school, they can come to Caritas to eat and play games. The services are run by nuns and are free to the public.


At Caritas, we introduced ourselves to a group of children, whose numbers fluctuated throughout our stay as more came and some left. When it came time for me to introduce myself, I stood up and greeted the kids with a smile:

"Hola! Me llamo Hannah!"
"Ayyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!! Hannah Montana!!!!!" one girl screeched in the back of the room.

Looking in her direction, I realized that she was the child I had seen earlier on the streets as we entered Cien Fuegos. All of the children suddenly became enamored with excitement, yelling "Si! Si! Hannah Montana!" and giggling. Of course, I started saying "Si! Si!" and chuckling along with them. For the remainder of our stay, this girl would sometimes cry out "Si! Hannah Montana!" during songs and discussions, leaving me laughing the entire morning.

There was also a little boy that caught our attention at Caritas. He walked around in little sailor shoes blowing a yellow plastic horn and sucking his thumb when he decided to be quiet. Notice I write, when he decided to be quiet. Speaking of him later, our group was surprised that he had not been disciplined, as he trumpeted solos throughout our introductions and during a song that the children sang for us.

"Geoffrey!"the man in charge would boom in his strong accent.


Quickly looking up, Geoffrey would pull the trumpet away from his lips and insert his thumb. But only seconds later, he would again be blasting away on his tiny horn. This forced me into giggling at awkward times when it would become quiet, but I couldn't help it. The spirit of the children here is incredibly captivating.

Leaving Cien Fuegos, I had only one thought: I am fortunate enough beyond words to be in this country, to be exploring areas like the slums of Cien Fuegos, and to be interacting with the culture at its most basic levels. These experiences are ones I have always dreamed of having.

As we drove back toward Licey and therefore ILAC, I noticed something about the ILAC bus. Above Elfi hung a baseball in netting from his sunvisor. Looking to the right, a rosary was wrapped around the rearview mirror. Seeing these symbols, I thought of all of the baseball jerseys I had seen on the children wandering Cien Fuegos, not to mention the spirituality that can be felt walking in such an area of extreme poverty. To me, those two symbols displayed the commonalities shared by all of the Dominican people: Rich or poor, the people of the Dominican Republic share a strong faith in Catholicism and Baseball, a faith which unites them as a country and which is contagious to those of us beginning to explore the DR for ourselves, no matter one's preferences regarding religion or sports.

After our lunch, we traveled to a museum in Santiago which explained the history of the Dominican Republic. We learned of the natives, the Tainos, of the Spanish conquistadors who exploited the people of the country upon their arrival, and of the shipment of Africans who were brought here to work enslaved. As such, the Dominican people identify with their roots as Spanish and African. However, they in some ways shun and hide this African heritage because of the hardships their relatives faced, and instead are more open about their Spanish side when it comes to celebrating cultural heritage.

At the museum, we also saw different artwork by Dominicans and toured a cigar factory, where we watched workers hand-roll the tobacco and press the cigars. Some of us purchased cigars to try, and then we were headed back to ILAC for our Spanish Immersion classes.

During our Spanish classes, we have learned vocabulary surrounding Dominican culture. For example, the first day we learned how to play Dominoes in Spanish, which is an extremely significant part of Dominican life. Throughout the DR, Dominicans can be seen playing dominoes at local colmados long into the night.

Yesterday we learned different greetings and responses. We also learned how to Bachata, which is a music and dance that originated in the Dominican Republic. Later, Karie gave us dance lessons in Bachata and Merengue. She also explained the popular Reggaeton, but due to the sexual expression behind the dance, we were left to observe that in the discotecas at a later date ourselves.

Later that night, we traveled into the city for some helado at Helado Bon. I was extremely lucky in that I had to ride next to the open door of the guagua, so I had an incredible view of streetlife and the activity that defines Santiago city life. It felt strange to be so close to the outside as I am used to being in a closed vehicle back in the States. Yet, it seemed as if the openness of the guagua corresponds to the openness of the people. As life in America is more isolated, I could see that the guagua would be one of many differences that helped explain the unrestrained friendliness of many Dominicans I have met over the past few days.

Today, we have been in meetings to learn more about the mission of ILAC and its national role in the Dominican Republic. We have also been instructed on how to deal with culture shock and the different phases of adapting to life here that we may experience.

The most exciting part of our day has been the rain! Since we arrived, we have been curious as to what a Dominican storm would look like. Because all of the buildings are open, we wondered if the rooms would become wet. As the wind picked up and the clouds blew in, our anticipation grew. As the first drops hit the ground, we yipped with enthusiasm. Who knew rain could be so fun?! However, I think our fervor stemmed more from the relaxed life we are adapting to. Dominicans operate at a slower, more relaxed level than Americans. As such, we had the time to stop what we were doing and enjoy the storm, which is something I may not have done back at Creighton where I am always working on twenty things at once to keep up with the American pace of life. Check out my weather report below :)

  


I promise I wasn't the only one excited, although with Cody passed out in the background, it appears that I am! Hahaha :)


We found that the rain does not really come into the open rooms as we originally envisioned. The roof is built to protect the rain from entering the frame of the structures at ILAC. I hope to have pictures of ILAC up soon! Hasta la vista amigos!

A Small Look at Santiago

Yesterday, we were fortunate enough to travel into Santiago after my last post. Essentially, we were just getting a taste of what the city is like. Santiago is about 15 minutes or less from the ILAC campus. We visited the Capitol building, which is mammothly beautiful and I will detail our experience there later in the post.

After walking down the street out of ILAC and past Juan's Colmado, which is the nearest convenience store I mentioned earlier, I was able to experience what is known as the guagua. The guagua are the public transportation vehicles of this area. The guagua is a passenger van, or mini van, in which there are usually two men. One sits as the driver and one stands where the sliding door would be on the side. This man hangs out of the van and calls or whistles to passengers to see if they want to ride into the city. If they do, he communicates to the driver by yelling or knocking on the roof of the van. The goal of the guagua is to pack in as many people as possible and drive them to the city. The cost is about 20 pesos one way, which amounts to less than 1 US dollar. At one point, I was riding in a guagua with 19 people in a van that is meant to seat about 8. However, this is the norm here! As guaguas will be our primary transportation, it was important for us to see and begin to learn how to use them.

Wrapping my mind around pesos has been very interesting. If you know anything about me, you know math is not my forte, so you can imagine my immediate confusion when paying, not to mention the language barrier. On my second guagua, I somehow managed to pay for two people instead of just myself and couldn't help but begin laughing when I got off and realized what had happened. The man who took my money seemed very confused as to why I was handing him the pesos I did, but I am sure he was glad of my mistake later... :)


Arriving in Santiago was amazing. I will admit I have insane culture shock, as this is my first time leaving the country so everything hits me at once. It's very exciting, but I sometimes have to remind myself to stay focused and pretend like I know what I'm doing in the city to avoid theft. Think A.D.D times a thousand. We were instructed how to protect ourselves from pickpocketers, motorcycle thieves, and other robbers before we left. After that lecture, I was paranoid about getting out my camera to take pictures so I secretly tried to FLIP a few videos (posted above) as the device is smaller than my camera. I know the quality is not the greatest, but I'll work on it!

In the city, it is clear we are identified as outsiders. The Dominican men love yelling phrases at us such as, "Que linda!" Speeding by on their motorcycles, their whistles and hisses call further attention to us. This is simply a part of their culture and is common for them to do to any passing women.

However, the response to our presence was a little different when we went to the Capitol building. 

After walking downtown and managing to climb all of the stairs to the entrance, we were met by only a few Dominicans who were simply walking the property just as we were. As we inquired how much it would cost to travel to the very top, slowly more and more Dominicans began arriving at the monument. After deciding to just sit on the steps and look out over the city for awhile, Karie and Mary began pointing out different places in the city, like our service site options (which we will tour this week) and the store La Sirena, which will serve as our Target this semester.

For awhile, we just enjoyed the breeze and the view. Santiago is situated in a valley, with lush mountains on all sides. In these mountains are the campos, which we will first experience in Immersion in late September. Taking in the stillness and beauty, we suddenly realized just how quiet it had become.

Quite instantly, I was reminded of the film Inception, which I recently saw. The best way I can describe what I felt like at that moment paralleled the film in that,  I felt as if I were the invader in someone's dream and their subconscious was mobilizing to attack me. If you have seen the movie, you know exactly what I mean.

Turning around, I realized there were now dozens of Dominicans, quiet and staring at us. Karie quickly stood up and mentioned that we should take notice of the response and that we needed to leave. As we headed down the monument, stares on the streets continued and I was expecting to turn a corner and bump into Mal's character from Inception. It was an eerie existence.

Traveling back to ILAC on the guagua, a few people in our group met a Haitian named Wilson. He asked to practice his English with us on the guagua and we tried communicating back and forth with him. At first, I was interested in hearing his story and we were all trying to ask him questions in English. However, I became suspicious when he began asking if we could tutor him and if we could give him our phone number. He repeatedly asked one of the men of our group, Andres, if he could be tutored, how long we were staying, and why we were here. At this point I started thinking, "Hmmm. He sure knows a lot of questions to ask in English." I became skeptical and ended my role in the conversation, while a few others near him continued.

Was I wrong to think he could be trying to take advantage of us? Here was a man with great hardship trying to make a life for himself here in the DR to escape the life he knew in Haiti. He claimed to be studying medicine here and he spoke of his yearning to pursue opportunities to further his English in many ways. But I couldn't help thinking of the monument experience earlier. Could he have been trying to learn more about us for the wrong reasons? Was he really just a poor Haitian wanting to learn English? I'll never know for sure, but from the first trip to Santiago, I knew one thing: While we are here to serve others, some are more than willing to serve themselves through our naivety.

After returning to ILAC, we had a few meetings and some of us sat out and played "Go Fish" in Spanish under the dim sky as a breeze carrying the music of the discotecas started up to play until the wee hours of the morning. Drifting off to sleep, I hoped to avoid any dreams, as I felt I'd been in one all day.

Today has been an introduction to the academic and service aspects of the program. In about 30 minutes, we start Spanish immersion classes, which are meant to help us adjust to the language quickly. Buenas tardes!

The Beginning of My Travels

Well! I'm excited to say I have arrived in the Dominican Republic and am already fascinated by it. I feel as if it's a place I've never lived in, yet could have lived in all my life at the same time. Still, I'd like to record my journey here and the happenings of my first day exploring:                                                           

Waking up around 2 a.m. yesterday morning, I was sleepily excited. As I strapped on my watch, slipped into my plain gray T-shirt, and rolled up my cargo pants, I found myself glancing at the mirror: I finally looked the part. For the past year, many a conversation has started or ended with, "...when I'm in the DR...". Today was it: I was off to that adventure that had been spoken of for so long.           

After a nap on the way up, I was awoken by my parents with, "Hannah! We're at the airport." After saying our goodbyes, I headed to my gate with my Mitch. Enjoying our last moments together for awhile, I'll admit part of me was sad to leave behind my life in the US. It's strange to think of all of my friends wandering down the mall talking to one another while I am in a whole different country. All the same, I was excited to get to Miami to meet my fellow 12 Encuentro participants.

Arriving in Miami, I could almost taste the humidity. Coming from the dry oven that envelopes Southern Colorado, I knew the heat and moisture would take some getting used to. Walking off the plane, I was greeted by the loud salsa music of a local band playing in the airport followed by Aerosmith's "I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing." Musically, it was as if my two worlds were already colliding- the deep, intonations of the Spanish salsa music mixing with a classic American band playing over the airport speakers.

Traveling to my gate, I quickly was greeted by a few of the others in my Encuentro group. Sharing lunch and laughs, we all slowly trickled in, anxious for the flight that would take us to our final destination: Santiago. Delayed by lightening and then mechanical problems, it took awhile before we were off to that which we had spoken of all day. Nonetheless, it was clear we were all anticipating what it would be like when we got off the plane.

On the plane, there was a small Dominican boy in front of me on his mother's lap. He was around the age of four. As we sat on the runway, he quickly became curious as to who I was and an intense game of Peek-a-Boo ensued, to both his and my own delight. Looking into his eyes, I knew I was off to something great, and something I have felt a calling toward for my entire life.

For part of the flight, I drifted in and out of a restless sleep, occasionally peering out of the window at the expanse of ocean beneath me. As the flight attendant spoke in Spanish quickly over the speaker, I rushed to fill out papers for immigrations and customs. With my eyes racing back and forth from the papers to the lights of the island, I scribbled my name as we began to glide down to Santiago. Various bursts of neon and flashing lights attracted my gaze until before I knew it, we were on the ground.

After purchasing my $10 tourist card and passing through immigration and customs, I was relieved to find my baggage and meet the women who essentially run the Encuentro program here: Karie and Mary. Piling onto the ILAC bus after loading our luggage with the help of Alfe, who is our transportation director, I began to notice the minimal traffic rules of the streets. The roads were narrow, two-laned, and paved. Pedestrians do not have the right of way and I was startled a bit to see Elfi speed past them, as they crowded the curbs.

The architecture here is much different. At first, my American mind was somewhat reminded of the Tiki-room at Disneyland, which my father would laugh to hear. But with thatched roofs on many of the buildings, tall pillars supporting brightly colored walls, and open windows all around, I could feel myself noticing how different my life will be here.


Much to our delight, upon our arrival at ILAC, we were served dinner. I tried papayas for the first time! Yum! Afterwords, we unpacked into the dorm-like rooms we will stay in at our time at ILAC this semester. The rooms are furnished simply, but hold a beauty all their own. With open ceilings and windows overlooking the lush greenery that covers this country, I felt our room paralleled the challenge ahead of me: to open myself to a vulnerability with the Dominican people, to learn their way of life, to give thanks for their hospitality, and to grow as a person just like the tall palm trees that dot our landscape.


Crawling into my bed and carefully tucking in my bright blue bednet around my mattress, I felt a sense of peace. I was finally here: This was the beginning of a change in me. As I fell asleep to the race of motorcycles, the beating of drums from a local discoteca, and the hum of insects, I couldn't help but feel this is exactly where I belonged.

Then came the roosters.

Awakening before light touched the sky, I heard several roosters in the distance. So far, I feel the Dominican streets are constantly bustling. There is always movement, traffic, some kind of ebb and flow of noise and people and life. From the time I laid down to sleep, to the time I awoke to the crow of the cocks, there were different noises. Yet, I almost feel noise can't rightly describe the rustlings, because they weren't tiresome or annoying. They are simply a part of the culture, a beat to which I feel I'll come to define in my heart as a part of the life here.

With no electricity (because the government here turns it off whenever they please), I found that in getting ready, my flashlight was bound to be my new best friend. Taking a quick shower, and changing into another set of plain clothes, I headed downstairs for breakfast, which is served by the ILAC staff everyday at 8 a.m.  They ring a bell, which alerts us that the food is ready. The women who work in the kitchen are lovely. With smiles signaling us to eat, one introduced herself to us remarking in Spanish, "I'm here to make sure you leave a little fatter."

The food here is great! I have made it a goal to try everything, so I've left nothing untouched (although I hope this does not lead me to give truth to the remark of the woman above). Our meals have consisted of fresh fruits, chicken, other meats, rice, beans, and breads.

After breakfast, we toured ILAC. Behind the facility lies a beautiful garden, a track, and a compost shack. This has led me to believe the Dominicans here pursue a very sustainable lifestyle, which is awesome. It's hard to describe the charm of the ILAC center- honestly it is likely something that just has to be experienced. With surrounding casitas, banana trees everywhere, and sangre de christo flowers among the greenery, there is beauty all around.

Down the street, we learned how to navigate a bit around the neighborhood. We traveled to the local store where we'll be able to buy various cleaning items or food. We also traded our dollars for pesos at an exchange place and saw the pharmacy. What interested me most on our trip out was the traffic on the streets. Motorcycles and scooters are very popular. A lot of people drive with van doors open with passengers hanging out, who are dropped off at various stops. These are the guagua, which is the bus transport that will take us to Santiago later today. There was even a man with a truck full of pigs, toppling over each other, likely on their way to be marketed. 

When our tour ended, we headed to a Spanish mass. The ILAC staff as well as members of the community participate in the mass, which is held in an open church. Everything is open, which I believe brings even more beauty to the country. A sort of understanding that nature is part of life seems to be present in everyday life. Mass was shared with large moths the size of my hand, some bees, and little lizards that live all over the property. As I noticed these creatures, I found myself thinking that these would cause a distraction in somewhere like St. John's back home. But here, they go unnoticed, disappearing and reappearing to the psalms and songs of the Spanish choir in the corner.

Following mass, we took a few group pictures and enjoyed lunch, which brings me to present time. We have had a siesta for the past couple of hours, and leave soon to people-watch in Santiago and visit the Capitol. Later tonight we have meetings on expectations of the program and that type of thing. Adios for now!