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! :)
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
DR Photos
