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.
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