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Monday, October 25, 2010

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.

Friday, October 15, 2010

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.

DR Photos