You can now follow my blog by email, getting new posts sent directly to you through the interwebs (or system of tubes as one late Alaskan senator would have put it). All you have to do is put your email address in the box to the right that says follow by email and wire me US$1billion. Or at least just put your email in the box. You'll also note, I've added some links to my blog to check out. They are mostly the sites of entertaining fellow bloggers, but I will add some links here and there that I find interesting.
Any suggestions as to more gadgets that could be of use or layout design are, as always, welcome.
Also, here you can see a map of where I'm living. San Francisco de Macoris (SFM) is to the North with Santiago (the airport used to fly in) only slightly to the West. Punta Cana (not shown) is on the Eastern most tip of the Island, while the capital, Santo Domingo, is pretty obvious.
So here we are again. Welcome back. Bienvenidos a todos al blog de Drew (aka EL epic night ferret). After a month long hiatus in the good ol' US of A, I've come back for the long haul to the Dominican Republic. Last time was an appetizer, a sample platter of life in a developing Caribbean country. This time, I'm diving headfirst in to an entree of life and experiences in a place that is - while not entirely unkown to me - extraordinarily challenging and filled with unique and unexpected encounters. Everything that you, dear readers, will take in here are recollections of truly original experiences.
So, we begin at the Miami International Meltingpot.
Arriving at terminal D is like arriving at a modern day Ellis Island. If you can't hear more than one language at Miami International, you are either not listening, deaf, or someone who, like our dear former President George W. Bush, probably can't distinguish between Spanish and Inuktitut. Last time I was in Miami, I was a third-world virgin. I did not know what I was getting myself in to but was anxious to try out my relatively rusty Spanish on a crowd of native speakers. I was thrust into practice by a ticketing agent, however, when he mistook my pronunciation of ''Santiago,'' the Airport to which I'd be arriving in the Dominican Republic (henceforth the DR) as a sign of actual fluency. He told me where to go, asked about fluids and creams in my bag (at least I gathered that much from the context) and quickly stamped me and sent me on to drop my bags off. Much has apparently changed at Miami International (now to be know as MIA or Ellis Island South) since my last romp through. This time, I was briskly sent through the line by English commands, arriving at a ticketing counter where the mustachioed agent assured me that in order to enter the country I would need to buy a return ticket (something that is technically required in the DR, but then again you're technically required to stop at red lights and have a permit for your shotgun) and a visa (something that is a 100% fabrication). I ended up buying a return ticket to appease this unbudging roadblock to getting on my flight to the place I'll be living for the next 9 months, but assured him that I already had my visa, showing him a 10 dollar bill tucked safely into the folds of my left pocket. This is considered a down payment on visitation to the DR from anyone who doesn't hail from Venezuela, Iceland, the Principality of Liechtenstein, or a number of other extraordinarily influential international powers. In order to leave the country, one must pony up $25 or the somewhat equivalent RD$800 as an exit fee.
After heading through security, I finally hopped on the plane. The usual mix of well-to-do, primped up DominiYorkers and pale-faced, naive missionaries filled the plane almost to its max. Other than one flight attendant, I believe that I was the only gringo lacking a bible or a business plan binder en route to the country of eternal summer.
After a flight filled with lightning flashes, scattered dips and dives, and almost never-ending bumps, we landed in Santiago/Cibao International Airport.
The lack of applause upon landing showed that there were both a large number of gringos unfamiliar with the custom of cheering a successful, death-free touchdown and that the Dominicans were probably too busy clutching their stomaches and barf bags to bring two palms together in celebration. My cheerful, energetic applause must have seemed wildly out of place to everyone involved, but then I must have seemed equally as out of place my self.
We landed about 20 minutes late with another few minutes to taxi and about 30 minutes to get through customs, grab my bags, and head out through the strange gauntlet that is set up at the exit of the airport. Fighting off the throngs of men asking me to take my bags out for me, (my Spanish both surprised and confused them) I walked outside and began looking through the crowd to see if Darling had defied expectations and showed up yet. Of course, I told him to get me 15 minutes earlier than I was actually supposed to land. Due to all the delays, I was about an hour late, making Darling an hour and a half late when he did finally arrive in his wobbling black Mitsubishi Montero SUV. After pleasentries and the customary Que lo Que Monstro! (What it is Monster!, somehow that is a term of friendship here) I hopped in the car to be greeted by Damaris - Darling's stunningly organized and soft-spoken wife - and Cherissa, my new roommate. We drove through the 2 million person city to get to my first meal in the DR, one that Darling assured would be very Dominican and enjoyed by everyone. So, knowing Darling as I and some of you probably do, it was not a surprise when we pulled in to the TGI Friday's of Santiago de los Caballeros, Dominican Republic.
Chuckling to myself and to Cherissa, we went in. I ordered some buffalo wings (pronounced booo fah lo, so as not to confuse the waiter) and we all ate. After a while, Darling, the pentacostal minister asked me why the place was called Friday's. I explained the origin of the name to him and he seemed to truly enjoy it even more, perhaps thinking that the skateboards, picnic style table clothes and free-flowing margaritas and Long Island Iced Teas were somehow religiously affiliated. After all, on the 8th day the Good Lord woke up from his slumber and created Jack Daniels barbecued chicken.
Coming back to the apartment, Cherissa and I talked for a while about the program, the city, and plans for making the place feel a bit more like home. In the morning, she'd be going to a resort with two students to ''practice English'' while I'd head in to the office for the first time in over a month.
The next day, I was told I'd be teaching a class, then that I wouldn't, then that I would. Finally I jumped in and informed everyone that I hadn't even unpacked yet and that I wouldn't start until we had a set schedule that I could refer to come payment time. A schedule was made and subsequently completely ignored, but at least I got the first day off.
What I did get to do the first day was go to the building that we'd be turning in to a school for our ever-growing (so I'm told) ULAE program. We'd retained some investors since I'd gone and now had enough money to rent a space of our own instead of sharing a building with the Universidad Catolica Nordestana (UCNE). I went with Darling to see the place. From the outside, it looked as if construction on the second story space had been abandoned about halfway through. Unpainted concrete with large open spaces was the facade I was looking at. Walking upstairs through the prison-like metal barred door (which is actually as common here as a mangy street dog) we ascended the wide, concrete staircase. I heard the sounds of serious and concentrated evangelical praying going on. Coming upstairs, I found a band of ''pastors'' hanging around, really not doing anything. Apparently these people, Darling's friends and fellow pastors, were the ones we'd be displacing to begin our new program. After a few introductions (almost all of which included ''You know, this Jesus guy is awesome, this is the right way,'' which was less than unexpected) I toured the space a bit more. I'll take some (before) pictures next time I go in. To say we have work to do on this space is a flagrant and egregious understatement. The walls were all unpainted, the ''doors'' on all of the classrooms were simply sheets somehow taped or nailed up above the frames. There were bathrooms in each room, but none had anything in them that resembled plumbing pipes, let alone toilets themselves. Each room had its own unique pile of garbage and evidence of human life. If this was an archaeological site, I'm sure the investigators would come to the conclusion that some overtly religious culture slowly evaporated, leaving a depressing and violent mess in their stead. At every turn, I wholeheartedly expected to see a member of the Manson family sharing a crack pipe with someone from Irvin Welsh's Trainspotting. There were even beds in a number of the rooms, some of which had lamps and tables, though I couldn't even venture to guess what kind of creature had slept there in the past. Perhaps that could be a task for the hypothetical aforementioned archaeologists as well.
Despite the thick layer of despair and destruction surrounding this ''religious center,'' I couldn't help but smile at the potential I was seeing in the place. After some serious cleaning, wiring, painting, and shuffling, this space would really feel like a school. Putting my own blood and sweat into the project will only make it more satisfying when I'll be able to sit down at my desk in my office (which Elizabeth has assured me WILL have a disco ball) and write my first lesson plans for the new school. I mentioned to Darling that my brother is quite the artist and he immediately asked when he'd be able to come down to put some murals on the walls to make the place more appealing to people passing by on the street.
The place has a lot of work to do, but so does the country as a whole. One building at a time , it can be improved. Education is the key to empowering people, and by creating a space that will hopefully one day become one of the best bilingual schools in the DR, we will create a generation who sees a crack shack like the one I've witnessed not as a lost cause, but as an eternal hope.
