Day 51

I think I’m starting to understand the term third world. When we first got here I wasn’t quite sure. I thought it just meant poverty, or not having access to the newest and best technologies. Having grown up in upstate NY, I didn’t think this was such a big deal – hell, we rode in the open backs of pickup trucks when I was a kid, and made do with used items and without malls – while the poverty is deeper here, I didn’t see that much difference from worlds I’d lived in before, in the US. While I don’t pretend to know all of the intricacies, it’s starting to seep in – third world is more than poverty, it’s all the expectations and experiences that go with poverty, from having lower expectations in equipment and service to taking the most blatant corruptions for granted. We have the stress of overscheduled and poorly prioritized lives at home, but the stress here is of a primal level – you have to worry about physical safety, you have to worry about trusting others around you, you have to worry about the food, shelter and clothing you and your loved ones have or don’t have. You have to worry about doing things by hand over a period of days when the proper machinery would allow you to do it in an hour. You have to worry about all the connecting levels – not only the initial money, but the schedules and honesty and equipment of those you’re dealing with, and the same set of stresses THEY are dealing with, and all the interconnecting layers. The realization, though still on the surface, of this is overwhelming.

My friend Bobbie, who just visited with her husband Kurt, wrote to tell me that they got mugged in Santo Domingo. They escaped physically unharmed, but very scared / scarred by the memory of having a non-English speaking kid hold a knife to them.

Maya, the Swiss masseuse across the street stopped by to talk with Amy yesterday. She goes swimming at Las Galeras every morning – a long swim far out into the ocean. She only wears enough to avoid being indecent walking through town, – a wrap to cover her bathing suit, and sandals, which she hides on the beach. The other day, after going through this routine for the several months she’s lived here, her clothing was stolen. These two stories, combined with the German tourist who got his head bashed in and my current realizations concerning the third world, have me feeling a bit unsafe and unguarded here. Even though we’ve never experienced any crime worse than a taxi driver or vendor trying to get away with gringo prices, it still tints the world here.


CURRENT READING: “McSweeney’s Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales,” a collection of short stories, edited by Michael Chabon. Yesterday I read “The Bees,” by Dan Chaon. Who is this person and how does he know my nightmares?