Day 80

More rain, all day. Worse, the Internet bunker was closed, leaving me with no options on a deadline day. I was sitting at Gri-gri’s with Paul and Mel, and Paul asked me why I didn’t go to the Internet café, run by the evil Merko and his father. I had sworn that place off early in our stay, as they were incredibly rude, made no efforts to be accommodating, and didn’t seem to have good equipment anyway. I told Paul they couldn’t take my Mac there, and he said it seemed that everyone he knew who had a laptop went there. They weren’t able to let me plug in last time I was there, 3 months ago, so I didn’t know what he was talking about. When Mel sat down with us, I asked him if he used his laptop there, and he said yeah, he plugged in, they had a couple cables for laptops. It was my only choice, either that or taking a one-hour gua gua in the rain to Samana. I have heard so many bad stories about the evil Merko’s Internet café, and my few experiences with it and his personnel didn’t make me feel any better, But maybe that’s one of the issues in a third world small town – your enemies and friends are constantly changing sides. Not that I think I could ever consider the evil Merko a friend – one time I was on the one-hour gua gua ride to Samana and he was trying to pass on a motorcycle at one of the many speed bumps on the route. When the gua gua driver pulled to the left for the bump, inadvertently cutting the evil Merko off, Merko pulled alongside and started yelling at the driver, continuing the harangue for 5 minutes before pulling away.

When I walked in I just asked the evil Merko if I could plug my laptop in. He, in his typical elegant manner, just pointed to the table they had set up with two firewire cables, which had not been there the last time I had been in, three months ago. It was the equivalent of the Internet shop I’ve grown fond of in Samana – a good connection, no varying signal. I was bummed – I wanted to dislike the evil Merko so much, and he had gone and actually improved his business to keep abreast of current technologies. Curse him! After checking and sending my mail, I unplugged and discovered something to dislike – his prices are much higher than anyone else’s here, and he still has the personality of a toad. He charged me twice as much as the Internet bunker and, when I asked him what time they closed, he just pointed at the sign on the wall with hours on it.

I’ll walk away knowing this is yet another outlet in the technological third world, someplace to go to in an emergency.

I have started taking Spanish lessons from Pedro. I first met Pedro when we arrived – Arturo introduced him as his brother, and told us he taught Spanish. Since then 3 different people have introduced us to Pedro as their brother. We have since discovered that Arturo and Pedro refer to each other as brothers not because they have the same mother, but because, when they were babies, their mothers shared nursing with each other, so that any children who nursed from the same woman, or women, were considered siblings.

When I first met Pedro I didn’t think I would take lessons with him – his English was difficult for me to understand, and I was happy learning through immersion, on the street. In the 4 or 5 other times I was introduced to Pedro and solicited for lessons, I felt the same way, and he was never aggressive about the lessons, so I thought I’d never officially say “yes” or “no,” and just leave my options open. Then last week I ran into him on Playa Galeras, and he was much more aggressive than I’d ever encountered before. He asked me right out, “When are you going to take lessons?” I said I didn’t know when I’d have time right now, and we let it go at that. Then, at Arturo’s niece’s birthday party, he was there and told me that Arturo was interested in taking English lessons, and would I take Spanish lessons with him, so we could help each other? I immediately recognized it for the ruse it was, but I thought I’d give it a try for 3 days.

Pedro came by our house 2 days ago, for a one-hour lesson beginning at 3. We went over the basics, which I’ve gone over for 3 different tries at Spanish lessons now, and still don’t grasp – pronouns and conjugations of “to be.” He was easier to understand, and he was patient enough for me to flounder in my way, although he did respond in normal patter Spanish, which was hard for me to keep up with. I’m beginning to realize that every Dominican person who wants me or the children to learn Spanish basically takes the “row him out in a boat, throw him in, and let him learn to swim” method of language instruction.

During our instruction, which has been set up for an hour each afternoon, Pedro said we should have ten minutes of conversation. In we dove, him giving me some simple sentences, and me trying to a) listen and b) make a coherent response. In this conversation, he started asking me questions about my family, which I was able to easily answer – how many children do I have, what kind, etc. Then he asked the $64,000 question, which wasn’t exactly from the intro to Espanol book, I think – “How do you think of your son?” I asked him to repeat it, and told him he is my family, which Pedro seemed to understand, as he asked no followup questions. The Dominicans have such a hard time understanding our mixed race family – they can’t quite wrap their heads around our son not looking like the rest of us. They constantly ask and, even if they do know what an adoption is, they think we don’t love Benjamin as much as we love each other, or that we treat him differently.

Day 79

It rained all night, and it’s raining this morning. Everything is damp, even clothing that has been dry and hung for days, and I feel like I’m becoming mildewy.

Yesterday school was cancelled, with my new no. 1 excuse. (The previous no. 1 excuse was needing a day off after the Easter week vacation, to rest from the holiday.) They had no school yesterday because one of the teacher’s aunts had died, so the entire school staff had to attend the service. I realize this is more a reflection of community values – this person was a member of the community, and the entire community turns out in respect, but the school consistently gets placed at the end of the line in priorities, and what community value does this reflect? Since it is a small community, can’t the service be scheduled at a time that will allow the teachers to be at school and at the service?

Day 78

I am sitting in the Internet bunker. It is pouring rain outside. Fernes and his buddy are listening to soft rock American music from the 1980’s – Stevie Wonder, The Police, that guy who sings “I wanna know what love is,” etc. The signal is down, because whenever it rains the signal goes down, but I’m waiting out the rain here, although if it gets any hotter in here I won’t be any dryer that if I had gone outside. But if this music keeps up I may have to go jump in the ocean. Maybe I can introduce the youth of La Galera to punk music, but they use American / English music in order to learn English, so that’s why they stick to the softer pieces.

Day 77

Earlier this week, I went into the Internet bunker, and Primi seemed down. I asked him what was wrong and he said his girlfriend wanted to break up with him. I made a couple jokes about him being too good for her, which seemed to cheer him up, and I left. Today, on our hike to Playa Fronton, I asked him again about it / her. I asked him what happened. He told me she thought he was seeing other people. I asked him if he was. He said no. I asked him how long they had been seeing each other He said two months. I asked where she lived. He said Columbia. I said South America? He said yes. He said it was easy to visit there, and he hoped to visit her in Medellin someday. I told him Medellin was very dangerous. He said yes, there’s a war.

Primi is 25. He works at the Fernes’ Internet bunker. He goes to Nagua, to the university there, and takes classes in English and French, and teaches English to Dominicans in Las Galeras. He is at the Internet bunker from 9-2 most days, returning at 5 or 6 to work or write until closing at 9. He recently asked me to go for a hike with him to Playa Fronton – a beautiful, remote beach here which is reachable only by boat, when the sea is calm, or by a 3 hour hike from town, or a one hour hike from Boca Diablo, which you have to reach by car.

I learned all this information about Primi on our hike. We rode his motorcycle up La Loma (“the hill”) outside of town, and started hiking from there. In the Internet bunker, Primi is constantly testing my Spanish comprehension, mostly by saying something at conversational Spanish speed to me, and getting a laugh (alone, or with others in the shop) when I look at him and ask que (what)? On our hike he told me how he had grown up in the area we were hiking in, and he used to come hunting with his brothers and shoot birds –which is a good thing, because they have no other hunt-able land animals here – and camp out. He told me how he loved the “tranquillo” (the calm, the quiet) of being here. There was a main red-dirted road that we stayed on until we took a small side trail up the hill towards Fronton. Primi usually says things in normal Spanish to me, to see if I comprehend. He is my one-man immersion crew.

I asked him if Las Galeras had changed much since he was young. He said yes. I asked him if it was better. He said yes, there were more work opportunities for people here. I asked him what they used to do. He said most of them worked the land. He pointed out many plants and fruits – some I had learned, others I hadn’t. It was a very hot day, with no clouds. We hiked about an hour and a half, until we reached the cliffs above Fronton. It was very steep going down, but not impossibly so – if you took your time, there were places to put your foot all the way down. We reached the beach, which I had been to twice before, and it was different – there were people here this time. There were 6 people at the usually deserted restaurant at the south end of the beach, a couple of Dominicans playing dominoes, the proprietor (who is Primi’s uncle) and a couple white guys. The other direction was full – there was a tent set up (which I knew belonged to a restaurant owner in town – he and his wife had taken the week off to camp at Fronton), and there were at least 20 people milling about. This was about 30 people more than I had ever experienced there before. I said to Primi, “what are all these tourists doing here?” and he said, “you’re a tourist.” I thought his company could allow me to pass for the day.

We talked on the beach for a while, where he told me about the ill-fated internet relationship. We went snorkeling for a bit. Primi didn’t seem too comfortable, having troubles with the mask and gear, but he told me to go on, and I love snorkeling at Fronton – it is very shallow inside the reef, but it has pockets and coral canyons that are fun to explore around. I followed many of the usual fish we see here, eating, when I saw an octopus swim by. It was about the length of my arm, and it saw me at the same time, as it immediately latched itself to a coral growth and camouflaged itself to the surface – it changed colors and little growths emerged all over its body making it appear like the rock / coral. I stayed right above it for some time, but it didn’t move, except for its eye following me everywhere I went. I pretended to swim away, and its color changed again, but the moment I looked back it went back to rock tint. While I maintained my watch, I saw a flounder swim by, and followed it as it went to the bottom and blended with the sand by kicking it up around itself. I looked back at the octopus and it had made a run for it, but I was able to follow for a short distance, where it latched onto another coral and camouflaged again. The growths it pops out are surprising – as it swims it is so streamlined, and you wouldn’t think that same creature could impersonate a rock.

When I got out, I met an American couple we had met at dinner at La Ranchetta two nights before, and lent them the masks and snorkels Primi and I had. Then Primi and I sat down, ate some Dominican cheese and bread, and talked.

The beach on Fronton faces Puerto Rico to the east, and this is known as the Mona Passage, one of the deepest sections of the Atlantic Ocean. I asked him how far it was to Puerto Rico, and he told me he had tried to go by boat one time, leaving here at 4 in the morning and arriving in PR at 2 AM, where the police turned them back. The woman who cleans our house, Xiamara, told Amy she had tried to go to Puerto Rico by boat once also. I asked Primi why he couldn’t get into Puerto Rico, forgetting it is an American property. We talked about going to other countries – I asked him if he would want to go to Haiti, and he said, “People always want to go somewhere better. Why would I want to go to Haiti?” He has told me many times of wanting to go to the US. He has told me his father lives in New York, having lived there for 20 years. He told me he has repeatedly asked his father to sponsor him for a visa to the US, but his father has told him it is too dangerous in New York, and that he would start using drugs. He tells his father “if I want to use drugs, I can use them here.”

Day 76

Benjamin and I were alone for the morning. We went to the Galeras beach, where we played in the sand for a while. A group of tourists drove up, and a woman asked if she could have her picture taken with Benjamin. I don’t know if she thought he was a Dominican kid hanging with me or if she just needed a child of color in the photo to prove she was here, but I told her to ask him. He said no, and walked away when she tried to sit next to him.

We went to a party at Arturo’s. It was a birthday party for his niece, who was 4. Arturo’s wife, Anna Marie, had invited us earlier in the week. She told us the kids’ party would last for about an hour in the afternoon, followed by the adults’ party. She told us they could give us a ride home before the adults’ party.

We arrived at Arturo’s house, dressed casually, to find Anna Marie and the kids dressed up. We walked down the road to the house where the birthday party would take place. There was a mix of children and adults, with a group of teenaged – possibly 20-somethings? – decorating the house and yard with balloons and ribbons. The younger children all kind of stood around, while the adults grabbed chairs and sat in rows under the tree, watching the young children not know what to do. After a while the guest of honor – Arturo’s 4 year-old niece – showed up with her mother. The girl was dressed up in what can best be described as a wedding gown. When she showed, everyone with a camera immediately went to action – all the children were grouped for photos, with the guest of honor standing like a Barbie doll in various poses and groupings. After an hour of this, everyone went back to standing around. All along a loud and raucous music – a combination of Dominican merengue, baccata, and rap – was blasting from the house. One of the teen girls kept asking anyone near her to dance, with no takers. After a period of refusals, she was finally taken up on a dance with someone who turned out to be her brother. They started dancing in front of the rowed chairs of 4 year-olds in front and adults in the back. The dance turned out to be something called the “doggie dance,” which involved some acrobatic, clothed, simulated sex. The 4 year-olds acted like nothing unusual was going on, while the adults in the back – thank goodness shock is a universal emotion – looked at each other incredulously.

I had to pee at Arturo’s niece’s party. In the past I know that it’s no problem to go in back of whatever house you are at. This house, however had a birthday party going on in front of the house, in back of the house, on the sides of the house, and inside the house, so there was no clear outdoor bathroom option. I decided to walk out to the road, and figure something out there. When I got to the end of the driveway, I saw a local guy hanging out. I asked him where I could go to the bathroom, and he said (my interpretation includes his hand motions) “everywhere.” I said “here?” as we stood on the side of a road that had considerable traffic- both auto and foot. I then pointed at a group of women who were walking right at us and were about 100 yards away. Surely, I thought in this macho culture, peeing in front of women is one cultural embarrassment that is avoided. Nope. He said “si” and acted as if I’d asked him if the dinosaurs were still dead. So I peed right there, extremely conscious of the group of people walking towards me.