From Moca to La Romana Part 3

During the course of my youth group, Rafael invited his boss, Jose Bencosme, to observe. It turns out, Jose is the kind of public servant who gets things done. He oversees the Indotel computer labs of an area encompassing five provinces and was eager to put me to work training his employees to multiply my efforts throughout the greater Moca area. When I finished up with my students at the high school, he was ready and waiting for me with more than 30 adult students, all in charge of computer labs.

View Encargados Reach in a larger map

Each point represent a computer lab where one or two my students worked

For 8 weeks, I taught a morning group of about 12 and an evening group of about 20 for four hours each every Saturday. Some came from as far away as Gaspar Hernandez on the north coast and Sabana Iglesia in the country’s interior. During the week I keep hours at the lab to provide technical support there and help people who came in to use the computers. I also ended up running around to various labs run by my students and helping them reformat hard drives and troubleshoot problems. It was a very busy time for me. I would typically visit a lab for three or four whole days, talking my student through the various steps of Windows installation, system cloning, and so on. After all was said and done I must have done this at least 10 labs.

My buddy Max Podemski came to visit. Seen here in the
Monumento a los Héroes de la Restauración in Santiago

By the time Summer was coming to a close, I had taught an entire other group of 20 people at a public lab above the post office while simultaneously overhauling its 20 computers. The requests for one-on-one lab help were still rolling in and Jose Bencosme was bugging me to let him plan me a class in nearby Salcedo.

From Moca to La Romana Part 2

While things were falling apart with the scouts a and coming together at the library, I spent a lot of time networking with other volunteers and developing a secondary project to track Peace Corps volunteer history online. During spring 2012, a former volunteer named Derrick Lewis caught wind of me while describing his workplace’s data management needs to Nate Lohman, a friend of mine living near Punta Cana. I spoke with Derrick on the phone and it was clear that we were both very excited at the prospect of me going to La Romana to volunteer at Clinica de Familia La Romana. In my exasperation at my repeated lack of success in Moca, I told him I would move to La Romana, given the opportunity.

 

I pose with the family of one of my students in her father's finca

With the La Romana project far from certain, I proceeded in Moca as if I would be there until the end of my service. Together with Rafael, I planned and led a ten-week WordPress course for a group of adults at the library. One of my students, Yoryi Carvajal, was a teacher at the local high school. With his help, I formed a group of teenagers and led them in Encargados del Futuro a curriculum developed by Peace Corps volunteers in the DR the year before I arrived.

From Moca to La Romana Part 1

When last I submitted an update from Moca, things were on the mend with the Scouts. I explained to Pablo that I would possibly get moved to another city and that I wanted to take measures so that something was retained of my efforts to update and maintain the computers at the scout lab. He called a meeting of the caminantes (the older scouts), and made a schedule for each of them to come for a couple of hour-long training sessions during the next two weeks in how to manage the lab.

Me and Joel, a member of the youth group I formed at the library

This campaign went well for a few days until, as usual, the scouts discovered they were only being held accountable to me and quit showing up. Since this was what I had come to expect, I simply stopped going to the scout lab and invested the balance of my time in the growing list of tech support requests being made by Indotel students.

An example of a home in the Moca neighborhood where I was originally placed

Indotel is the Instituto Dominicano de las Telecomunicaciones, a Dominican Institution, I first encountered on my volunteer visit almost two years ago when I was less than a month into my Peace Corps training. Indotel sets up computer labs all over the country, and as fate would have it, I met a very motivated administrator named Rafael who was running Indotel lab in the Moca municipal library.

Charlie’s Last Few Months: The Cliff's Notes Edition

I present the Peace Corps DR history map to attendees at the 50th Anniversary conference

A lot has changed since my last blog post. Here’s a brief outline of developments since Spring:

• Problems persisted with my property managers failing to pay the power bill toward which I so faithfully furnished my share every month.
• There was an electrical fire late at night, during which I had the good fortune to be awake and able to exit the building before it flooded with smoke.
• My relationship with the Scouts gradually fell apart.
• I began to foster a budding relationship with the public library in Moca’s town center.
• In the month that followed the fire, I began canvassing for a new apartment, eventually discovering a charming family whose Mocan matriarch now rents me a room four blocks from the library.
• I finally managed to form a group of about seven youths after visiting about six classrooms, each contain more than 30 high school students.
• Observing my efforts with the youth group, my coworker at the library notified his regional supervisor. Together the three of us planned and promoted a six-week course for more than 30 computer lab supervisors from all around the Moca area, some of whom come from as far as an hour away every Saturday to participate in my workshops. It is presently in week 4.
• Faced with the threat of its computer lab being reclaimed by the country’s public computer lab authority, the Scouts have renewed their commitment with me, forming a two month schedule of trainings for certain members of the scout group.

MEANWHILE…

• Nate, a fellow Peace Corps volunteer was networking with potential hosts for his med school residency when he discovered that La Clínica de Familia in La Romana could use an IT specialist to help them with their patient records system.
• Having been introduced to me during my visit to Punta Cana last Christmas, Nate put me in touch with personnel from the clinic who have since had me out for a tour and interview and petitioned Peace Corp to solicit my service. I am tentatively scheduled to begin there in mid-September.

Me and my latest round of students, computer lab attendants from all over the Moca area.

Water On My Floor Again

As I entered my second straight hour of evacuating water from my apartment building's floors, my thoughts wandered to the last time I had used a broom to literally sweep a large amount of water out of a place where I was living in the developing world. I was alerted to the situation sometime around three in the morning when I was awakened by my neighbor to find a quarter-inch of water on my bedroom floor. It turned out the corner unit had some kind of problem with its plumbing that resulted in a steady flow of water onto the floor from a pipe that should have been filling its toilet's tank. The result was ankle-deep water in that apartment that spilled out in such volume that it filled the hallway floors and the floors of nearly every apartment on the second floor.

To try and mop up all this water or sop it up with towels would have been a waste of time. Instead, the best approach was to physically move it out the door, down the hall, and down the stairs where it could exit the building's side door. A side effect of this effort was the redepositing of an unknown amount of the water in some of the locked, unoccupied units along the way. The process also had the additional effect of dispatching a number of large spiders from hiding which had legs the length of an adult human pinky finger and which moved alarmingly quickly. Imagine my surprise to find that one such spider was deposited on my shoulder upon opening my front door that morning.

I had been sweeping in earnest for some time when Estefany and Cristina finally awoke and wandered over to gawk at my predicament and describe to each other my response in a tone that seemed to contain mild amusement and surprise. I wondered crossly what other course of action they'd imagined I'd take. No sooner had I shown them the water's source, though, than they had formed with me a broom conveyor belt to bale out the most heavily-affected apartment. By the time we had finished, my back ran with sweat and hair and beard were soaked. Another neighbor had disconnected the offending apartment's water. I was thoroughly exhausted and it was barely morning. The mopping of my floor and throwing away of ruined things could commence, but first I needed to bathe and take a long nap.

The Lights Are Out Again, Part 2

The luz (pronounced "loose", it means "light" and is used to refer to electricity) has been going out selectively in certain apartments since I got here. The first time the whole building went out, mine stayed out until long after everyone else's had returned. I went so long without complaining too loudly that Pablo finally took pity on me and hired an electrician. Unfortunately, after getting it repaired in my first apartment, I moved to another where the same came to pass after the next altercation with the luz.

After again having it repaired, this time at my own expense, it was revealed that an overhaul of the entire building's wiring is badly needed. Strange little inconsistencies emerged in the process of having my ceiling fan moved. For example, when my ceiling light, which had never work since I moved in, was connected to the same line as my fan, suddenly my wall outlets no longer worked and neither did the light in the bathroom.

Each time the power is disconnected for lack of payment, our luz is connected to the school across the street (whose finances are comingled with our building's), and rationed such that we only consume electricity between 7pm and 7am. Presumably, a month of this is all it takes to pay of the debt we've incurred (including whatever penalty may be applied), because without fail, the end of the billing cycle brings back 24-hour luz. But as soon as the time runs out to pay the following month's bill, we are again returned to the 7-to-7 routine. For my own part, I would love to move, but there just doesn't seem to be anything else in my price range this close to town that has a kitchen. Pensiones (one-room apartments with shared bathrooms and no kitchens) appear to start around $4,000 pesos a month, but with my income, I simply can't afford to eat out every meal. So for now, I wait. And light candles when it gets dark.

The Lights Are Out Again, Part 1

The landlady's proxy, Rosa, has announced that she will not return the security deposits of tenants who leave while still owing their share of the month's electrical bill, which this month is 14,000 pesos. So far, three tenants upstairs have moved out. Last month's solution to the electricity problem was to divide what I hope is an average of past monthly bills between all the building's remaining tenants, in shares respective to their usage, and have the resultant amount be a fixed monthly payment. Nevertheless, for the third time since I moved in, the electricity has been cut off due to lack of payment.

There remains the matter of the guy that blew up in my face over the electricity situation back in October. Pablo has assured me on several occasions, without prompting, that he has evicted the Marlboro Man who used to live next door to me when I lived in the other apartment. But I continue to spy his motorcycle, clad in orange vinyl and complete with prints of bikini models, in the shared entryway of the building. From what I gather, he has developed an American appetite for electrical amenities that include cable television, refrigeration, and air conditioning.

Chateando, Not Chateando

"Estás chateando," remarks Hiralda, "You're chatting". It's not a question. The Dominican Republic is a country where acknowledging what someone is doing is a way of greeting them. Where I come from, Hiralda's abrupt entrance might be considered an intrusion; she simply walked into my apartment unannounced and sat down. It is just one of a series of interuptions while I try in vain to perform a database task related to a project that has emerged as an important part of my service.

A working, single mother in her middle years, Hiralda has little time to devote to leisure and is probably only vaguely familiar with the concept of internet chat. But I've learned from experience that it is pointless to try and explain that I almost never enable chat on any of the websites I visit as I consider it a waste of time and a potential harmer of relationships. Like most Dominican people I've met since I arrived eleven and an half months ago, she simply considers that chateo is what the internet is for. To suggest otherwise would be like trying to tell her that a TV isn't for watching movies, news, and soap operas.

This lack of mutual understanding is typical of most everyday interactions I have with people in my community. Despite my ongoing efforts in support of Peace Corps' second goal, I find that attempts to enlighten people concerning my lifestyle and views as an American are met with responses that reflect popular beliefs and opinions imported via American movies and television. However clear and contradictory my responses to statements like Hiralda's, it seems the people around me find ways to interpret what I say in ways that reinforce their respective worldviews.

A natural reaction to this phenomenon is to become frustrated and feel disgust toward people and in my weaker moments, I have been known to give in to such feelings. But when I appeal to myself with higher reasoning, I am reminded that there is no rule requiring that anyone around me should even so much as acknowledge me, let alone treat me nicely, and yet I have been met with practically nothing besides warm welcome. Surely, this sincere goodwill does not warrant my contempt.

When I ponder my reaction, I am reminded of the antics of controversial comedian Sasha Baren Cohen in the guise of his character Ali G, a member of England's so-called "chav" sub-culture who conducts interviews of high-profile figures in the idiom of a hopelessly confused, yet genuinely friendly television host. Despite the hilarity of Cohen's interview subjects as they struggle to be understood through his character's absurd lack of comprehension, there is a lesson to be learned about embracing one's fellow man in spite of his faults.

A particularly poignant example of the Ali G phenomenon can be found in comparing how he is recieved, respectively, by Andy Rooney and by Boutros Boutros-Ghali. When watching Ali G interact with Andy Rooney, it quickly becomes obvious that Rooney's self-importance and lack of worldliness will not allow him to overcome Ali's flaws. Boutros-Ghali, on the other hand, maintains a poise and friendliness that endure's his interviewer's confusion and provides for a reasonably successful interaction.

It was in this spirit of warmth and appreciation that I responded Hiralda's statement with a cheery, "Yes, well, sort of".

One Year

It's been a while since my last update. There are a number of reasons for this, not the least of which being a certain fatigue I felt after posting 169 times beginning eight months before my Peace Corps service and leading up to just before my first Christmas in country. Christmas and New Years were such long and unusual experiences that I simply became overwhelmed at how behind I was once they were over.

While it appears that after nearly two years my blogging stamina finally ran out, I am not even finished with my first year in Moca. And having 13,000 views on my blog tells me that I really ought to keep this thing going. So, with my 28th birthday almost here, and less than two weeks from the one-year anniversary of first stepping sweaty and bewildered onto Dominican soil I am renewing my commitment to writing it all down and sharing it with you.

Internet Addict?

Since I began lending out my computer, almost everyone has proven quite considerate and careful about the frequency and duration of time they spend using it. However, it turns out that Cristina, who moved in with her mom and sister last week after a disagreement with her boyfriend, knows no constraint when it comes to using my computer to get on Facebook. She doesn’t work, and if I let her, she’ll literally spend the entire evening glued to the screen, chatting, updating her profile, and commenting on wall posts. I thought, eventually, she’d get it all out of her system and arrive at a place where she wasn’t asking to borrow my computer in every spare moment. But it’s becoming clear that this probably isn’t going to happen.

Cristina's toddler son, Yerlin

At first, I would let her use it for hours because, frankly, I wanted her to like me. But it has gradually become evident that she lacks the maturity to self-regulate and so I will probably end up having to play a parenting role with regard to boundaries and internet use. I don’t blame her. While the internet has existed for more of her life than mine, she hasn’t had the access some of her peers have until way late. Since she doesn’t have a job, there’s nothing else to occupy her. It’s a very similar scenario to what happens when some of us arrive at college and suddenly have unlimited access to internet, games, hanging out with friends, etc. I hope she can find a healthy balance without me intervening too heavily.

Electricity: On Every Night, Off in the Morning

For about a month now, the electricity in the building where I live has gone away during the day and returned at night. During the first two weeks, it just so happened that my apartment’s wiring was damaged so I was without luz even when there was luz to be had. Finally, one night Pablo called an electrician who came at 8:00 in the evening and fiddled with the chaotic mess of wires in the breaker box down the hall until my lights came on.

On my roof, facing Southwest

Since then, more details have emerged about the situation and what’s causing it. There is only one meter for the whole building and supposedly, the building’s electrical bill is usually between 4,000 and 5,000 pesos a month. Pablo tells me, though, that last month we inexplicably received a bill for more than 25,000 pesos. When I asked why he doesn’t take it up with the power company he told me he tried but they want 10,000 pesos just to come take a look. It sounds fishy to me, but I suppose in the DR anything is possible.

All of this crud came out of a batch of beans before I cooked it

So why the on-again-off-again electricity? Well, it turns out Pablo has burned off a portion of the insulation on the wire leading from the distribution line to the school across the street. Every night before work he uses a length of PVC pipe to reach up to the exposed wire and connect to it another wire that supplies our building. Every morning when he wakes up, he disconnects it.

The breaker box in the hall where I live

The school is actually in charge of our building and ought to be doing something about our situation, but when I offered to take the matter up with them, Pablo was adamant that it be kept a secret. Lucky for him, the season has changed, and it’s no longer unbearable to be in my apartment without the fan on. Otherwise, I would be more inclined to take matters into my own hands. But for now it’s just too entertaining for me to want to interfere.

The Day of the Strike Part 2

The toddlers wandered in, followed by Cristina and Miguel. It was the first time I ever had Dominican guests since I moved here back in August. I was pleased with the humbleness of my lifestyle and the statement I suppose it made. Everybody was impressed by my air bed, though, which I somehow managed to haul back with me from Oregon after I went home for mom and Rich’s wedding.

A random shot from inside my messy apartment

Around four in the afternoon we finally dished up delicious macaroni in cream sauce with sardines and green olives along with tostones, smashed plantain slices fried in vegetable oil. Miguel showed up and after we had finished eating, we dished up a helping to take to Chuno. On the way to his house, we passed through an alley with three or four tables of people playing dominos and perhaps thirty more watching or just hanging out. I hadn’t seen a street so crowded since my time in the Los Angeles barrio of Santo Domingo during training.

Chuno parties before his accident

Chuno looked pretty bad. His upper lip was a swollen mess of stitches and dried blood and there was a seam where the skin of his face had been split down the middle. Luckily, he had broken no bones in his face or the rest of his body and his teeth were still intact. I did my best not to show my alarm at seeing him, and was careful not to dwell too much on the accident, asking instead whether he was sleeping alright and seeing if there was anything I could do to help. An English-language movie came on the TV and I gave him and Miguel the play-by-play in Spanish for about an hour. We went home when Chuno’s brother told us we hadn’t better be out late during the strike.

The Day of the Strike Part 1

Monday was the day of the strike. As a Peace Corps volunteer, I had been told not to travel, and I thought it best to stay put in my apartment building for the day. After sleeping in, I dropped in on the girls to see what was happening. They were still playing with my computer since last night, but I was able to convince Estefany to play a round with me of Settlers of Catan. After that she kept wanting to play and eventually we drew the attention of her sisters, Yanirys and Cristina, who made brief attempts at learning the game but who were eventually peeled away to tend to the needs of their toddler boys.

Mecha's daughters. Left to right: Estefany, Cristina, Yanirys

Sometime around one in the afternoon, I finally mentioned that I had no food to prepare and said if the grocery store was open I was going shopping. What I didn’t realize was that by explaining this to everyone I was making a grand offer. “Hooray,” they said, “Save us, Charlie!” I couldn’t very well renege. Besides, I was sure they would make something far better than whatever I could cook up. Estefany called Pablo who confirmed that the grocery store open even during the strike.

The scene at Milenio on Saturday night

Midday traffic was way below average, and every family-owned business I passed had its metal barrier drawn. Extra shotgun-toting security had been hired at the plaza. After I brought home the supplies, Estafany and Yanirys came over to my place to cook. Finding the conditions there unacceptable, they wasted no time cleaning and organizing the place at the same time as they put on some plantains and pasta.

Lazy Sunday

The day after I went out dancing I was exhausted. The scouts were preparing for a big fundraiser and Aneudy invited me to come help prepare. After crawling out of bed and into some work clothes, I made my way to the local where Pablo, Katia, and about fifteen scouts were having a work party. I helped break up the dirt pile with mattock and shovel it into a wheelbarrow so it could be used to patch of up the field. The scouts were also constructing a zip line and Pablo asked that I take pictures.

The scouts begin building a platform for a zipline for an upcoming fundraiser

After a few hours I returned home and collapsed onto my bed. I was awakened after few hours of sleep by Line’s mom coming to borrow some sugar. I decided I had better run some errands rather than go back to sleep and spoil my night’s rest, but I didn’t make it past Mecha’s door. The girls were all dying to see my pictures from last night and put them on Facebook. In my apartment building, my computer has become a community resource. Whenever there’s electricity, there’s internet service and I become even more popular than I already am. I don’t mind sharing, though. It really is what people here do when they aren’t the kind to lock themselves up in a gated compound. And besides, I sometimes even get a free meal out it.

Moca Nightlife Part 2

After a couple of beers we headed across the street to another place I’ve walked by a hundred times with curiosity. On the corner in front we merrily rejoined the others before heading inside. The place couldn’t have been more authentic and perfect. It was all on the second story; the first was parking. Three concentric terraces fanned outward from the bar, each a step down from the next with the outermost being an open balcony. On a small, dark dancefloor people danced to merengue, salsa, and electronic dance music.

Estefany and her boyfriend, Mayobanex

The girls were eager to see if the gringo was going to dance, and if they expected me to be shy, they were mistaken. Something about casting off my possessions for two years and taking a vow of poverty has made me even less inhibited than I may have been otherwise. If love is the international language, getting down must be a close cousin. At one point I remember I was taking a rest when Chuno got my attention like, “watch this”. He just gestured from the balcony to an attractive young girl who was practically at the bar and next thing I knew they were dancing salsa. Chuno moved her all over the floor and spun and turned like a pro.

Chuno salsas with Estafany

Unfortunately, at the end of the night, events took a tragic turn. While driving back on his pasola (Vespa-style motor scooter) . Chuno drove into an uncovered manhole and fell face-first onto the gravel road. His face was covered in blood, and we worried that he may have a concussion. While a bunch of the group accompanied him to the hospital, I ended up back at the apartment building holding Cristina’s one-year-old and bouncing him up and down to stop his wailing. When the others returned, they assured me he hadn’t lost consciousness and that his memory appeared to be intact. His lip was split clear through.

Moca Nightlife Part 1

This Monday there was a big labor strike. Peace Corps volunteers were prohibited from leaving their project sites and in Moca, people told me everything was going to basically shut down for the day. My neighbor, Mecha took advantage of the long weekend to have her other two daughters and twelve-year-old son come visit her and Estefany. Saturday evening I found them all in plastic chairs in the usual hang-out spot in the stairwell. Mecha handed me a drink that tasted like melon and rum and insisted that I drink more than a little. She suggested not-so-subtly that it would taste better with ice.

Mecha and a joven from the group that went out dancing

I had just had what I consider my most successful day since arriving in Moca and I was in a mood to celebrate. I went on an errand and returned with ice and a round of drinks, which were met with much enthusiasm. That evening, Mecha’s boyfriend, Chuno had promised to show me some of the spots on the strip along the autopista (highway) near where I live. It turns out Mecha’s daughters, Estafany, Yanirys, and Cristina were getting ready to party as well with their respective dates and a crew of about four others.

Cristina lounges with her and Yaniris' toddler sons

When I broke out my camera it about caused a riot. I instantly became a fashion photographer and after every shot I heard pónmelo en Facebook (“put it on Facebook for me”) and etiquétame (“tag me”). After much changing of clothes and taking of pictures, Chuno arrived and he and I took to the strip. The first stop was a very crowded bar called Milenio. I had seen the place during the day and wondered how well it was doing, but now I could see it wasn’t hurting for customers. The place was packed to the brim and quaking to the beat of the latest dembow hits.

Teaching At The Library

Every volunteer has what they call a “project partner” who is basically a Dominican all-star community member who helps them set up the activities of their service. Through visiting Heather in Juan Lopez and donating the Free Geek laptops, I became acquainted with Heather’s project partner, Rafael. Rafael wasted no time arranging a class for me to teach at the library in Moca, and on Saturday we had our first class session.

The class consists of five adults (six if you count Rafael) of varying experience and skill level. Two of them are teachers—one in Juan Lopez, the other in Moca—who want to help me set up an Encargados del Futuro group. Encargados del Futuro is a youth group model that volunteers implement throughout the country. It helps prepare youths to become people in charge of community computer labs through participation in activities involving digital media and community service.

It was six exactly six months from the day I took the oath of service and became a Peace Corps volunteer and finally, I felt as though my service was beginning in a meaningful way.

The view from my window at night.

An Angry Neighbor Part 2

No dice, dude, I thought. It was bad enough that he was harshing my mellow. But to insinuate that there was something that I could do about the electricity situation was not okay. I started to break things down for him in an English I was pretty sure was too fast for him, "Look, canchi, I don't know what your trip is, but there ain't shit I can do about the electricity..." and so on, matching his volume and word choice so he could see I was finally as pissed as he was.

Painting on my apartment building: "Love thy neighbor as thyself"

He responded by shouting even louder and more feverishly. I could feel bits of his spit on my face and smell the alcohol on his breathe. At this point, Line was out of her seat, letting out little staccato hisses and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. While she waved a finger at each of us, I was too busy being pissed off to notice the man was backpedalling. Doubtless, his ego wouldn't allow him to apologize, but I wasn't going to stop until it was obvious that I found him far more unpleasant than the power outage.

Painting on my apartment building: "Juan Pablo Duarte, 'father of the homeland'"

When I was good and done, I finally began to hear him again. He was explaining that his two children were American and that he it hadn't been his intention to talk trash about Americans. Whatever the case, there was little left for him to do but go to his room and stop complaining to me. While I remained and chatted with Line a little more, I could see that the vibe was completely ruined. In days to come, however, it became clear from what I gleaned it conversation with her and the rest of the ladies that my neighbor was not all that popular and I was actually somewhat more respected for not just sitting and taking his abuse.

Whatever the case, I really don't hold it against him. I mean, he paid his damned power bill. It would have been nice, though, if he could have just taken it in stride everyone else seemed to.

An Angry Neighbor Part 1

When I arrived back on the roof, my friends had been joined by Mencha's daughter, Estefany. The five of us carried on a little longer before each making our way down to our apartments. I found some pretense to bug Line some more and in due course we found ourselves on the couch in her apartment discussing the finer points of Dominican gender relations. "Nosotras mujeres aguantamos mucho en este pais," she told me, "we women put up with a lot in this country." We talked for a while about Dominican men and when I asked how a woman can know that her boyfriend has other girlfriends and still not want to leave him, she shared with me a dicho (a saying):

Una llave que abre muchas puertas es una llave maestra, pero una llave que abre todos las puertas no sirve. (A key that opens many doors is a master key, but a key that opens every door is no good.)

The best I can do in interpreting this is to suppose that it means that a woman wants a man who is so desirable that he can get other women if wants, but who won't take just any woman.

"Each person reaps what he/she sows"

What happened next was unprecedented. From down the hall came a steady stream of angry shouting, which gradually grew louder before parking itself somewhere in the hall outside Line's apartment. I knew its source to be the overweight single man who lives next door to me and I wasn't surprised to hear vulgar English sprinkled in amongst the Spanish epithets; though I had never interacted with this man, I had noticed he posessed the American habits of smoking cigarettes and going straight to his apartment without spending some time socializing in the hallway.

Fairness: even if your rubio brother can levitate and you can't

He must have heard me and Line because next thing either of us knew, he was venting his frustration at full volume, more or less in my face. Mostly he cursed Pablo, but also there was talk of the people Pablo answers to at the school and in Philadelphia. I reasoned that the best course of action would be just to agree and act disgusted. But gradually it began to appear as if my obvious lack of indignation was only aggrevating him more. Finally, I detected in his tone and choice of words a kind of antagonism that was directed at me.

Helping Some Neighbors Move In

The head of the household I help move in across the street is muscle-bound and shaved bald. I don't recognize him at first be he knows who I am and reminds me that he works the corner in front of the rotunda with with the rest of the motoconchistas. The Daihatsu has half-emptied after the time it has taken me to peel away from my rooftop group, but there remain some big items. The ladies remain perched on the roof, silently taking in the show.

Painted on the building where I live: The man says, "son, obey you parent and teachers
out of love [for them]".

First to go up the three flights of stairs is the wooden box of a bed. It is empty, and thus not very heavy, but its ungainly form, combined with the low overhead clearance of the stairway requires the we stand and squat in awkward positions and use muscles in our backs and arms that don't often get a workout. For me, it is another triumph of communication, something I certainly couldn't have accomplished with nearly as much grace or poise five months ago. At critical points along the way, I have to listen carefully and follow instructions. At other times it is I who has to describe how to proceed based one what I can see and my moving partner cannot.

Adorning the street entrance of my building: A shackled taino bride and a Dominican
flag breaking a chain.

Next, in similar fashion, comes the mattress and finally a couch. On the rooftop across the street I can see the ladies watching me, with boundless amusement, no doubt. From their perspective, each trip up the stairs plays out like a play in three acts, taking place in the exposed landings between flights of stairs. I wave and shout to them, but it is clear they prefer that the fourth wall remain intact.

The building where I live. It used to be a school. My window is the one in the middle.

By the time we finish, I am panting and sweating profusely, but I can tell that my neighbor could easily keep going. I'm typical Dominican fashion, nobody says "thank you". Instead I am rewarded with a few minutes conversation and the comfort of knowing that I had done my good deed for the day.