´La Dominicana.´ It´s damn hot.
*On luz.
At the top of this photo you'll see the inversor. If you look really carefully, to the left you'll see two tiny lights. I have learned that the little green light is bad and the little red light is good. The red light means the electricity is on in the house where I rent a room, so we can bask in the luxury of fans and, at night, lights. It also means that la bomba can be started up, which is the contraption that coaxes water from the main into the pipes and, if all goes well, out of the faucet. For some reason la bomba is usually turned off, which means we flush toilets with buckets of water, and the sink sits impotently collecting dishes. When the green light is on, as Daniel—my americano DR contact and guardian angel—explained to me, it means ‘go generator!’ But there is a problem with the generator; its reserves are tapped easily. This means only electrical essentials are to be employed when the green light is on. No fans. No bomba. And, late in the night when people are going to bed anyway, no lights. When the electricity cuts, cries of ‘se fue la luz!’ echo through the cavernous casa. Equally, when the electricity comes back on, there is a flurry of activity, joyful cries of ‘hay luz!’ as Santa runs to start la bomba so Loida can do laundry, or fill the reserve tanks with water to flush the toilets and wash hands when la luz goes out again.
Loida is the lawyer whose house I share, and Santa is her diminuative 12 year old...servant? The relationship is a bit unclear so far... but she certainly seems at everyone’s beck and call. I think she helps out in exchange for food, lodging, and the opportunity to go to school in the city. Anyway. What is surreal about turning on la bomba is that, just as when the electricity comes on it seems that all the lights in the house have been left on, when la bomba is turned on, it is not uncommon to wander into the bathroom or kitchen and find the faucet gushing. Whereas walking into a lit room feels more or less normal, walking in to a room with water gushing out of the faucet leaves one with the impression that there may be a resident ghost. ¡Hay aguacita!
*On showering.
The first night I stood in the shower and squeezed a washcloth over myself, which felt divine after the long trip and the stifling heat. In the cool of the morning I was giddy over the prospect of finally rinsing off the dust of travel under a real shower. I made sure that la bomba was good to go. Then, joyfully, I turned on the shower head. I noticed with vague disappointment that it was a hand-held contraption, the kind that doesn’t leave a person both hands free to do the washing, but this was nothing major. It turns out my problem was much more grave. When I turned on the tap, only a few drops trickled out. Then nothing. I asked Loida how the shower functions, and she said, “ah, I don’t know.”
Me: “You don’t know?”
Her: “Vamo a ver” (I am learning to cut out my ´s´s)
Together we went into the bathroom. She turned on the water, and again a tiny trickle and then nothing. “You’ll have to use the bucket,” she told me, shrugging. My heart sank. I was familiar with the bucket method because we had used it in Cameroon. What made the situation here in la Dominicana comical was the appearance of infrastructure. In Cameroon it made sense—when the toilet is a hole in the concrete, and the bathing space is a dark concrete room with a somewhat dingy drain, it comes as no surprise that one has to ladle out water to wash with, especially in a land where water is a precious commodity. But here I was, standing in a nice clean tub with a shower curtain, in a fully tiled bathroom, going through the same procedure. I get the impression that this disparity between appearance and functionality may be a common problem in la Dominicana.
The funny thing about the shower was, I didn’t mind. Maybe only because there was more water available to me than there was in Cameroon, for water shortage does not seem to be a Dominican problem. I don’t ever remember feeling completely clean in Cameroon, but after my cold Dominican shower, I felt like a new woman, ready to go out and learn some damn español. ¿No hay duche? No hay problema.
*On San Antonio
While the shower gives an idea of the problems that even wealthy Dominicanos deal with every day, it is by far not the most interesting thing that I´ve experienced in my first 3 days. Dan, who does research on traditional Afro-Carribean religious music, brought me to a fiesta for San Antonio in a poor barrio full of exuberant folks. When you don´t have electricity you don´t have to worry about it cutting out. There were prayers and incense and a splashing of water with flowers and herbs and drumming and then a processional, drumming all the way, carrying the image of San Antonio back to its owner´s place. Antonio had been on loan to a brujo (´witch´ is a bad translation but will have to suffice) who needed him. Belief in brujos and Catholicism are obviously not mutually exclusive, although the Church might beg to differ....
Yeah that's right, I'm playing the guira, Rubia
Jean the brujo and the other músicos
San Antonio is in the wood case
The ceremony was a load of fun, I was given a beer all for myself (which is a huge honor and speaks to how welcoming everyone was to a friend of Daniel). A ten year old girl named Esmerelda took me under wing and talked my ear off, simultaneously making sure we didn´t get hit by motos or cars as we all paraded through the streets. I understood maybe one word in 5, but we got along great.
Esmerelda
I´ve also been systematically breaking all the cautionary rules of what to avoid when traveling here. Except the water. Don´t drink the water. Eso.
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