Alta Gracia

In our studies of health and nutrition here in the Dominican Republic, we decided that it would be good to look at some economic factors impacting the health of Dominicans. We took a two hour drive down to a town called Villa Altagracia, where a fair-trade clothing factory is. The factory, Alta Gracia, was pretty big, but did not have nearly as many people working there as you might’ve imagined. There was a cluster of people, mostly women, working in what seemed to be a seated assembly line of sewing machines. The tables were close together, and the materials were passed in a clockwise rotation. The various sized machines on various tables looked much like a monopoly board full of purchased property. The first thing I noticed about the work arrangement was that everyone had their own office chair, the nice kind that swivel all the way around with the curvy backs and the cushiony bottoms. No crappy wooden or plastic chairs here. The second thing that I noticed was that the people were all smiling. Every time I think of a factory, I think of the seen toward the end of The Wiz, before the part where Evilene sings “No Bad News” and everyone has on these hot sweaty full-body suits, with evil scowls on their faces, doubting they’ll ever see the light of day again… but that was nothing like what I saw here.

As we took a walking tour about the factory, I got a closer look at what the workers were actually doing, and it turns out they were making t-shirts and athletic clothes, like sweats and hoodies. So here’s how it goes down. Some guy with a very sharp saw cuts the fabric in small, but very specific shirt-like shapes. Then the fabric get soaked and stretched out to their right size. Once they dry, they are taken to the first sewing machine where the sides are given a seam. Then they’re passed on to the next guy for the sleeves. Next, they go on to get a good collar, and so on and so forth. The coolest part was the little machine that presses on the tagless label to the inside of the shirts’ collars. It looks like swooshy A, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it before. So it’s a pretty basic, standardized process of making the shirts, what makes this place stand out are its work conditions.

Every worked in Alta Gracia receives 3.3x the salary of other Dominicans doing the same job. Also, they work 38 hour weeks, but get paid for 40, instead of working 50 hour weeks and getting paid whatever. They also have this initiative to get all of their workers adequate housing for them and their families. Fun fact: every mother that works with Alta Vista has at least one child. Also, this place is the only factory that allows unannounced inspections for health and safety regulations. They have nothing to hide. We got to talk to their boss and ask him whatever question we wanted to know. They even went out and did research on what the cleanest and best water to provide to their workers throughout the work day, which turned out to be Planeta Azul, the same water we drink here (because we have sensitive American immune systems that have never been exposed to anything worse than the flu and common cold). It’s real clean.

After all of that, we got to see firsthand the living conditions of one of the workers. We literally got on our bus and drove to this woman’s house where all 20 of us, yes twenty people, piled into here little wooden house and talked to her about what it’s like to live in this kind of condition. We met her husband and she showed us pictures of her two kids and told us to sit down and everything. After completely taking over that house, we drove a little ways away to where she and her family where building a new house. The woman was so proud of what she was able to pull off with her new job. 

She showed us what in reality was a slab of cement, but what will be a two bedroom house with a living room kitchen and bathroom. Her face glowed with excitement as she walked us through her tiny, but decent, future home. From the slab of cement, we could see the mountains and the town below, it was incredible and we made it a point to tell her that she should have a big window there so that she can admire the beauty of what was around her all day.

We returned to the factory for an informative Q and A session and then had a Bandera lunch, as usual. The day was sort of long, having driven almost all the way back to Santo Domingo, but it was a good reality check to see what people had to deal with, and these were the people who caught a good break with this job, as they only have about 40 or 50 employees. 

We were charged to spread the word back to our schools about purchasing more of the fair trade shirts that come from Alta Gracia, so they can expand and employ more Dominicans who really need the job. So here’s what I’m going to do. Every college student, parent, alumni, faculty and staff member who reads this, look at the bookstores at your school, especially if you have Barnes & Noble, check to see if they have a fair trade section of shirts and keep an eye out for Alta Gracia. The tags have pictures and stories of real employees that testify to how your purchase is changing their lives. When I get back to UM, I’m going to get one! J 

<--yes, I am aware that I do not go to MSU and that it is a rival school of UM, BUT they didnt have any UM shirts at the factory, because they were already sent to our campus, so I took a pic of the closest thing they had. Hey it was this or OSU...)

GET DOWN!!!

The adventures never seem to stop in this country. We spent one Sunday on a trip to Rancho Baiguate, where we went rafting. It was a simple treat, something that we could enjoy doing even in the States, but that we could never duplicate the experience there. We arrive at the resort early Sunday morning, where we were greeted by a breakfast consisting of eggs, pancakes, fresh fruit, and an assortment of other delights. Needless to say, we almost fainted at how American the meal was. After we ate, we had to wait for the other groups to arrive before they gave us our preliminary crash course on how to handle a raft. The video they played was cheesy, to say the least. It was a group of six men sitting in a raft, on the grass in what looked like someone’s backyard. They were over exaggerating the motions and the music was typical “epic sports” music. The instructions were typed on the screen in four different languages, and we found it funny that the English version was represented my Britain’s flag, even though there were far more Americans who visited this location.

After our crash course, we had to suit up. They gave us all the black wet suits that looked like Styrofoam wrestling uniforms, helmets, and life jackets to wear over our swimsuits. We climbed into two big open-bus-type-truck things that lugged us and our rafts across town to the river. On the way there the employees, all men, were jumping around like monkeys, climbing on the outside of the buses, bouncing off the rafts, grabbing branches from low hanging trees, throwing leaves at each other. They were like professional frat boys. Hugo and Frances, a couple of blokes we had met before from one of our facilitators at the discoteca, were the most rowdy of them all. They were especially fond of picking flowers from the trees and presenting them to various girls on the bus.

Once at the river, they divided us up into our various boats and gave us yet another rafting 101 crash course, this time interactive.  Before long we were all in the water, ready to tackle the rapids. Apparently we were the only ones ready because we just sat in the water, anchored to the bank for about five minutes. Once we finally took off down the river, our guide, who ended up being Hugo, which is pronounced like Ugo, not with the H sound (because that would mean his name was Juice), decided to test us on all the commands we just practiced on the bank. Watching us adjust our seats a hundred times must have been real entertainment for Hugo, because he would tell us a command, like “GET DOWN!” in as panicked a voice as he could muster, and then tell us to go back to our positions after a few seconds. Not to mention that he would do them at inappropriate times, so it was useless for us to do most of what he was telling us to do. It didn’t take long for us to catch on, so we decided to use our brains and only follow his instructions when it made sense to.

Realizing that he had been thwarted, he resorted to the next best thing, swimming. Hugo liked very much to tie us down to some bank and just jump into the water for a casual swim. He even at one point had us hold on to some weeds so he could climb up some rocks and belly flop into the river, which I’m pretty sure was not deep enough for him to do that safely. He and his frat brothers would take turns doing dangerous head-first stunts into the river, and we cringed at every trick. Hugo did a very impressive three turn  dive from a rock in the middle of the river, that we were just sure he was going to break his neck upon hitting the ground of the river, but he miraculously resurfaced, without so much as a scratch on him. He was a pro.

He thought it would be funny to give us all silly decorations to put into our helmets, but I resisted as we were putting weeds on our heads. Hugo specialized in humiliation, we realized, as he pulled the one girl in our boat who couldn’t really swim well into the water unannounced, and then rescuing his damsel in distress. We also ran into a lot of rapids that almost took our faces off. The first one created such a splash in our faces that we couldn’t fight it, and we found ourselves struggling to keep our raft from tipping over. Another time, after ramming into another raft, helping them out of the jam they found themselves in between a rock and a hard place, our boat was traumatized by the rapids and from being out of rhythm due to the previous collision, that we again proceeded to tip the one side, two of our girls basically in the water. April especially was head first, bottoms up in the water just when Kathryn’s newfound mother instincts kicked in, rescuing her by a swift grab to April’s life jacket. It was so fast, it took all of us a moment to process what had just happened.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped for juice and sandwiches, because we were so extremely famished from our lack of rafting. All the stop and goes were really hard to deal with, so we, apparently, had worked up quite an appetite. They fed us ham and butter sandwiches, which are gross, and some strawberry juice, which was refreshing. We had to eat fast, because we were quickly being approached by bulls. Literally. Bulls. I’m not lying to you. Once back in the boat, we refused to make half of the stops that Hugo had scheduled for us because we realized that we had spent most of that morning floating on the bank instead of fighting rapids. Understanding our frustration, Hugo let some of the stops go, but of course he couldn’t ignore all of them so we stopped every 5 minutes instead of every three.

 At the end of the run, we were the only boat to successfully make it to the end without tipping over, because we’re pros. One boat had a really bad crash, one guy broke his nose from the collision. It was pretty bad, and to be honest, I’m not really sure how it managed to happen since we rode the same course they rode, and it was very mild (and that’s coming from someone who’d never been rafting before).

Once everyone finished the course, they loaded us back onto the buses and took us back to Rancho Baiguate, where they tried to sell us crappy photos of ourselves. The lunch that we were served was, of course, La Bandera, which was a nice treat still. Oddly enough, even though you eat it almost every day here, you are always grateful for rice, beans and chicken, mostly because you know what it is, and you know it won’t make you sick. We lingered at the resort for a while, admiring our awkward tanlines, taking a dip in the chlorinated pool (a feature we were very excited about), playing a little volleyball. We almost didn’t want to leave, but then a giant group of Dominican middle school-ers showed up, and it was time to go.

Las Cascadas

My first family outing was a trip to La Confluencia, where the Rios Yaque and Jimenoa meet, with my host mom, brother, Puchi, sister, Katerin, and my abuelo, Santo. We were picked up in the afternoon one blazing Saturday, by my grandpa driving a guagua, which is the Dominican word for a pickup truck. I was a little confused at first when I noticed that there were only two seats for 5 people. Then I realized that in a guagua you have a driver, his companion in the front seat, and then you stuff as many people as you can on the bed of the truck. This is the Dominican way. My mom and abuelo didn’t let me sit in the back, so I squeezed in the front seat with them. Santo was playing some good old merengue music, extremely loud, and he and my host mom were having a silent war over the volume control knob (I’m surprised it didn’t break). My backpack was being guarded on the bed of the truck by my brother and sister, who seemed to really enjoy the fresh air and open space of the bed of the truck.

We stopped on our way to the river to pick up some snacks, but it wasn’t too far away at all, about 5 Dominican minutes, which is really 15 minutes. Once we got to the river, there were some other families there, but it wasn’t unbearably crowded. I got to mount a horse and take a picture, as did Katerin. Puchi didn’t want to, but not because he was scared (of course). My abuelo noticed my fascination with some of the plants around me and was explaining to me how you can crunch some of the leaves and find full seeds to plant in your yard. He said he did it many times and now has trees in his yard. He also took me down the river to his favorite spot, the most beautiful view of the whole river. You can see the topography pretty well from there, but it’s really just a bunch of pine trees (but it was still really nice of him). There was a lot of horse poo on the ground so I had to watch every step I took, so I probably missed a lot of the natural beauty around me.

Katerin and Puchi finally got into the river, and I followed. The water was cold, but compared to the afternoon sun, it was really refreshing. Terrified of swallowing the water, I only waded in a little bit and found a spot where I could sit about waist deep in the water, far from any risk of getting water in my mouth. As I watched Puchi splash around, Katerin and I stayed closer to the shore and laughed at how good he was at being just a kid. After a while I guess Katerin got bored with me and she joined her brother a little farther into the river. While they treaded deeper into the water, I stayed sitting near the shore. I grew very aware of my surroundings, taking in the children splashing and screaming gaily in the water, the women gossiping, the men boasting about the strengths and abilities. I could smell corn boiling a little ways up the bank, and families preparing la bandera for each other. There was the faint sound of thunder in the distance from a rain storm brewing up the river. I could see miles of mountains, which I had hardly noticed before that moment. They were like stoic giants, guarding the horizon, and seemingly endless. Across the bank was a horse grazing in the various trees. He was pretty well hidden, in the shadows of a pine tree, and as I was admiring its ability to find a space of privacy and tranquility in such an interactive and open community, a little boy in the middle of the river shouted out “Mira! Un caballo!” drawing everyone’s attention toward the rust colored beast. The horse became an object of awe and fascination for only a moment, and once the novelty wore off, everyone returned to their conversations. I too lost interest in the inanimate creature and went back to studying the natural motion of the river.

 I let my hands explore the ground of the river, stumbling upon an infinite number of rocks and leaves. The rocks were sharp under my feet while I was wading, but sitting on them they were coated with a thin smooth blanket of clay. My fingers found some rocks that were a rust color that stood out under the water. There were also some stones that were smooth and bright blue. I started a meager collection in my lap of the blue and rust colored rocks, figuring they would make nice decoration pieces in my living room later. Conscious of the extra weight I was adding to my luggage, I was searching for only the most intriguing of the stones to keep with me for the journey back. Eventually Katerin and Puchi helped me find some keepsakes. Puchi even found a blue one shaped like a hand gun, but we left it there for some other wanderer to stumble upon. Once my collection was decent, I decided to shift my focus to looking for small, smooth, flat stones. I could fit about five in my hand without losing them to the current again, and once I had them, I showed my brother how to skip the stones down the river. It was difficult to explain how to properly throw a stone to make it ricochet off the current multiple times in a different language (skipping stones is not on the list of vocabulary words we’re taught in school).

Soon the storm that was just up the river was catching up to us, and the sky decided to pour out all the water it could muster. The rain started abruptly and almost everyone retreated up the bank to the bar or to their cars. We waited by the bar to see if the rain would subside within a reasonable time. The rain seemed to be absorbed by the river, and the water level gracefully rose without hesitation. I let my eyes wander up the bank, tracing the waterline. The horse was still on the opposite bank, in the same spot, but the water was quickly rising to meet his hooves. We eventually gave up on being able to retreat to the river, so we got back in the truck and started for home. We hadn’t been in the car for more than five minutes when the rain halted as abruptly as it started. We looked at each other and laughed; a universal communication we all shared. Katerin and Puchi had been hiding under a towel on the bed of the truck, but when they realized the rain had stopped, they emerged from under their makeshift shelter like baby sea turtles seeing above ground for the first time.

Our first trip as a group to get to see what this little town of Jarabacoa has to offer was to a waterfall called Salto Baiguate. It was probably one of the most beautiful scenes I have ever seen in my life. So we all met up at our school one afternoon after class to go on a mini adventure to the waterfalls. Greeting us at the school’s entrance was a guagua. This one was a little bigger than the one Abuelo Santo had, seating an extra three people on the interior. We, all being hungry for adventure, and exciting stories to share with our friends and families, stuffed ourselves into the guagua. This time I rode in the bed of the truck, but chose a cautious seat in the middle, right behind the backseat. Once everyone was sufficiently settled in, we took off down the street, headed out of town. We passed the dense city structure that we were used to, and into a more spread out version of our little town. We passed three fields of cows, some horses, and goats along the road. Every Dominican that we passed, adult and child alike, waved us safe travels and shouted out “Americanas!” to acknowledge our passing by. Some kids on bikes tried to race us, but eventually turned around.

We finally stopped at a sign that said “Salto Baiguate” and we knew we had arrived. We had to hike a little to get to the waterfall, but the closer we got to it, the more the earth revealed itself to us. It was much like walking through the gorges in Ithica, where you could see both the tops and trunks of trees at the same time. The sound of rushing water got louder and louder as we neared our destination. We were getting more anxious to see this natural wonder and our paces quickened, like we were being pulled in by a magnet. There was a set of stairs that took us down into the base of a waterfall. We hopped down them, trying not to fall, intimidated by how steep they were. Naturally there were a gazillion photos being snapped as soon as we caught sight of the waterfall. We were overwhelmed with being able to swim for the first time in this sweltering country, and by how beautiful everything was. There was a little cove under the waterfall that a few people were brave enough to venture out to. Still afraid of swallowing water accidentally, I stayed in waist-deep water again. We ventured around in the river, taking spunky photos of each other and the scenery. There were so many wonders to be discovered in such a small area.

We spent about two hours venturing through the rocks and water, discovering new things at every turn. A few of us wanted to get a closer look at the top of the fall, so we hiked back of the stairs in search for its source. Half way up the stairs we regretted not bringing our things with us, because it was difficult to get up them once in bathing suits and carrying nothing, let alone having to do it a second time with backpacks. The top of the waterfall was a great view. Our friends who stayed below looked like colorful specks in the water from their bathing suits, almost like fish in a pond. You could see way down the river, where there were various bends and twists hiding. After a while, I realized how far of a drop it was down the waterfall, so I inched as far away from the edge as possible. The water was so cool and fresh, and some even commented on how clean they felt for the first time in this town. We all air dried in the back of the guagua on our way back to the school, which proved to be a sufficient way to dry ourselves. We had exhausted ourselves from all of our excitement, so when I got back I ate dinner and went straight to bed, and I had the best sleep in my foreign home that I had had since I arrived.

La Bandera

So taking classes and living in a different country is a little easier than I expected it to be, but that could just be because I had such low expectations. Here is a rundown of a typical day in Jarabacoa. I wake up and take a cold shower. The icy water was hard to get used to, but it’s so hot here sometimes that I’m grateful for it. The water in the shower is not the same water you drink, so I brush my teeth using a bottle of Dasani. Next I go eat breakfast, which is always ready and waiting for me on the dining table (which, in my house is outside, which is pretty cool, actually). Since I’m a lazy bum and don’t like to wake up too terribly early, I scarf down the food and rush off to class with the other chums in my neighborhood. My host mom has figured out that I wake up pretty late, so some days she makes me something I can take to go called a pastelito, it’s similar to a Hot Pocket, but homemade. School is pretty chill, and every day we go home for lunch. Actually the whole town goes home for lunch. When I get in we have some version on La Bandera, a Dominican favorite comprised of rice, beans, meat, and a salad. And then we have water and homemade juices (they’re great!) Sometimes we have potatoes or spaghetti, but there is ALWAYS rice on the table. Just as I get sleepy from my food coma, its time to return to school for the second half (which is strange here, because there are so many kids here and so few schools, kids only go to schools half days). The second half of school is like the first, but harder to stay awake and alert, and thus, feels longer. After class is done for the day, sometimes I go stroll about town with the other Americanas, but we inevitably get tired of being hissed at by tigueres and getting kissy faces from the motoconchos, that we eventually go back to our homes. Sometimes I visit other families in the barrio, but usually I’m so pooped that I just do my homework or read while I wait for dinner. I like to sit on the patio in the rocking chairs (which everyone in this town has, literally, everyone) and usually I’m joined by someone else from my host family (actually I’m writing this on the patio, in a rocking chair). After dinner, I chit chat with my family, practicing my Spanish, getting to know the strangers with whom I am now living with and who are now my new temporary family.

Speaking of family, I have an update. They’re awesome (but not quite as awesome as my real family).

It’s been quite the adjustment becoming a big sister, I must admit. Some of us took our younger sibs out for pizza one night, and it was really fun. We all walked together and got to meet each other’s siblings and it was a great bonding experience. We finally got to see all the faces that went with the stories (some terrible) we were hearing in class. Getting to the pizzeria was fine, and it was even fine managing a swarm of excited children over a makeshift dining table for 20. We even held out through eleven year old boys spotting a famous ex-Dodger baseball player. Getting our pizza was a bit of a struggle, and even more so when our waiter said we ordered extra pizzas (I’m still not sure why they didn’t send the English-speaking waiter to the table with 10 gringos, struggling to interpret the menu). The walk back was quite the adventure, however. So when we left the restaurant, we saw that next door was a bakery, and of course us over-fed Americans could not resist our genetic sweet-teeth and had to get dessert. Of course you cannot get dessert without sharing the experience with the little big eyed niños (well I didn’t get dessert, and thus, neither did my little bro and sis, but they were ok with it; I did, after all, just by them dinner).
Big mistake! The sugar went straight to their heads and they were running through the street, stopping at bus stops pretending to be beggars, it was loco. The girls were chill, just waking with linked arms in two age appropriate groups, it was actually really adorable, but I cannot say the same for the little brothers of the group. For one thing, they’re already wild some of them. They had to touch everything they passed, they were yelling in the street, and my little 7 year old brother, the littlest of them all, just had to copy everything he saw. It was so stressful to get them back home. All of us were thinking, at one point or another, “all we wanted to do was take the kiddies out for a nice treat and get them home safely. My host mom is going to kill me and then kick me out if something happens. Oh my gosh, I’m going to be homeless!” It was so scary. People here already don’t use sidewalks, and cars don’t like to stay on their side of the road, or go the speed limit, so we’re worried enough about our own lives sometimes, let alone the lives of these wild little monkeys our Dominican parents let us in charge of. At one point the boys were in the street with a tree branch provoking a stray dog. Yep, this is real life. I eventually grabbed the hand of my little brother and made him walk with me, away from the other hooligans, because I was not about to take the heat for what some knuckle headed little boy decided to do because he thought it would be funny. Shout out to Jayonne, Jessica and Jonathan, I totally respect you for being able to handle being a big sib, because I was stressed out.

Party Rockin'

First weekend in Jarabacoa was an interesting one, but I survived it. So Friday after class got out and after everyone had dinner with their host fams, the lot of us decided to go out and experience the night life a little. We decided to go as a whole group the first night, to acclimate ourselves to the area. We met at what’s known as “el Parque,” the park, where there is a bunch of benches and a giant tree in the middle. So we’re gathering and there’s about twenty Americans chatting it up in English in the middle of town, so of course we attract some attention. The first guy was with his friends and decide to take a lap around the park to check us out (did I mention there’s only one male student on this trip). Then a little while later he decided he needed more exercise and took another lap. Then he said, oh I need to cool down from all that exercise, let me take another slow lap to loosen up some more. Needless to say, we were pretty creeped out. But finally Jacob, one of our facilitators, comes and whisks us away, all the way across the street to a little bar. Half of us are confused because we decided on going to a discoteca, which is a dance club, and they had us at a little bar on the corner without exterior walls, but we later realized that it was too early yet to go there.

The bar was fine, I was enjoying my purified ice chips, and watching people bachata and merengue in the middle of cramped tables. One by one, we were learning how to do the local dances, that night I learned the bachata, and I must say that I’m even more of a natural at the bachata than I am at merengue.  Ok, so it wasn’t my first time learning the bachata, but still. The locals were very fascinated by the sudden influx of Americans on one street corner, and we became their own personal reality tv show. Some were even so fascinated to ask us to dance, asked to teach us the dances, and, of course, bought some of the girls HUGE bottles of rum. It was hilarious to watch all the Dominicans, men and women, gawk from their motorcycles, shout out broken English phrases they had learned from songs or movies, my favorites being “it is beautiful” and “I love you forever!”

When we finally made our way to Venue discoteca, we were still the first ones there, and some of the more bold tigueres from the bar made their way to Venue as well. The music was so loud, the moment you stepped inside you went deaf from the shock (the doors were impressively sound proof). They also had a fog machine and strobe light going, kind of like what you’d see in a movie, but much smaller. The DJ started off with some local hits, and then he treated us to a Party Rock Anthem mix, in which everyone proceeded to the dance floor for some raving fist-pumping action, where, once again, we became a live reality tv show. I will admit that I was glad to hear familiar music, even though they play songs in English all the time here, for some reason in that moment I was really appreciative. The rest of the night was almost anticlimactic except for the part where Jacob had to walk all of us home because he was afraid some of us would get lost due to being directionally challenged and less than sober. I was really frustrated that I couldn’t just go home when I was ready to go, but because I was one of 2 people who hadn’t had anything to drink that night, I was outnumbered by loud, stumbling American college students,  living it up on a Friday night. So instead of taking 10 minutes to walk back to my house in a decent hour, it took us an hour and a half because we literally went to everyone’s house, one by one, and we had to back track twice because we went to the wrong place. It was a long night, to say the least.

Me and alcohol do NOT get along, for this very reason…

Meet The Parents

The day finally came when I’d meet my first host family. In the morning, they tortured us with a beautiful tour of the Colonial Square of Santo Domingo. The architecture is amazing and the history is beyond incredible. I felt almost insignificant being from a town like Ann Arbor, which has such little history in comparison, and a much more boring history at that, when learning about the social and political changes that happened in the Dominican Republic and how the monuments and buildings accurately represent all of these changes. They took us to a jewelry shop where they sold amber and larimar stones. These two stones are very popular in the DR, and they too have a rich history here. The amber is really popular, and represents good fortune and happiness, while the larimar is the national stone, and represents love. Together they represent a good live, love and happiness. There were so many jewelry options that used both stones, and they were so well made. We got a chance to see in the “factory” of sorts, which was really three guys in a room of to the side welding silver, shaping and polishing amber and larimar, and then assembling various pieces of jewelry. The cool part was watching them work so effortlessly to produce such beautiful works of art.

That afternoon we drove to Jarabacoa, about three hours away, and on the whole ride there was a growing cloud of anxiety in our tiny Arabian bus. The closer we got to the city, the more we were all freaking out. We were bombarded with thoughts of “what will they be like?” “what if they don’t like me?” “what if the food is bad?” “what if I get sick?”… and the list went on and on and on. At one point almost everybody was asleep, minus me and two others. It was funny to see all the open mouths, and bodies half collapsed with exhaustion. I wanted to take a picture, but again, I just meet these folks, no need to create bad relations so soon. It was as if everyone had known the trip from Santo Domingo to Jarabacoa like it was their daily rout to school because as we were about to enter into the town, everyone woke up, like clockwork. After the first sign we say that said “Jarabacoa” on it, everyone was instantaneously refreshed and given new life, our heat exhausted bodies were now pumping fresh blood through our bodies.

Our Arabian styled bus took us to a wall of cinderblock bricks that had been painted white with a white iron gate that led the way to a small L shaped building with a basketball court nestled within it to create a big rectangle. This was “La Escuela,” our home away from home away from home. They sent us into the pre-school room where we waited nervously with our knees cramped to our chests, trying not to fall out of the baby chairs, waiting to be picked up by our new families. This was worse than the Sorting Hat in HP, because once you were sorted you left, to be alone in a foreign place, with foreign people, speaking a foreign language. Just sitting down in that room made me want to scream my head off! I don’t think I have ever been so nervous in my life, and I’m surprised I didn’t pass out or have an accident in my shorts (actually I was wearing a dress, but whatever. Details, details). One by one various families arrived to fetch their new temporary children. We started off with seventeen anxious college students waiting in a preschool with the crayons and Barney, then there were fifteen, then eleven, eight, six, five, three, two… Sarah and I were the last lonely amigas waiting to be scooped up by an awaiting family. We were so nervous, we couldn’t help but to squeal a little inside in anxiety.

At the last second, both of our moms came strolling up together. I can’t even express to you all how happy I was not to be the last one picked up. I was thinking as I sat in my little chair in the little room, I am always last, left waiting for ever after everyone else has left, and flashbacks of waiting to get picked up after middle school sports flashed through my head, like lightning during a thunderstorm. I was almost ready to cry, but lo and behold, I wasn’t exactly the last one, we were the last two. When I met my new mom, Cecilia, I was very nervous because she didn’t smile right away. She had a very serious look like she was in a hurry or just taking care of business, but when my facilitators told her that I was her new daughter for the next three weeks, a huge smile sprung upon her face, and I finally exhaled (good thing, too, because any longer I would have turned blue and passed out).  Turns out that Sarah’s and my mom are next door neighbors and were walking together.

Getting into the town for real was, well, awkward. I couldn’t help but feel like an open target. I wasn’t sure how the others, the ones who don’t blend in at all, were going to handle all the attention. I remember being fascinated by how friendly everyone was. My host mom basically said hi to everyone she passed. The vecinos would ask her which American girl was hers, and she’d proudly reply “la morena”, the dark one. They warned us ahead of time that Dominicans like to describe people and things by their color, and it is often a term of endearment to be called by such. It was cool to see everything they had warned us about before getting into the town actually happening (good to know that our facilitators are people of their word). When I walked into my host family’s house, which, by the way, is pretty cool, I did not quite experience the greetings they said we would. My host mom took me from room to room telling me, “this is your sister, your brother, your cousin, your brother. This is your room. Here’s the bathroom. Water (turning on the shower).” And that was it. Literally. No more questions asked. Nothing. My littlest brother, Puchi, whose real name is Jershua, was much more active in the whole acclamation process. My sister, Katerin, didn’t (and doesn’t) say much, and my brother Randi said hi, bye, then left. After about twenty minutes of awkward greetings and putting away my luggage, which actually arrived at my host house way before I did, my mom called me for dinner.

Oh my goodness, if only you knew how terrified I was of eating dinner, mostly because they spent the last two days scaring us about how the food needs to be prepared and telling us horror stories about what will happen if it’s not done right. It was a simple meal, but I felt so uneasy about everything. We had cooked bananas with some baked chicken, I think, and it was interesting. I can’t say that I liked or disliked it. After dinner, which was quiet and awkward due to a chronic case of non-curiosity, I basically passed out in my room. I was so worn out from the physical, mental and emotional stress that my body literally could not hold me up much longer. I thought it would be difficult to sleep in such an unfamiliar place with so many unfamiliar people, but no. I slept like a baby, well like how a baby sleeps when they’re actually sleeping. I fell asleep before I had the chance to meet my host pops, but I was ok with that, I think if I had now some man was in the house I would not have slept as soundly as I did.

So anxious to see how this relationship with my host family will turn out to be. I hope my host mom likes me, and that my little brother isn’t obnoxious, and that my sister doesn’t hate me for taking her room ( or at least I think I’m in her room) and that I don’t get too terribly sick from the food and water here. It seems like the food is really similar to home for me (yay red beans and rice with chicken!), so I’m not too concerned with that, but still. I also hope that my padre likes me when I finally get to meet him, and that he’s not scary and to macho to talk to.

¡Aplauso!

The first day in Santo Domingo was great! The morning was cool, waking up in the Dominican Republic. It started to sink in that I was really away from home. The breakfast at the hotel was simple, fruit, sausage, rolls, but the food was delicious! I had never experienced such a tasty mango in my life! They taste way better here than in the US, I can guarantee you that. The papaya wasn’t as good as I hoped it would be, but it was still papaya, which is amazing!

Orientation was chill, they gave us a pizza lunch, because we weren’t feeling American enough, and taught us what to expect when entering a Dominican home for the first time. That was a laugh, mostly because the volunteer student suffering through the role-play wasn’t me. Our instructors played various characters del barrio, your mamá, papá, tías, primos, and vecinos (that’s mom, dad, aunts, cousins, and neighbors, for you non Spanish-speakers)… and it was loud, rambunctious and chaotic.  My actual experience, I later found out, was nothing like that, but  I still felt prepared.

That night, our facilitators took us out to dinner at this cool place. I don’t remember the name, but it looked like a pirate’s ship, the walls were painted like treasure maps. I think it was more to do with Columbus’ voyage to the New World, but I can’t be too sure. The food was great, and I wanted to eat more, even though I was beyond stuffed. The serving sizes here are much bigger, which is great!

After dinner they took us to a little place that was sort of like an outdoor bar. It was just like a little storefront that had drinks, a TV with the Yankee’s game on, and loud music! So what you do is you take a chair and put it in the lawn across the street, sit, listen to music, and have a beer or two with your friends. Of course the beer part is totally optional. So we sat up a small hill, by the ruins of an old monastery, and got to know each other. Right next to us was a birthday party of little girls (yes, it was a 5 year old’s birthday at 9-o-clock at night across the street from a bar where others are drinking openly, and yes, this is normal). The girls were dancing to the music and it was so cute! When we first walked up a merengue song came on so only a few of the girls were dancing together, like four, and it was very precious. Then a bachata song came on and they all got up. And then, drum roll please, they played reggeton, and the whole world broke loose! Those girls were shaking everything their mamás gave them! Once they saw us watching them, they came and picked up a few of us to dance with them. Then a few more joined on the next song. I have the best videos, but for the protection of the privacy of the other ladies on this trip, and to not cause drama with seven weeks to go, I will refrain from posting them.

These little girls were so cute! At the end of our first reggaeton song with them, they all jumped and shouted, “¡Aplauso!”, which has quickly become our catch phrase, because they had taught us so well. It was amazing to see such little girls “bailando muy sexy” and then revert back to little girls as soon as the music turned off. I guess that’s similar to girls in the States who learn how to pop and hip roll as soon as they can walk.

When we left that little bar spot, we went to a similar place that was across the street from our hotel (no dancing little girls this time). We were just chatting it up, making fun of incorrect uses of the hashtag “yolo” and enjoying being in la República Dominicana. One of the facilitators was teaching us how to merengue, and I must admit, I’m a natural. We felt the necessity to take a “yolo” photo, just because it wasn’t raining outside, #yolo. When it got too hot to bear, we found some chairs and sat outside, by the road. This is also very normal. Even though the night air had the occasional breeze, the heat from the multitude of people in such a small area became unbearable, so we moved our fiesta to the fourth floor balcony of our hotel for a game of “Never Have I Ever.” Again, due to the privacy of others, I cannot say what went on in this game, but I will say that I learned more about this group in 30 minutes that I think I could have learned from a group half this size (and there’s only 17 of us) in a year. People were very comfortable with just putting it all out there. Some stories good, bad, or require your own personal judgment to decide whether it was good or bad, but they definitely created a bond that I don’t think will be easily broken.