Lately I’ve been dreaming of a world that involves sweaters… tea… flannel blankets on cozy couches...
It’s hot. Like, really hot. The Caribbean sun doesn’t mess around. People say that this “summer” is worse than usual. This might be the kind of thing they say every year, but then again it might be true every year. Apparently I can expect things to cool down around the end of October. So yeah, I’m looking forward to that… meanwhile I’m doing my best to avoid skin cancer, and considering cutting off my hair.
I think of the day in two parts: before lunch (6 – 12 AM) and after lunch (3 – 8 PM). No, lunch does not last three hours, but attempting to do much during this time is generally not a great idea. Better to sit or sleep after eating a giant bowl of rice and beans, and try not to sweat to death. (It’s not like anyone else will be doing anything either…) There are only two escape options, and one of them doesn’t exist all that often. Option 1: sit under a tree, move as little as possible, and catch the breeze. Option 2 (unfortunately dependent on luz*): lay on my bed and take a midday nap with the fan blowing on me (hot air, but at least it’s moving). Option 2 inevitably ends with me waking up sweating from head to toe when the luz goes out and the fan turns off, making the air in the room so oppressive that it’s difficult to breathe and I have to go back outside, where I might find other family members sleeping on the cement floor of the porch, which has room for approximately 2.5 bodies.
*For a better understanding of the luz/water situation of the Dominican Republic: Some people pay for their electricity and water. Others don’t. In the US, when you don’t pay your bills, you don’t get utilities. Your neighbor, who does pay his bills, does get utilities. In the DR, when you don’t pay your bills, both you and your neighbor (who does pay) sometimes get utilities and sometimes don’t. Apply this logic to an entire town, in which some people pay, but many don’t… We get electricity for several hours, then we lose it for several hours. Generally this doesn’t bother me (I actually like when the luz goes out, as this means radios also turn off – silence is golden), except for the fan situation…
My survival plan is to get a hammock and string it up outside under the tobacco tarps. As fun as it is to sit in a plastic chair under a tree with all the muchachos, sometimes a girl just needs a nap. This really is how most people spend their days here – in a plastic chair, or a rocking chair, or on a curb, or on those steps over there… anywhere they can find shade and a few buddies to sit with. Most people don’t have much better to do. Well, correction: most men don’t have much better to do. Kids too, though they run off, busy with their inventions, their games. Kids are the same anywhere you go. Women spend some time sitting around, but you’re more likely to find them cooking or cleaning something. Men (not all, but most) move from one hangout spot to another, chatting or just staring into space, wishing something interesting would happen.
Saying this isn’t really fair to those who work their butts off all day long on the loma (mountain). Tabara Arriba subsists off of agriculture. Tobacco is the main source of income, though many people grow coffee, corn, yucca, plantains, potatoes, etc. So, sure, lots of men are hard workers, leaving early in the morning on a donkey or a motorcycle, machetes strapped to their waists, prepared for a day of labor in the sun. They don’t really have a choice – they’re working for survival. I’m not fully clear on the tobacco process, but I know that it is only sold once a year, and requires a lot of time sitting dormant in long tube things made from large dried palm leaves. So, between planting tobacco, harvesting it, forming it into those tubes, stringing it out under tarps to dry, putting it back in tube-form, and finally selling it, there is also a lot of waiting involved. A lot of down time. A lot of sitting under trees. (Disclaimer: I could have that all wrong. I’m basing this on observation and conversations with campesinos who don’t exactly make themselves clear: “Lo pones en la cosita, entonces esperas, entonces la otra cosita… y, pues si… ya tu sabes…” Yes, thank you, I understand everything now!) The fact that it’s only sold once a year means that many families have months-long tabs at the colmados, which they only repay once they sell the tobacco. The coffee farmers have a better deal, as they can sell their coffee to whoever, whenever. Tobacco has its system.
Pretty much the only other source of income here is remittances from family members in the United States and Spain. Some people have their small businesses, some are paid by the government (the few teachers, police, people who work for “local government,” etc.), but this doesn’t account for much of the money that comes into Tabara. You can tell who has a relative abroad. The majority of houses here are made of wood or block, with zinc roofs and cement floors, but there are also a bunch of houses with pretty tiled floors, fancy barred porches, glass windows… Some of these houses are occupied, but the biggest ones, the handful of two-storey houses with two-car garages, appear deserted. They are built, or half built, as though their owners earned some money in the United States, thought they would build themselves a big house in their pueblo, but ran out of money halfway through. Or just didn’t really want to live in their pueblo. It’s weird. Everyone dreams of going to the United States. Many go to Spain because it’s a little easier. They may work at low-paying jobs, they may not be rich in those countries, but money goes far here in the Dominican Republic. Personally, I prefer the campo houses, the colorful wooden ones, the unpainted block ones. They’re rough around the edges, but they have a charm to them, while the biggest ones somehow seem vulgar, considering the setting…
I'm looking forward to getting my own campo house in a month or so (provided I can find one), having space and privacy again for the first time since March... and a place to hang that hammock.
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