I’ve always liked the feeling of public transportation, of settling in for a long ride, nothing to worry about except when to get off again. You’ve bought your ticket, made it on time, found a seat, a place for your things, and all you can do is let the bus or train or plane take you wherever it is that you’re going. Every movement in life has a moment like that – when the preparation is done and all that’s left is to go. You’ll face what’s on the other side when you get there, wherever there is.
But this job isn’t about traveling. It’s about staying in one place, even when you feel like you’ll go crazy if you don’t get out for a day. You’ve gotten off on the other side, and now you’re back to worrying about all the things you need to do, about how to make a life and be effective in a place where everything takes three times longer than you expect.
Sometimes it’s enough to take a five-minute ride to the other side of town, to feel the wind on your face and get a taste of movement again, to remind yourself that you are free. But really, most freeing of all is leaving. That’s not to say that daily life is unpleasant or that you don’t like where you are – you like it a lot actually, you feel at home – but there is a stress that comes with being constantly observed, constantly foreign (no matter how much you joke about being Dominican too). You barely even notice your stress until a motoconcho delivers you to the highway and you feel a slight sense of relief. You wait under a tree for the bus headed towards the Capital, or towards Haiti (these are your options, depending on your destination), ignoring the cluster of concho drivers who stare and yell piropos from their hangout spot at the crossroads. They are irritatingly bold here, where it’s just you and them, but also chivalrous. They’ll flag down a bus, carry your things, help you up the steps (all things that you resisted until recently because you are a strong, independent woman, but hey, turns out it is easier to let some muchacho carry your stuff)… And when you get back from wherever you went, they’ll take you wherever you need to go next. In fact, they all know your name and where you live, even though you’ve never really introduced yourself and you just moved. You could consider this creepy… or you could choose to look at it as pleasantly small-town. You’ll end up safely on your doorstep without saying a word.
I read somewhere that the Dominican Republic is the loudest country in the world. I definitely believe it… I can’t really imagine any place maintaining a higher volume in general. Everything involves a lot of yelling, blasting music, gunning motors. That describes the guagua (bus) situation pretty accurately. Guaguas approaching from either side of the street slow as they pass, cobradors (the guys who collect your money) yell out the doorway for you to get on: “Hey! We’re going somewhere! You should come with us! What’s that? You’re going in the opposite direction? What? You’re not going anywhere at all? Doesn’t matter! Come with us, we’ll get you there eventually! Comeoncomeoncomeon!” And if you happen to be a white American woman (or any woman?), they’ll probably add something about your beauty and mangaring their visa and a marriage proposal. Basically, by the time the bus has passed (with or without you on it), you’ll feel very special. That cobrador really wanted you to get on that bus. You must look extra pretty today.
Once on the bus, the yelling does not stop. General practice is to scream “Dejame!” (Leave me!) to the cobrador when you want to get off. But you really have to scream it for him to hear over the music and the wind and the other passengers. I like to sit at the front of the bus so I can just tap him on the shoulder and be like, “Hey there. Please leave me at the next corner. Oh, no thank you, I would not like to marry you. No, I don’t want a sip of your soda. Ok, sure, I’ll take a cracker. Thanks.” Dominicans are very hospitable people. If I take any Dominican habits home with me (which I know I will, I am becoming more Dominicanized all the time), I hope they will mostly just involve sharing.
Last week I was on an early bus to San Juan, on my way to a meeting at my foundation. Buses are most crowded in the mornings, and a pregnant woman got on holding a baby, her purse, and the hand of another child. The cobrador took the baby, another passenger took her purse, and the man sitting next to me took the child and sat her on his lap for the hour-long ride. When the woman had settled into the last open seat, a few rows behind us, the baby was passed between four strangers to reach her, followed by her purse. The kid stayed up front with us, never asking about her mother, perfectly content to sit with people she had never seen before. An old man got on a few minutes later and slapped everyone on the back, calling them cousin, brother, telling a story about plantains or something, making everyone within earshot laugh. The tiguere sitting closest to the front got up to give the man his seat, standing by the door with the cobrador. He handed a piece of his half-eaten empanada to the little girl sitting with us... And so life goes, collectively, everyone a member of the same big family.
