Thoughts on the Third World

There's a movie I have seen about the Third World. Actually it's not one film but many, so many that I can't recall one specifically. An exotic montage of unrelated images run together in my mind.

You know exactly what I'm talking about: crowded market places teeming with brown people chattering in non-English, farm animals walking in the street alongside motorized vehicles, auto exhaust shimmering in the heat, beggars missing limbs. The images are quickly intercut and jarring, setting the scene until Indiana Jones or some other asshole comes charging through.

I live in the Third World now. The Human Development Index in parts of the Dominican Republic is on par with parts of Africa, even near the capitol city. I have seen all the images listed above, here, in my own life. But this does not tell the whole story of this place. The DR is no more a Third World cliché than I am Indiana Jones.

The residencial where I live gets water two times a week. I get to brush my teeth everyday because my house has a cistern beneath where Don Pedro parks the car. One of my neighbors keeps horse in his garage and I have seen cows grazing in a vacant lot. But Santo Domingo has a metro that will get you downtown safely and cleanly - it is much better maintained that the one in San Francisco. The government recently established nueve once -  911 - to handle emergency calls. We have the only IKEA in the Caribbean.

Sometimes when I am walking, I can believe that I am in that Third world cliché. The woman who passes me in the street is loudly hawking avocados from a bowl balanced on her head. She is so thin that she has to be hungry. The sidewalk that we share is mostly rubble. We are inches away from a road speeding with motocicletas that carry three passengers plus the driver, none of whom are wearing helmets. And then I turn the corner and enter the parking lot of a supermercado, air-conditioned and as well-stocked as any Walmart. They play, and sell, American pop music.

The rapid switch can be jarring, but more jarring is how regularly these two worlds overlap. People in my barrio walk for exercise in new sneakers but brandish big sticks to fend off perros callejeros (stray dogs). The man behind me at the ATM has a machete in his belt and I am unafraid because I know that it is used from chopping caña (sugar cane) and not unsuspecting victims. The guagua (bus) that takes me across town has broken seats and missing doors but the one that takes me across the country has wifi. I can write this blog on my laptop as it charges because today is not Saturday. That's when the luz (electricity) goes out. The power company schedules the day of the shortage but not the hour.

A Memory of Swans

I rose from an afternoon nap and walked to the end of the road. I was well-rested but slow-waking and in that fuzzy space between I wondered where the swans were.

When I was small my grandparents, my mother's father and mother, lived on a short street in suburban Michigan which ended at a little pond and the owner of that property kept a pair of swans on the water. In my childhood I would often walk down to look at them.

There were no swans at the end of this road. There was no pond but rather a cañada, a sewage canal between banana trees that is actually quite lovely except for the smell. I was not in suburban Michigan but in a residencial in Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic, where my wife and I are undergoing training to serve in the Peace Corps.

I can only suppose that I conflated this new reality with a nearly forgotten memory because the people I am currently living with so remind me of my grandparents, now deceased. Like them their skins are tan from childhoods on farms, a lifetime of hard work, and a retirement spent in the tropics. Grandma Violet and Grandpa Leo spent their latter winters in Florida whereas Don Pedro and Doña Esperanza enjoy retirement in their native country having spent their working years in Nueba Yol (New York City). Like them, they are Catholic, cherish their families and enjoy dominoes. I am grateful to know them. They have opened their home to my wife and I in the middle of a profound and disorienting experience. They serve good food and seem to enjoy our company despite our mediocre Spanish.

Don and Doña are Spanish titles of respect given to anyone of a certain age. Their nearest English equivalents are "Sir" and "Ma'am" but they carry more gravitas. You needn't have nietos (grandchildren) to be a   Don or Doña but chances are you probably do. I will refer to them by their titles and first names only, not just to respect their privacy but also as a matter of policy. Peace Corps prohibits me from disclosing certain details about my service.

If you are reading this, chances are you know me, but if you don't I encourage you to leave a comment in the and say hi. I hope to update this once a week and will try to address any questions come up. But, as noted above, I won't be able to include certain specifics. I can guarantee that it all otherwise happened as described. However, It won't necessarily have occurred on the day it is posted. I want to allow time to process experience before writing about it. This first entry, today, comes three weeks after I have been in the country.

A final thought, about the title of this blog: an hombre serio is a "serious man," one worthy of respect. It has been stressed to us repeatedly that maintaining a dignified appearance is important in Dominican society and thus crucial to being trusted enough to get things done. I intend to do my best to keep up appearances while I am here - why should they take me seriously if I can't even bother to shave every morning? I imagine that this will elicit a chuckle from readers who have known me for a long time. For those who don't, I'm sure that I'll stumble sooner or later and my missteps will out me for the goof that I am.

Cero means "zero."