Dominican Republic

Part One

My life is a vacation. I wake up at whenever o'clock, write all day, and watch hockey for desert. How, then, did my wife induce me to take a vacation? There is only one logical answer, and that is voodoo.

No, she wanted to show me her homeland, the Dominican Republic. That is where 62,000 members of her family reside. I met them all in 10 days.

The island seemed harmless enough from the plane: jungles and beaches and jungles. The water was a potion blue that made you think of xylophones. I couldn't make out the swarming brown clouds. Turned out to be mosquitoes; they heard I was coming.

Yahaira and I stepped off the plane and into the arms of her aunt, her godmother, two uncles, five cousins, sixteen in-laws, and most of the nation's children. They gang-tackled Yahaira and held her down so long that I thought she could use a snorkel. After they got to their feet, they did the same to me! Tons of people whose names I couldn't pronounce, all hugging me like their own.

I was going to like this place.

Dominicans are known for speaking so quickly that even they don't understand each other. Rumor has it that Dominicans have a secondary brain at the base of their tongue to boost velocity. It makes them turn r's into the less cumbersome l sound and skip the s's altogether.

"Comoetauted?" asked Tia Adelpha.

"My flight is great," I said (I only speak present tense).

She squealed with delight and gave me an island-sized embrace. Then we moved as a huddle to the parking lot, no one leading the way.

The DR comes in two parts. There is Santo Domingo, which rivals the finest capitals in the world in terms of soaring hotels, megacorporations, and streets so clean you could eat off them. Then there is the other 99% of the country, which is kind of like that minus the hotels, the corporations, and the streets.

I had little time to sightsee, however, as I was gripped by a series of near-death experiences called Driving in the DR. Back home I'm considered a bad driver. My wife demands the keys from me even when I'm sober, and the local crossing guard always shouts as I pass. He says things like "WAKE UP" and "GET A LIFE" and, most recently, "YOU BLEEP BLEEP MOTHER BLEEP." I think that's what he said; I was busy writing as I steered with my knee.

You'll consider mine a qualified opinion, then, when I say that Dominicans are the worst drivers in the universe. In their defense, the country could benefit greatly from painting lines on the road. People just don't fare well when these things are left to the imagination. No matter how narrow the path, there was some nut -- usually the one driving me around -- who felt that he could fit.

Fortunately, only half the people owned cars; the rest drove mopeds, which made gridlock smell like one big lawnmower accident. Until now I didn't appreciate how useful a moped could be. Entire households can travel by moped, grandma and Sparky included. These little bikes sputter through the DR carrying timber, flora and fauna, and, in one instance, an outhouse.

In America 90% of our decisions are made for insurance purposes. You can't say hello to the mailman without considering the legal implications. The unemployed don't look for work but wander the streets hoping to get hit by a well-insured vehicle. We are slaves to lawyers and doctors and the orders they give the President. So it goes.

Dominicans don't suffer such madness. Riding in the bed of a pickup truck is not only permitted, but the driver provides lounge chairs and lets you taste his cerveza. One day we fit 17 people into a minivan and sped away without a door. True story. We just stuffed the kids into our pockets. They call it Cram Theory: no matter what physics might suggest, there is always room for one more body.

If you can't find a taxi, you are forced to -- enter Psycho music -- take the bus.

For me buses have always been a novelty. Once in a while I find myself heavily intoxicated, traveling with strange people, and hey, what am I doing on this bus? In the DR, bussing is big business. The drivers, because they own the buses, don't see space the same as we do -- one butt per seat. They see it in terms of possibility per cubic inch. Children are placed on laps, family's and otherwise, and when they run out of seats, folding chairs go up in the aisle. Everything I had learned about fire lanes went out the door (well, it tried to go out the door but couldn't find it).

To maximize the volume of trips, buses go 100 mph even in park. Drivers don't stop at intersections but do extend the courtesy of honking to let others know they are coming. There are stop signs at selected locations, but they are intended strictly for tourists. On corners I clawed the stuffing right out of my seat, trying to prevent the bus from overturning. I always said that I wanted to retire to a tropical location...

Just as I was about to toss my dulces, a miracle appeared on the horizon: speed bumps. Not government-issue speed bumps but little ramparts erected by the locals to protect their children and other livestock. They consisted of cement and glass and leftover rice, and rose two feet high in places. We ssssscraped over the bumps at 5 mph, listening for the engine to fall.

This, of course, presented an opening for the locals to sell produce. They ran at the bus armed with all kinds of vegetables you wouldn't recognize. They were excited to see me at the window, because Caucasians are known throughout the Spanish-speaking world for their unique blend of wealth and stupidity. Even as our bus pulled away, a boy was trying sell me a rooster. I held up my hands and made the sorry face. The rooster seemed hurt.

Finally we arrived at Tia's house, where we were tackled by 100 new relatives. They were cooking and dancing and praising the Lord, all on a Monday morning. The merengue tickled my dance bone, but I was exhausted from clinging to life.

A cousin hugged me and said, "Yayson, how did you like the ride?"
I plopped down my luggage and said, "I don't."

Part Two

Some religions will tell you that God created living things for man. In the Dominican Republic, you learn the truth: God created man for mosquitoes. Elders speculate that God is a mosquito who conferred upon humans the appearance of dominion so that they would breed more bountifully.

To stay this side of devoured, Yahaira and I slept under a net (how else would captives sleep?). Every night we tucked that mesh into our bedding like our lives depended on it. If nature called in the wee hours, we didn't answer. No white man has ever survived the Mosquito Gauntlet.

And though we tucked with all our might, there was always one vampire who got underneath and gorged himself till morning. The others stared from outside, drooling blood and making high-pitched envy noises. The second morning I awoke to a constellation of bumps on my forehead.

I could still hear the fly-fisher's advice at Big Five: "This here repellant is 28% deet, and no creepy-crawly can stand that kinda deet."

I had deet in my hair, deet in my feet, deet in dark places you wouldn't repeat -- and yet they continued to suck. Despite what you hear from the mental giants at Big Five, island mosquitoes are on to the whole deet thing. They have been developing resistance over the years, introducing it to their system little by little. One mosquito landed on my can of repellant; I swear that it was smiling.

Mosquitoes fancy the DR for its steaming flesh, which brings us to something else I learned: just because it's 200 degrees outside doesn't mean that it can't rain. The tropical sun visits everyone individually, sitting on their laps at times, but doesn't do anything about the drizzle. I wondered if it wasn't tenderizing our skin for Them.

The natives have accepted the oppression, but sometimes it catches up. One day I saw a farmer drop his barrow, point madly at the sky, stomp his feet, and return to work like nothing had happened. They call it "getting the sun off." So it goes.

Tia Delpha took our bags and smiled so pretty that the heat went away. If you looked closely enough, you could see the love ooze from her pores. To accommodate Yahaira and me, Delpha slept in her children's bed, where Cram Theory also applies.

We tried to protest, but she raised a scary finger and said, "This is your home now. Yayson, did you eat on the airplane?"

"I eat."

"Bueno," she smiled, opening her bedroom door.

At which point we encountered a blast of wind you wouldn't expect outside of Mount Everest. It came from Delpha's ceiling fan, which was set on Tornado. This served two functions: one, it cooled the room to 100 degrees; and two, it made the mosquitoes think there was a tornado. The fan had been raging like this for years. The base had, in fact, seceded from the ceiling and was held in place by faith alone.

One night I woke up in a pool of deet, thinking I had been attacked by a Cuisinart.

Later that morning we were roused by Tia Ena, who was cooking over an open fire -- three feet from our window. Once that smoke hit the squall-like conditions in our bedroom, it was like sleeping over a campfire. Of course, we would have woken up anyway on account of the merengue blasting in the den. These were, incidentally, the same tactics used by the FBI to defeat the cult in Waco.

Merengue is indigenous to the DR. Historians say that the stomping dance comes from slave days, when black men's feet were chained but spirits were not. Today Dominicans treat music like an elixir: The electricity is out, the sun is on my lap, and I'm still looking for work...Turn up the music! It's hard to pout when everyone around you is singing.

"You look tired," said a neighbor visiting at 6 a.m. "Would you like some moro?"

Moro is like rice and beans, only you eat it 50 times a day.

"No, thanks," I said. "Do you have any sleep?"

I spoke in English so as not to offend. The neighbor laughed, which made Yahaira laugh, which made the kids laugh, which made Ena laugh, and so we enjoyed the first of many chain giggles. Everyone in the DR speaks laughter.

Yahaira and I plodded over to the kitchen, where Delpha was dance-cooking, gliding gently in her slippers, smiling for no special reason. The children were dance-setting the table. Ena, who was in charge of smoking out late risers, was tapping her bongos -- er, Tupperware.

It impressed me so much that the tired left my eyes. Despite the fact that these people lived in everlasting heat, under siege of mosquito, and with means that make Compton look wealthy, they were happy. Consistently, laugh-out-loud happy. They prayed to God even as you were speaking to them and marched to the beat of their own Tupperware before coffee!

Delpha caught me watching and asked me to dance. Being Caucasian, I declined. She seemed okay with that as she grabbed my waist and taught me anyhow. The whole family took turns teaching the white guy to dance. By week's end, I was stomping all over town. Children pointed at the first American they had seen outside the television, wondering if we all had bumps on our forehead.

Part Three

When we had eaten and laughed and danced our heads off, Tia Delpha sent us on our way. I wet myself twice on the bus ride to el campo, home of Tia Gracia. You may be wondering how many aunts Yahaira has at this point. It's like a population sign on the outskirts of a city: rough estimates are the best we can do.

A gust of mango met us at the curb, where we grappled with our luggage. The mango fruit grows everywhere in the DR, through cracks in the street if you're not careful. Children feast in the trees for days. Their mothers yell for them to come down but don't really mean it. Have you ever tried to clean mango from a child's ear?

So this is the jungle, the farmland, the real Dominican Republic.

People sometimes describe the DR as paradise, but they never leave Club Med. Yahaira and I were on the other side of the palm trees, where you don't get umbrellas in your drink. We lived with the people who built their own houses and grew their own food and took your bags just to see you smile.

There was a refreshing absence of people like me.

In el campo, reality has a different real. Electricity comes and goes at the whim of some neurotic god. One moment you're dancing full-blast to merengue; the next you're feeling your way to the moonlight with a friend.

It happened that way the first night: I was dancing with my Frankenstein finesse, when the lights gave out. Children screamed for fear and pleasure, and before I could join them Gracia presented a candle and said, "Tell us about your home, Yayson." And we fell into conversation, easy as rice and beans.

Our sweetest moments occurred, in fact, during blackouts. That is when we learned about each other in hushed tones and flickering faces. Men woo women with candles for the same reason: instant closeness, just add fire. By candlelight we peeled beans, told our stories, and chuckled at shadows on the wall.

I am happy to report that there is life beyond electronics.

Sleeping, however, continued to hurt. Every morning at four, long before reasonable, the roosters started in. Just one at first, then two or three, and soon all two hundred. Gracia's husband Cristino raised poultry. If you have ever tried to outsleep one rooster, you understand the folly of fighting 200.

Shuffling to the porch in the dark, I asked, "Why do they noise so early?"

Cristino chuckled and churned his butter. It was the most he said all week. Knowing he wouldn't respond -- or understand -- I shared my theory about the crowing madness. The whole thing, I said, could be traced back to one retarded rooster who, still confused by an eclipse long passed, thinks the sun rises at 4 a.m.; and if we could just eat that bird, all would sleep in peace.

Cristino smiled like the guy who had woken the roosters himself.

Water was also hit and miss. I had always taken water for granted, like fresh air and reruns of The Simpsons. In the DR you learn that water is a precious resource -- especially when you go to flush the toilet. At first it felt odd to mix urine with strangers, but isn't that how we get to know each other?

The neighbors didn't have the luxury of porcelain. They did their business in an outhouse. Once you've dumped into a hole in the ground, you quit fussing over things like bad hair days. You are free.

Gracia shouted, "¡Llegó el agua!"

Yahaira trampled me on her way to the shower before it ran dry. I, on the other hand, was conflicted. Every time I showered, I lost a fortune in deet; if I continued at this rate, my supply would expire in two days. I'd be a sitting Love duck. As I weighed the options, a scream arose from the bathroom. That was Yahaira's way of saying don't bother, the water had stopped.

Some days we bathed in the river, complete with shampoo, conditioner, and rubber duckies. No kidding, right there in front of God and the village kids. The latter were laughing at the gringo with the rash on his forehead. The former was probably laughing too. So it goes.

There was a lot of bare skin in the river, a fact well-known to the mosquito community. As soon as that repellant hit the water, an APB covered the island: Calling all vermin, we have white meat on the west bank, repeat, white meat on the west bank... I spent my river time covered to the neck, a vigilant floating head.

Tia Gracia waded by after the soap.

"You live here often?" I asked.

She had no idea what that meant, so she put her arm around me. It was like being tucked in by a fairy godmother. I haven't told you about Gracia, have I? I must be stalling. Words can only cheat the truth.

Tia Gracia is Mother Theresa of el campo. Her sisters are saintly, but she is a saint. When you look into Gracia's eyes, you know that God exists. She is madrina, or godmother, to 50 children, three of whom live in her home (took me a week to realize they were not her own). Her house doubles as a church, where people pray without knocking.

Gracia worked to ensure our comfort -- feeding us, rubbing our shoulders, introducing us to everyone she knew, dogs included. She exuded a love that healed parts of you that you didn't realize were sick. And despite her 60 years, you'd swear she was a teen. At the river, she climbed the rock from which the kids were diving, chuckling as they pressed her to jump:

"Brinca! Brinca! Brinca!"

Her legs trembled, wanting to comply, and just when you thought nothing would happen, something did happen: God whispered in her ear. He said, What, are you nuts?

Gracia descended the rock clutching an unseen rosary. We met her at the riverbank, sun-dried before we hit our towels. Gracia emptied the contents of her hamper: rice and beans, chicken from the coop -- I hoped it was that one -- and creamed corn for dessert. And just when life couldn't get any better, Gracia handed me a cup of juice with a little umbrella on top.

Part Four

In the DR, you are not allowed to meet a person without eating. It's part of the handshake: grip with one hand, eat with the other. Dominicans don't like to hear that you're not hungry, either. In fact, don't even show up thin.

Gracia introduced us to her neighbor of 16 years. The woman hugged my bloated body and said, "Quiere comer, Yayson?"

I gently declined, citing the 72 lunches I had already eaten, but you will notice how the word no forms an opening large enough to fit a spoon.

"Sientese," she said, disappearing to the kitchen.

Sientese means "sit down" and derives from a Latin term meaning, to rupture at the naval.

Everything in the DR comes with rice: breakfast, lunch, dessert, medical applications. When you order rice at a restaurant, they ask if you want rice with it. Moro is made from every conceivable grain -- white rice, brown rice, wheat rice, and most remarkably, wild rice, which has to be hunted. By week's end, all I could say was "no moro."

As Gracia rolled us down the earthen road, our party acquired little people. That was one thing that could fetch children from the mango tree: a white guy. By the time we reached Cousin Maria, we numbered fourteen. Surely we were too many to feed. Maria performed a head count and, Dios mio, dragged her sofa to the porch.

"Sientese," she said.

Uh-oh.

And out came the chicken feet, a delicacy in the DR. It had never occurred to me to eat the claw of a bird. Maybe I had never been hungry enough. Relatives gathered to watch the gringo's face, smiling, snapping photos. I dipped the -- gulp -- toes into vinegar and nibbled. I'd say that it tasted like chicken, but it was more like gristle or tendons or something else one really ought to discard.

Thus Yahaira and I gorged for days. Thank God for Vacation Mode, which allows a person to consume unlimited calories without feeling guilty. Vacation Mode also holds that a person can pay twenty times the value of an item without feeling cheated. We didn't do much shopping, however, because prices in the DR fluctuate according to how much Spanish you know.

Here was my bid for a shot glass:

"Esa glasa, por favor."

"Cuarenta pesos," said the girl.

"Cuacawhorento?" I asked.

"Uh, no, dos cien y cuarenta pesos."

"Sientese?"

Yahaira walked in and caught on. She shouted "el diablo" and "la madre" and other things you shouldn't say to someone unless you feel that you can take them in a fight. I was no longer allowed to shop on my own. So it goes.

Our procession turned north, as did our cloud of dust. It couldn't be long till we hit water; the place was, after all, and island. Children stared as only they can. A six-year-old made kissing noises as he cut mangoes...with a machete. His mom was concerned not that he would cut himself but that he would get mango in his ear.

Once we had met everyone that Gracia knew, we visited the graveyard to meet everyone she used to know. The place looked like, well, a ghost town: tiny buildings on either side of a footpath. I say buildings, but they were more like chests of drawers, one slot for each member of the family.

We stopped at the Guzmans, who grew up with Gracia. The top drawer was occupied by Señor Guzman. An altar showed pictures of the man with his family in happier days when their lives overlapped. Gracia kissed the drawer and cried, clutching the rosary around her neck. La Vieja insisted that all her daughters wear a rosary.

I haven't mentioned La Vieja. She is the elder whose blood runs through 15 children and scads of grandkids, my wife among them. When you meet La Vieja -- "The Old One" -- you bow as you might to Don Corleone and say, "'Cion, Grandmother," at which point she gives you benediciones, blessings.

When I met La Vieja, she grabbed my neck with both hands, hoisted her face into a leathery, lopsided smile, and recited the Bible from Genesis. She had not finished when I left and may still be going now.

On La Noche de los Santos, we squeezed into La Vieja's room to call on the saints. These weren't soft puritan prayers like I knew back home; they were flaming incantations that made you stomp your feet and cry out loud. La Vieja led the way, praying at the top of her 90-year-old lungs. I don't know what she was saying, but she really, really meant it.

Steaming young men pounded the drums, and everyone chanted, even the fatally ill. Cousin Maria grabbed me from my camcorder and shuffled me into the madness, where I stomped with men, women, children, even a baby being moved by her mama. My qualms were bongoed out of me, a sacrifice to the saints.

I woke up the next morning clear as a bell.

"I feel smiley," I said to Gracia over the roosters.

"You handed it over to God," she said.

We sat on the porch, reflecting over moro and orange juice. The children were bathing at the river; the bigguns had nowhere to be. Whatever Dominicans lack in property, I thought, they more than make up for in time. They have time to talk, time to laugh, time to play jokes on the children. They know the kind of things you can only find out when you shell beans together.

We say that time is money, but I think it's more valuable than that.

When I had arrived in the DR, it hurt to slow down. I had been working so hard for so long that I couldn't see out of my inbox. In time my anus stopped twitching and I melted into Dominican mode. I was in love with a country: its music, its mangoes, its lack of concern for insurance. In the end there are no cultural barriers, just love or the lack thereof.

Returning to the airport, I surveyed the land from a lounge chair in the back of a pickup. I saw men slamming checkers on the porch, women chatting by the mailbox, children building castles in the trees. These people can't afford the baubles of Bauble-On, but they know where they are: they are home, engulfed by love, soon to be buried in a chest of drawers with their family. And that cheered me up the whole way home.