24 moons

Okay, Christmas

What do you do about Christmas in country that’s foreign to you? When I was in India, I went to a little town called Gilgit in Jamu Kashmir, met a few folks, went cross country skiing (I almost got into trouble doing that...we were too close to the Pakistani border,) stayed in a cheap, cold hotel (hotel might be an exaggeration) where the toilet was piled with poops higher than the rim (that’s not an exaggeration, and posed a very real problem…as one might imagine) and had Christmas dinner at a 5 star hotel nearby with some wealthy Indian families and had some of the best food (they'd brought it) I’ve ever had. India was, then, and might still be today, a place where one’s experience of the country in the morning could see an astonishing contrast with that in the afternoon.

I didn’t go home this past Christmas. Lots of PCVs did but some did not. I got an invitation to visit the family in Roblegal. The experience was bitter/sweet. I bought food as gifts for the adults, including some things I don’t think they were familiar with such as Basmati and Jasmine rice and some other treats, and notebooks and colored pencils for the kids. I asked Dominican friends and even strangers (on the bus) what I should bring and everything from flowers (a problem on the busses I had to use to get there) on was suggested as appropriate leaving me more or less where I was before I'd started asking.

My friends there and I talked about how Christmas would go and on Christmas morning none of that happened. There was no exchange of gifts and no opportunity for me to make my presentation to anyone. The evening before there was a special meal (not very special, but a little different) and folks (who don’t normally drink) pulled out a bottle of wine and shared it around. I could not partake, of course. What I did do was offer music I’d brought with me. I kind of dreaded offering it because, so far in the DR, I have not guessed right about anything I thought folks might like. To my surprise everyone loved Santana’s “Supernatural” and turned it up. Nobody danced. It’s a pretty reserved crowd but there were perceptible tapping of feet and nodding of heads.

In the morning I dressed up (as much as I could…my clothes are not looking somewhat worn) and put my offerings on the table in the courtyard. It was an awkward time. I just put my gut feelings aside and tried the experiment. That there are no photos of Christmas eve and day suggests it was not all that happy an affair.

I suggested we go for a walk, the two sisters and I. Botti came along, Nani's daughter (you have her picture in an early post.) Here’s a picture of the road where the event took place that I wrote about and put in the PCDR magazine, “Gringo Grita”. The cows event took place on the nearest bend in the road in the photo.

A day or so before I had taken a walk down that road, a favorite of mine, lovely in the morning light and cool, dry air of that part of the DR, sort of on the border of “the south.” The pictures are from that walk. I walked several kilometers, mostly along the aqueduct that was built in the 60’s or 50’s and is, I understand, responsible for most of the production of the area.

In the end, I was disappointed by Christmas. It was a somewhat dark and sad affair. At one point I had a strong urge to simply leave, get the hell out of there and go someplace else. I had no idea where that might be, perhaps Cabarete, but I decided to stick it out to see what would happen. I felt I would have been running from some reality I couldn’t grasp well enough to make such a determination and thought that, on reflection, I would have regretted leaving.

Now the sense of having stayed there and weathered whatever psychic storm swirled around me, was a triumph of some sort. But, more and more, I am learning that all my life I have stuck it out in less than good circumstances longer than other reasonable and intelligent people would have. Sticking such things out has never been to my great advantage and this experience is now among them. I am glad I gave the gifts I did. It feels a worthwhile experiment. Why do I have the feeling that I, in some way, was not really wanted there, or did not fit in as my hosts would have liked and perhaps expected. Not belonging in groups here is something that has repeated in my service. I am trying to spot those circumstances and, no longer as curious as I was or attempting to insist on my presence, avoid them. There is at least one thing I like to do that I can do alone that is fully satisfying but they are expensive here: sailboarding.

One of those circumstances that repeats in opportunity are the gatherings the volunteers put together. Ordinarily I would happily go to parties and be a part. They were always great fun when I was drinking. Just a single beer could loosen me up and help me have a great time. Now that I am not drinking, gatherings have a different tenor. Once the drinks come out entire groups of people drift from me and we seem to have less and less in common.

It is wryly (or oddly) amusing to see people I’ve known and gotten along with well go into what might be called, drinking mode. They sit there with their drinks as though in a kind of worship, muse or meditation the non-drinker apparently cannot understand. I used to do that so one would think I understood, but I don’t. It appears that one has to be actively engaged in the activity to be wrapped in and blessed by its aura.

Here’s the cows event.

Consider the case of the culturally inappropriate cow

Nani is a treasure. She makes me laugh. Consider the case of the culturally inappropriate cow. We went for that walk I told you about. Botti, Yube, Nani and I walking toward the aquaducto north and west of town, down the stony road that is almost two parallel jeep tracks with the ubiquitous barbed wire on palos both sides in the brilliant afternoon sunlight. There were cows, a dozen or so, in a bunch eating the dull coarse grass and scrub either side of the road: the cows, a young bull, a calf. We had to walk between them, quite close. They looked bony to me, shades of tan to white; I wondered if we could be kicked. One had an “A” frame of polished sticks over its neck assembled and tied half-assed on with strands of alambre dulce. They watched us with one wide, white-rimmed eye, necks stretched low to nibble at branch ends. Nani said, coh, trying to get the English. I corrected her. She tried again and got closer. We walked, passing them and on a bit further. Maybe five minutes went by, none of us speaking, just enjoying the December air and light. A moto then came up from behind. We stepped aside and it passed us. On the back of the moto sitting upright was a woman, quite over-weight, in black tights, jiggling and bouncing proudly down the road on the back of that moto. We stopped as she settled ahead of us, going away. Nani said, cow, again, pronouncing the word perfectly. Botti didn’t get it but Nani, Yube and I just about fell over laughing and slapping hands.