Distinguido Señor,
From Georgia, Iraq, Tribal Pakistan and even Haiti I hear a rumor of war over the airwaves. Social and political upheaval. Great changes afoot. Here in the Dominican Republic, however, I merely smell a rumor of barbecued chicken. Pollo al carbón. It’s a damn good smell, almost enough to break me out of my newly established vegetarian status. But in this case, I’m speeding by the roadside barrel-and-rebar grill in the bed of a public pickup truck, and it doesn’t stop for anything. I share the cramped space with a father-and-son painting crew, two rice farmers and a migrant Haitian carrying a bucket of watches and second hand clothes for sale. His t-shirt begs to inform me that his name is Ralph and that he’s a member of the Elmhurst bowling league, but I doubt he’s aware of that, per se.
That was this morning, anyway, on my trip back to the boonies.
*
So I’ve been thinking. I occasionally get moments of ebullient geographic enthusiasm when I feel I can apply things I learned in college. When I can knowingly think, “Yes. Of course. That explains it perfectly. I am still ready for grad school!” For instance, when I see a machete-wielding Dominican coconut vendor chase a Haitian coconut vendor from his street corner turf in Santo Domingo: surely, here is urban-to-rural migratory pressure. Here is the essence of global class conflict; the poor of one nation versus the poor of another, with the rich somewhere nearby, chortling over cigars and brandy (not that I can see them; it’s the idea that counts). Then I continue on my bus ride to Peace Corps headquarters as the cops break it up before any limbs are chopped off.
But I have not been assigned to a global flashpoint. The DR is an extremely chill place. So chill, in fact, that I am forced to recall the unfortunate “studies” done by Ellsworth Huntington regarding climatic influences on civilization, or lethargy plotted against latitude, if you will. While Mr. Huntington will forever remain in my righteous-liberal esteem somewhere between Cecil Rhodes and Adolf Hitler, I can’t help but notice some differences between – at the very least – the cultures of the inhabitants of Hispaniola and those of the Americans among whom I lived prior to coming here. Some of these differences, seen by the theory-seeking eye of the aforementioned early-20th century imperialist, may have been motivators for that misguided attempt to classify work ethic by hemisphere.
I’ve heard a lot about “Latin Time” and the religious zeal with which the siesta is observed, but there’s a deeper undercurrent involved when a road engineer says the backhoe “should” be there on the appointed day and he really means “definitely won’t.” It is still occasionally disheartening to find that the workday is –on the average – about four hours long, and offices in the cities are only occupied between 10AM and 4PM, with two hours off for lunch. Additionally, the only members of the service industry who don’t need to be actively flagged down are the motorcycle taxi drivers, who will generally chase you around trying to convince you of the insanity of walking to your destination. Nor is it possible to schedule any meetings in rural areas without the assumption that half of the committed attendees will find reasons to stay at home, whether the aqueduct needs repairs or not. Personally, I might be inclined to blame the weather for these facts of Dominican life; it is true that the sun is unbearable during the early afternoon, and that the sun falls quickly at six and leaves the world in darkness but for the candles. I’ve always been pretty lazy myself, and it hasn’t been such a stretch to adapt to the slow pace; I consider my avoidance of the sun at midday to be an avoidance of potential melanoma and heatstroke. But I’m not willing to cave in wholeheartedly to Huntington’s assumptive reasoning.
The problem is with locating alternative explanations. I find myself wildly questioning the possibility of inherent Catholic fatalism as the cause of what can only be described as sluggishness in the department of the daily grind. Perhaps an ingrained sense of helplessness – the result of a thirty-year dictatorship – is to blame. Perhaps national pride is more of a feeling than a driving force, especially in the face of globalization pressures. Perhaps I don’t have the slightest idea why people in a foreign country could possibly act any differently than the narrow demographic among which I had spent twenty-two years. If you have any theories, I would be most pleased to hear them.
But another hurricane seems to be winging its way in at the moment, and I’ll spend the next few days trying to keep my things dry. I hope that the snow you folks seem to be receiving is forming that idyllic blanket that I miss so much, and that the students are rightly terrified of impending finals. Good times and happy holidays to you; I hope you’ve found a use for the wine I brought over last Thanksgiving. It was a decent vintage.
Sincerely,
Bill Boykin-Morris
PS. Please inform Prof. Meyer that I have not yet dug any latrines, but the village could damn sure use a few of them.
From Georgia, Iraq, Tribal Pakistan and even Haiti I hear a rumor of war over the airwaves. Social and political upheaval. Great changes afoot. Here in the Dominican Republic, however, I merely smell a rumor of barbecued chicken. Pollo al carbón. It’s a damn good smell, almost enough to break me out of my newly established vegetarian status. But in this case, I’m speeding by the roadside barrel-and-rebar grill in the bed of a public pickup truck, and it doesn’t stop for anything. I share the cramped space with a father-and-son painting crew, two rice farmers and a migrant Haitian carrying a bucket of watches and second hand clothes for sale. His t-shirt begs to inform me that his name is Ralph and that he’s a member of the Elmhurst bowling league, but I doubt he’s aware of that, per se.
That was this morning, anyway, on my trip back to the boonies.
*
So I’ve been thinking. I occasionally get moments of ebullient geographic enthusiasm when I feel I can apply things I learned in college. When I can knowingly think, “Yes. Of course. That explains it perfectly. I am still ready for grad school!” For instance, when I see a machete-wielding Dominican coconut vendor chase a Haitian coconut vendor from his street corner turf in Santo Domingo: surely, here is urban-to-rural migratory pressure. Here is the essence of global class conflict; the poor of one nation versus the poor of another, with the rich somewhere nearby, chortling over cigars and brandy (not that I can see them; it’s the idea that counts). Then I continue on my bus ride to Peace Corps headquarters as the cops break it up before any limbs are chopped off.
But I have not been assigned to a global flashpoint. The DR is an extremely chill place. So chill, in fact, that I am forced to recall the unfortunate “studies” done by Ellsworth Huntington regarding climatic influences on civilization, or lethargy plotted against latitude, if you will. While Mr. Huntington will forever remain in my righteous-liberal esteem somewhere between Cecil Rhodes and Adolf Hitler, I can’t help but notice some differences between – at the very least – the cultures of the inhabitants of Hispaniola and those of the Americans among whom I lived prior to coming here. Some of these differences, seen by the theory-seeking eye of the aforementioned early-20th century imperialist, may have been motivators for that misguided attempt to classify work ethic by hemisphere.
I’ve heard a lot about “Latin Time” and the religious zeal with which the siesta is observed, but there’s a deeper undercurrent involved when a road engineer says the backhoe “should” be there on the appointed day and he really means “definitely won’t.” It is still occasionally disheartening to find that the workday is –on the average – about four hours long, and offices in the cities are only occupied between 10AM and 4PM, with two hours off for lunch. Additionally, the only members of the service industry who don’t need to be actively flagged down are the motorcycle taxi drivers, who will generally chase you around trying to convince you of the insanity of walking to your destination. Nor is it possible to schedule any meetings in rural areas without the assumption that half of the committed attendees will find reasons to stay at home, whether the aqueduct needs repairs or not. Personally, I might be inclined to blame the weather for these facts of Dominican life; it is true that the sun is unbearable during the early afternoon, and that the sun falls quickly at six and leaves the world in darkness but for the candles. I’ve always been pretty lazy myself, and it hasn’t been such a stretch to adapt to the slow pace; I consider my avoidance of the sun at midday to be an avoidance of potential melanoma and heatstroke. But I’m not willing to cave in wholeheartedly to Huntington’s assumptive reasoning.
The problem is with locating alternative explanations. I find myself wildly questioning the possibility of inherent Catholic fatalism as the cause of what can only be described as sluggishness in the department of the daily grind. Perhaps an ingrained sense of helplessness – the result of a thirty-year dictatorship – is to blame. Perhaps national pride is more of a feeling than a driving force, especially in the face of globalization pressures. Perhaps I don’t have the slightest idea why people in a foreign country could possibly act any differently than the narrow demographic among which I had spent twenty-two years. If you have any theories, I would be most pleased to hear them.
But another hurricane seems to be winging its way in at the moment, and I’ll spend the next few days trying to keep my things dry. I hope that the snow you folks seem to be receiving is forming that idyllic blanket that I miss so much, and that the students are rightly terrified of impending finals. Good times and happy holidays to you; I hope you’ve found a use for the wine I brought over last Thanksgiving. It was a decent vintage.
Sincerely,
Bill Boykin-Morris
PS. Please inform Prof. Meyer that I have not yet dug any latrines, but the village could damn sure use a few of them.
