It’s hot. And everyone’s complaining about it. Funny, for people who have lived here all their lives, Dominicans don’t seem to tolerate the typical dry heat well. I don’t frequently notice the heat for some reason. Probably because I’m just passing by, as I have been for 10 years now. I can feel the sweat on my neck and the dampness of my pillow. Downstairs breakfast is underway and someone has come to visit. Everything seems to gradually kick in.
I’m in Santo Domingo. Horns blaring, a baby crying, people calling for each other in tones anything but soothing, a nearby day care center blaring Gangnam Style, a man selling pineapples, melons, plantains and much more on the street from an upright wooden wheelbarrow. These are the chaotic sounds of this city. I’m not exaggerating. I’m on the 8th floor of my apartment building and I hear the traveling produce man clearly. He yells out the name of each fruit, legume, or household item he’s managed to gather into his wheelbarrow, projecting his voice and extending the name of each item with disregard to his vocal chords, as well as my need to sleep past 7 a.m.
“Guineo, platano, yuca, berenjena, cebolla, tayota, mango, y cereeeeza!” Anything you could possibly want, it seems. Another man chimes in: “Suuuuuaaapero!” He’s selling floor mops from his wheelbarrow.
The building behind and to the right of my building are both under construction and drill hammers join together in a cacophonous symphony that makes my head ring. It’s a common scene in this city, and you can’t so easily stop it, because Santo Domingo for the last 10 years has been growing at the same insane pace, high-rises springing up all over the city, no matter how rich or poor the neighborhood. There’s only one way to stop the noise and that’s if the builders run out of money, which happens frequently. Makes you wonder where the money’s coming from and whether those building the high-rises even have legitimate businesses. Just as suddenly as these buildings stop construction, they start back up. What kind of money flow starts, stutters and gets back and running again at no comprehensible pace?
Now a dog is barking, howling in pitiful cries for attention. I give up. I’m getting up. This type of rude awakening happens every day in Santo Domingo.
Lest you get the wrong idea from the start, let me pause here to precede everything else I say with this: for all the incomprehensible madness that the city embodies, Santo Domingo and its inhabitants, their charm, far outweighs the items on its con list. This is no rant. Believe it or not, it’s a laborious love poem. I adore my birthplace, in an “it’s complicated” sort of way. I look around at times and think the city must be hopeless. Other times I see only its quirks. Those are the good moments. I try to cling to those most often, as focusing on anything else (the extreme crime, poverty, political corruption, etc.) might cause me never to get on a plane to the city, to visit family or otherwise. The keyword here is try.
I should mention I don’t drive in Santo Domingo. I did take my driving test at 16, but in a case of typical irresponsible paper shuffling on behalf of the government, never received my license, as that very year the country was transitioning from one president to another, specifically one political party to another. That meant restructuring of the Dominican DMV as a whole, and the misplacement of my license. I’ll admit it’s also utterly frightening to drive daily on an obstacle course with no rules, where the all-around assumption is that any kind of orderly conduct is optional, as is the case in Santo Domingo. Potholes are everywhere, everyone drives as if the roads exist only for them, and every traffic light is always green.
Actually, there are numerous street lights in Santo Domingo these days with countdown clocks. The clock counts down, in the color green, how many seconds are left of the light being green. It also counts down, in the color red, how many more seconds until the light is no longer red. The first time I saw this I asked my mother, “Have we become incapable of trusting the light will turn green or red in a reasonable time frame? Are we that desperate to get moving that we need a countdown to keep calm and not break the law?” Often in Santo Domingo a countdown clock will turn red, the perfect queue for someone at least 5 cars behind to cut in front of us to turn left. He, because it’s usually a he, creates two makeshift lanes where only one is delineated. As the countdown clock patiently turns from 10 to 9 to 8 to 7, in an explicable act of defiance and boldness, he pushes on, crossing an avenue of oncoming traffic. I look at my mom and shake my head. “Are any of us safe if thousands more in the city do the same?”
Around noon on a recent visit I choose to wander the city with my cousin at the wheel, but it’s a national holiday. Almost nothing is open, so we drive around in search of something to eat that’s not a sandwich, a burger, a pizza. We’re looking for something to stick a fork into, whether or not it’s authentic Dominican food, because Dominicans do Dominican food well, but they also do other cuisine well too. My cousin drives down a one way street. This isn’t the first time she’s done it, knowingly. She figures the car in front of her is doing it, so it must be ok.
We end up at a place called Bistro 9. The restaurant is completely empty, but the waiters are friendly. Ours is, at least. He casually asks, “Does it feel a little hot in here to you?” We say yes. He scampers off to lower the temperature. When he returns we point out the water dropping from the ceiling. He says dryly, “Yes, we’re working on it.” That’s the literal translation. There is no “sorry” or “forgive us” included. This is not motivated by rudeness. Dominican people are utterly familiar with each other. Five minutes is all it takes for friendship to form and for cordialities to fade. This is a lovely quality that if misunderstood can be misconstrued as something other than self confidence and the warmth of a people.
I order the risotto and devour the entire dish it’s so good. At the end of the meal for some reason we’re unable to pay via debit card. So my cousin invites the waiter to get in the car with us to get this resolved, and we all go to the ATM at the bank down the street. He says he’s embarrassed because the machine back at the restaurant didn’t work, and he hates that we’re going through all this work, but I don’t think he gets to see my face, smiling in disbelief. He insists he’ll walk back to the restaurant to avoid further embarrassment. My cousin turns to me, tilts her head sideways and lifts her shoulders as if to say, “What’s up with him?”
Dominicans, and particularly people from la capital (Santo Domingo), are like that hyper 7-year-old that is more often than not running around wreaking havoc despite his parents’ warning that this is not becoming, and utterly inappropriate. That 7-year-old child simply does not care and is happy doing as he very well pleases. He might care for a moment but just as quickly goes back to his ways. He can’t grasp the consequences just yet. He has plenty of friends and is loved by all. The question is whether he has any kind of future if his energy is not harnessed for good, and solely for good.
How to show or prove any of this? I’d have to give you more than a handful of examples. I might have to drag everyone over here, to this city beloved by so many, in spite of it all. There’s so much color once you look beyond the weeds and thorns of such a difficult temperament, and here’s a citizen who struggles to demonstrate just that even now.
Santo Domingo is like its people: bold, brash, extremely social, inquisitive, unembarrassed, humble, and curious, so curious. It’s defensive of itself and its value. Above all, Santo Domingo is fast-paced. There’s movement anywhere you go, even in waiting. And Dominicans are waiting, constantly waiting, mostly because of our unreliable transportation services, governmental services, customer service, etc. The list goes on. They’re talking with each other as they wait, flashing wandering eyes and examining everything. And Dominicans are never alone unless they’re sleep deprived, tired or too out of it to function. Otherwise, they’ve always got something to see, someone to talk to, and something to say, about everything.
On this, my most recent visit, we also go to the movie theater and I head to the concession stand. I ask for popcorn and a small soft drink. This popcorn isn’t pre-buttered, and pre-salted like in the U.S. So I head back and ask for salt. The girl reaches for it in a hidden compartment of the popcorn maker and hands it to me. As I sprinkle my naturally-popped corn kernels, someone else arrives at the stand and says they want salt too. As the girl hands it to her she gives her a disapproving look and says: “Sweetheart, salt isn’t good for your heart, you know?” I smile. So Santo Domingo.
To be continued.
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