Christmas in the Caribbean

I was warned, but the warnings were unable to prepare me for what the season of Christmas on this island really entails. December in the Dominican Republic encompasses round-the-clock dancing, generous libations, eating lots of fatty Christmas pig, and near as I can tell, even more general merriment than the rest of the year holds. What I have come to appreciate and value most in the Dominican culture is the focus on family, sharing what one has, and the ability to have a good time or dance party (usually synonymous) in almost any circumstance.

Trying to motivate community members to do any productive work this December has proven futile. I have called meetings to which people readily agree to and tell me how important it is that we work together; I wait at the meeting with two dedicated muchachos who are the only ones that show up for anything I plan. After an hour of waiting I usually go home with mixed feelings of being lied to coupled with rejection. When asked about the meeting most respond that oh well you know how it is in December, I was sweeping the floor, I was washing the artificial Christmas tree (and yes I have seen this done), it looked cloudy out…lets just hope January will bring a new attitude with the new year. However, having been warned about the “December partyitude” in advance from other volunteers I have planned meetings without too much hope that attendance would be more than my personal fan club of two or three teenage girls. With this in mind, I have to focus on compartiring or sharing with my new neighbors and friends in this season of merriment. I did have to draw the line the other evening when I was repeatedly peer-pressured to drink rum straight with no chaser at midnight while watching telenovelas at Marcia’s house. The whole family kept telling me, but it’s Christmas Clara, followed by why don’t’ you drink? To this I respectfully replied that si yo tomo, but not cheap rum shots from the bottle (I’d like to think that that Claire has no place in Peace Corps). Also, I have had to draw the line at the neighbor’s consistent attempts to fatten me up and make me feel ill from overeating. Having a good time and feeling overstuffed and drowsy from over consumption somehow go hand-in-hand here. Despite my smiling and reassuring everyone that I am having a grand time, the fact that I have not been able to eat four servings of rice and lots of chicken, and lots of pork means that I must be sad and deeply troubles my new neighbors.

People are constantly murmuring in my new community that I do not eat and that I will waste away here because I hate the food even while I am busy eating more than I should just to complement the chef. At Marcia’s two nights ago watching television after I had had dinner, Marcia told me she was going to make sancocho, a traiditional stew made with three kinds of meat and lots of yams, platanos, potatos and other starchy root vegetables. It is quite a treat but it is not something you can eat when you are already full. Little did I know that she was making it that night, even though it was already 10 P.M. When I retired for the evening without sharing in the feast, Alberto, Marcia’s husband, chastised me for not partaking. He asked me what my current weight was and then in an all too threatening tone informed me that by the end of my service they will have made me twenty pounds heavier, all the while laughing demonically. Uh-oh.

On a side note, I am unashamedly hooked to “Las Munecas de la Mafia” a Colombian soap that is pure lunacy and entertainment. I started watching simply to share with the women in the community and I am now the one leaving the house to go the neighbor’s every other night when we do not have electricity.

My favorite Christmas tradition that I have not only witnessed but brazenly participated in is called “la Mañanita” or diminutive morning. In the case of my community this involves meeting out in the street at 4 am ready to sing, dance, and act as obnoxious as you please in the spirit of taking what your neighbors are forced to give. Awesome if you ask me. I was invited to participate in this lovely little tradition on the night of December 6, I was told to meet outside at 4 am and the rest would take care of itself. Wanting desperately to avail myself of new cultural opportunities I set my alarm for 3:45 A.M. and went to bed wondering what the “mananita” was all about. Sure enough, my eight month pregnant neighbor Marcia, who had spearheaded the entire mission, about 10 teenage girls and boys, and two other community mothers were waiting outside as promised, all were dressed in ski-caps and sandals with socks in order to ward off the blustery 65 degree night air. No one could stop talking about how cold it was, I found it nice to not be sweating for once, but what does the gringa know anyway? I was handed an empty paint can, a large rock, and told to play my tambora as loud as I could. For the next two hours I am proud to say that I beat that paint can with so much Christmas spirit and joy that I was later congratulated for my drumming skills. The idea is that you go house to house, pausing outside each one long enough to try and wake up the sleeping people within. Three Christmas songs are sung and when that does not produce a person at the door, lots of shouting, clapping, and banging on the wooden walls of the house ensues. At some houses we were met with straight silence, other people threatened to maim us if we did not move on down the street, and others opened the ventana just enough to throw coins (and in one case a 100 peso bill) into our greedy hands. One house gave us ground coffee, and another neighbor gave us some sugar. As the sun rose we happily marched to Marcia’s house, still singing and dancing in the street, to count up our booty that was so rudely obtained by force and intimidation. All in all we had gathered 300 pesos, the equivalent of about 10 U.S. dollars. Not bad if you ask me. I am told the tradition is to use the money to make spicy hot chocolate (by spicy I am referring to ginger, which is super picante to Dominican palettes) to warm everyone up and start the day right. I had a great time participating in this tradition and as long as I am participating in the merry making it is fun but when one is on the other end, the normal sleeping person, it is extremely irritating. Not only are you deprived of sleep but you are threatened into giving money away so the obnoxious hooligans can enjoy hot chocolate and cookies on your dime…I am going to chalk this up to lost in translation and continue pounding my drum when I am invited.

It has unfortunately been raining pretty consistently this December, which is very rare for this area of the country. With dirt streets, the rain has made simply leaving the house a trying event. I still have not figured out how Dominicans manage to stay so clean in such muddy conditions, but I am always the sloppiest, perhaps because I think not leaving the house because the streets are muddy is a tad ridiculous. Also, I am not sure if my host family senses when the path to the latrine will become slick and nearly impassable and thereby choose to stop themselves up by avoiding all sources of fiber, but I am the only one in the house who has had to suit up for the journey to the outhouse, much to my host mother’s chagrin. “But Claire, do you really need to go to the bathroom? The path is so muddy!” To which I reply, yes, and no, you don’t have to accompany me. This idea of never leaving me alone is definitely a cultural difference. Just last week, both of my host parents had to go to Santiago for the day and my host mother was distraught at the idea of me sleeping alone in the house. I assured her I would be fine, that I lived alone in my last community, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. I was informed that Bertina, the fifteen year old neighbor who resents my existence and rolls her eyes at all of my attempts at conversation, would be sleeping in my bed for “safety.” I failed to see how this fifteen year old would help if my security was in fact threatened. I pried further and was told that all the local thugs would somehow sense that I was sleeping alone and take it upon themselves to come in and steal my laptop and soccer ball (yes these are my host mother’s words) but they would not dare mess with me with Bertina by my side. Gracias a Dios my host father decided to arrive late that night and I was spared sleeping with someone who looks like if given half the chance, she would end my life.

So far, my days in town have been spent sitting with lots of older women and lots of young children. The children are very adamant that I teach English classes so twice a week I hold a class for kids thirteen and under and twice a week I hold a class for high school aged kids. After three classes with the young kids I could not figure out why the kids could not remember how to say, “Hello, My name is….” Some of the kids could say a few things in English but did not seem to be retaining any new information that I was giving them. My poster board examples made the children’s eyes glaze over. That is when it dawned on me, I bet these kids cannot read! After doing a poll I learned that only one 14 year-old out of the group could read. So I decided to change tactics and told the kids that we were going to switch to literary/art class. I think I am doing these children a disservice trying to teach them English when they cannot even read in their own language. So, in the spirit of Christmas, last Saturday morning I brought art supplies and we all made Christmas cards. I taught them how to write Feliz Navidad in English and other such phrases but I think for now, we are going to focus on drawing, painting, and reading.
Los adolescentes are very enthusiastic about my English classes. The enthusiasm does not always translate to good attendance, but I figure seven out of thirty is a good start. Class has been pretty fun so far as the last half hour is always devoted to teaching me lots of slang and dirty words in Spanish, which we all agree is extremely important for my full integration. Class usually ends when my talking is drowned out by bachata or raggaeton music from someones cell phone. I don’t fight it, we usually just end with some dancing and I figure it sure is nice not to have to worry about actually preparing these kids for an exam or having curriculum that needs to be learned.

December, despite the rain, the mud, and comments about fattening me up, has been extremely fun and full of surprises. Although I am headed home to the good ol’ United States of America for the holidays, I feel I have experienced much of what makes Christmas so great in the Caribbean. Perhaps next year I will even eat some Christmas pig on December 25th.

Happy Holidays to all my friends and family!