Dispatches from Republica Dominicana Part 1: Getting Lost in Translation

The thing that cleans the thing that stops the breeze… getting lost in translation.  

After 4 years of high school French and never speaking a word to another living person outside of class, it finally hit me on our France trip at the end of my senior year.  It was the moment I started living and thinking in another language.  Walking up the street from our hotel on our first day, Madame Sterns, our teacher, asked a passerby where we might find a bank, and the woman replied, in French!  None of the moments prior to this exchange had seemed real – the announcements in the Charles De Gaulle Airport, the bus which brought us to our hotel, etc. all appeared as some elaborate class exercise Madame had prepared.  At the moment when the little old woman replied, politely, in French, it was as if a bell rang: “class is over… this is for real.”

That first immersion into another language was nearly 25 years ago, when learning such linguistic lessons was perhaps easier.  My better half sums it up in this way, “I've decided that learning a new language in a foreign country is much like learning to drive a car for the first time while in crazy traffic...except you are driving forward and backward at the same time, stalling while searching for the right gear, and asking people to slow down while you change lanes. Just when you think you've got it mastered, you drive into a new city where there is a massive traffic jam, you can't read the signs, and they have changed all the rules.”  This conclusion struck her half-way through our time at a language immersion school in the Dominican Republic, Instituto Intercultural del Caribe.  This wonderful little school tucked away in a neighborhood of Sosua on the north shore of Hispanola was our home, community, and daily crucible for 8 weeks, and we loved every minute of it. 

During our time in the DR, Shari and I enjoyed a tenuous relationship with the Spanish language.  There were days when the words came, conversation was easy and everything fell into place; then there were the weeks when it seemed like the language was some hilarious riddle that everyone around me got immediately, as I glanced from face-to-face thinking, “what’s so funny?”  Like every learning curve, the challenge goes up with each success, so I never quite got comfortable.  But looking back on where we started, it’s amazing to see how much we did learn.  Spanish may not be the language of our next host country, Senegal, but it will always be there when we want to take it up again. 

Capturing the rich complexity of a place, even a small one is incredibly difficult.  So much cultural meaning gets lost in translation:  the way Latino announcers roll their Rs in a superlative fashion showing off as their deep baritone syllables bounce around the arena; the slap … slap sound of domino tiles as they are enthusiastically laid on the plastic table top accompanied by the never-ending and equally passionate commentary of those observing; and the way that a bag of ice, a bottle of rum and a bottle of coke is an invitation to sit down anywhere pull up a plastic chair and have a party.  To us there is nothing poetic or lyrical in the words “windshield wipers” – it is both functional and descriptive of its purpose, so too is limpia parabrisas.  But it sounds so much more beautiful than “the thing that cleans the thing that stops the breeze.”  

The following blog posts are some highlights from our time on the island.

El Machina del Dinero

We arrive late at night into Punta Cana, the Caribbean home of the “all inclusive resort.”  This is awesome if you’ve booked one, because they send a small team of English-speaking staff to greet you upon exiting customs, whisk you, your luggage, your American dollars, and your ignorance of Spanish off to your comfortably appointed room where your complimentary gambling tokens and rum drink await your arrival.  Sucks for you if you haven’t, because there are no ATMs in the Punta Cana airport – at least that we can find – and we had no RD$’s.  These little challenges of low-budget travel must be embraced if you travel like we do.  There is, however, a never-ending string of gentlemen pointing you in a direction that you are not entirely sure you want to go, but you figure “what the hell?” 

  

“Taxi? Taxi?” they ask, almost demanding that we climb inside.  Since my Spanish is limited to inquiring the location of a toilet, or my pants, I look to Shari to take the lead.  “Donde esta el machina del dinero, necesitamos dinero por el taxi, por favor?” she cooly asks one of the men pointing us to our next turn.  “Yeah,” I think, “that’s my girl!”  He looks confused or indifferent or both, and points us toward the right.  We find another gentleman who points us to the waiting line of taxis and Shari again asks the man for the money machine.  He nods, though looks a little befuddled as he grabs my backpack and places it into the rear of an aging mini-van that I hope to God is an actual taxi.  We get in, and he speaks to the driver in quick, energetic sentences. I catch the name of our hotel in the exchange; at least we got that much across, though what will happen when we can’t pay for the ride I have no idea?

   
We drive through the elaborate string of round-a-bouts leading away from the airport and toward the lights of the city.   Shari once again tells our driver that we need the money machine.  He nods, but not with the confidence of someone who really understands our request, it seems as though he’s going on a hunch.  He pulls into a bank parking lot, and Shari looks at the sign, “Oh…cajero automatico! Si! Si! No machina, cajero automatico!”  Now we’re communicating.  The driver looks relieved that he’s interpreted our pleas, but even after I return to the van with RD dollars in hand, he’s still hunched over the steering wheel chuckling to himself, “Machina del dinero, machina del dinero.”  Soon enough he delivers us to the right hotel, where our reservation awaited us.  After a quick, cold shower we drifted off to sleep in our small, but clean hotel in the Caribbean. 


Chinola Yogurt

Americans just don’t know yogurt.  Instead of yogurt, we consume overly sweetened glop filled with aspartame and strawberry jam, while the rest of the world enjoys a divinely cultured cup of slightly sour milk sweetened only by fruit.  Whether you drink it, or spoon it, it’s all good.  In the Dominican, there is no light, diet, or half-percent, there is just yogurt flavored with all the delicacies of the tropical jungle.   Among these fruits there arises one to which Shari and I pay a particular devotion, the humble passion fruit.  

Call it lilikoi in Hawaiian, or chinola in the DR, passion fruit hasn’t quite caught on in the lower 48 like some of its tropical cousins, bananas, mangoes, and pineapples.  The name refers to the shape of the stamen (resembling a cross to the missionaries who so named it) of the intricate and confoundingly beautiful flower, rather than to what it might do to the consumer—though in me ignites passions of epicurean proportions.  While on the farm in Kaua’i we gathered these little flavor bombs all over the ground near our small hut.  They fall to the ground when ripe and ready for you, eliminating the guesswork.   

About the size of a large lime, they have a thick tough rind which protects them from falls or insects for many days.  Imagine slicing a raw egg down the center as if it was hard-boiled – the chinola offers up a pulpy, yellow center that almost runs.  The bright citrus taste is both sweet and sour, not unlike a tangerine mixed with pulpy melon.  Their edible and crunchy seeds provide a fun little pop as you consume the raw center.  Not much to it though, a lot of fruit goes into one glass of juice, like a pomegranate, and a lot of rind left over.  Los campesinos, or folks from the rural countryside, tell their children to stay away of these fruits growing wild in the jungle believing that they might lead them down a wayward and wanton path.  Folks from the city don’t believe a word of these wives tales and make a mean chinola milkshake with fruit, condensed milk, and lots of ice.  Add a bit of rum and you have a party! 

We consume chinola every chance we get and in any way possible.  We’ve made fruit smoothies with chinola, and sourdough French toast topped with mango, bananas, and chinola syrup.  Chinola and pineapple sangria, and in any other dish in which you’d put fruit.  And yes, of course in yogurt.  If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, than the tropics entered mine slowly, one delicious fruit at a time.