Dispatches from Republica Dominica Part 5: Lunch with Teo

The school, affectionately known as “Casa Goethe” has round-the-clock security.  At first I thought it was simply to comfort the international students staying at the school, but here security guards are all over the place – at bars, hotels, ATM machines – no kidding, and they almost always pack a shotgun.  I’d be willing to bet that only a few of those are actually loaded, but they get the point across if you know what I mean.  We saw these guys everywhere, chilling in the ubiquitous white plastic chair in front of their ATM with a pump action 12-gauge across their knees, or going to work on the back of a moto, carrying their lunch box and their shotgun – just another day in the DR.  

At the school, our night time guard didn’t pack anything except an excellent sense of humor, a joy of life, a love for all of the students under his care, and a can of mosquito repellent.  His name is Teo, which is close to the Spanish word for uncle (tio), and he certainly became one of ours. 

Our little family was invited to have afternoon dinner at Teo’s house on his day off.  It was mostly for Dino, as they had developed a mutual man crush as Dino spent many hours talking to him before and after their late night missions to Cabarete, but we got to come along as well.  After class, he showed up with his motorcycle and another motoconcho; we knew we were not going to get out of riding one this time.  We have never taken nor want to ride the motorcycle taxi before, but how do you say no to your host, when he’s saying, “vamanos!”? 

Off we go, Shari and I riding helmet-less behind Teo as he zooms through the stop and go traffic, around obstacles, into the other lane, or onto the shoulder.  He whizzes past anything not fast enough, all the while beeping his tiny horn.  This is his daily commute, but our first time.  Shari clamps her hands firmly onto Teo’s shoulders and I, in turn, am fully clamped around her.  If we’re going down, we all are!  It is only a small comfort to know that certain death awaits us if something should go horribly wrong; we won’t need to suffer treatment for major trauma in a Dominican hospital. 

“Por Favor, Teo!  Mas despacio! Muy peligroso!”  Please, Teo! Slow Down! It’s very dangerous!  Shari nervously pleads.  “Tranquillo, tranquillo!” he says in return, while he shrugs his shoulders trying to get Shari to loosen her death grip.  After about 15 minutes we arrive at his house, safe but certainly not steady.

Teo’s apartment is inside a local barrio of middle income Dominicans.  The 4 story apartment buildings are stacked close together, so that everyone’s balcony looks down over the alleys, others’ balconyies, or the small street, which doubles as their front yard.  There isn’t a lot of private or wasted space here, the Dominican people don’t value privacy in the same way that they value the sounds of dominoes being slapped on the table, children laughing and running down the street, the nightly fruit truck with his steady sing-song of tropical delights, the music of bachata and salsa coming through the car windows or across the balcony from someone’s new speakers set to 11.   These people value community, and rubbing up against their neighbors – for good and bad – even if that means they cannot do anything without everyone else knowing.  This made us particularly interesting to the neighbors, because 4 white people just rode up on motorcycles and went into Teo’s house.  It was obvious that everyone knew we were there. 

Teo has a modest 3 bedroom apartment on the ground floor; they have turned one bedroom into a Colmada – think a very small camp store.  During the day his wife opens up the window, and helps people in the neighborhood get the small items they need without going to the grocery.  It keeps her busy and tied to the house most of the day, as if raising 4 kids, cooking all their meals, washing all their laundry by hand (all with intermittent water and electricity) isn’t enough to keep one person busy.   Teo works 2 or 3 jobs, if your count the small farm he runs to help feed the kids who are still living with him.  

Their busy schedules keep them moving, but they are quite well off in the neighborhood.  And though Teo is away most nights, it is clear that he adores his wife and she him – they’ve been together since teenagers.  Three of their kids still live in the house which makes their space all the more crowded. Though they don’t have much by our standards, they will share everything they have with you.

We sit down to a delightful spread of beans, rice, fried pork, green salad, and a delicious lentil dish called juandules, and a never-ending glass of Presidente beer.  After about five small courses and about as many glasses of beer, we begin to realize that we haven’t just been invited for a meal, we’ve been invited for as long as we are inclined to stay – this afternoon is open-ended.  All the while during dinner, Teo’s wife remained in the kitchen despite our pleading for her to join us.  Women do not often eat with their family.  They serve the meal, then eat later, often while standing and doing dishes.  This isn't easy for me to swallow, but even if she would let me help with the dishes today I'm not going to start a revolution of gender equality -- at least not today. 

For the next eight hours, we spend time talking about everything our limited Spanish can possibly cover, playing spirited rounds of Dominican dominoes, meeting their 3 delightful children, looking at each one of their oldest daughter’s fashion school designs, learning how to dance the Bachata, Salsa, and basically entertaining the entire neighborhood with the next episode of “What’s happening in Teo’s house?”  We get the sense that he is kind of a “big man on campus” here. 

When a Domincan invites you to his or her house, you are truly an honored guest, and nothing is expected of you other than enjoying it.  They may not be rich in money, but they would gladly share what they have with you without a second thought.  Their richness lies in the lives they lead, their community, their family, and their laughter.  Giving away these kinds of riches have a way of coming back around; and, in this way, the Dominicans may be the richest people I’ve met.  

When we left the school, saying goodbye to Teo was one of the hardest.  “Me duele, me duele,” he kept saying, “It hurts me to say goodbye,” tears coming to his eyes.  We stood in the dark on our last night in Sosua, a 3-person bundle of weepy.  How could I have known that this little island could move me so?  I understand why Shari loved it so much when she came here in 2011.  How could a place with so many societal, environmental, governmental, and educational problems feel so much like home?

There’s still much I have to un-pack of these experiences here in the Dominican, there’s still so much more to see and experience on the island.  Our ramblings were often limited to where our feet or the carro publico could take us in an afternoon.  And though this is a small island, we didn’t even come close to the Haitian border, the other half of this islands’ story.  We will be back.