Tearing open a section of my hand with glass and unveiling bone on Tuesday morning while washing dishes gave me an unexpected tour of a private Dominican hospital. My doctor spoke English, had done a residency in Omaha, and served me immediately upon entering the emergency room. 11 stitches later I was out, with a bill that would make an American audience laugh, or cry. I was happy to pay ~$100 for the prompt care, attention and medicine I got. I’m not sure how affordable that is for the average Dominican however, though I’m told they have insurance.
The next day I found myself going back to the barrio with the team to narrate in Spanish a short play we made up about teenage pregnancy. Before that I was asked to choreograph a dance for the girls, on the spot, to kill time while we waited for more children to come to the sexual health session. I tried to dig through my Spanish vocabulary for dancing (spin, turn, duck down, on 3!) and blundered my way through, wounded hand included. Half the 13 year olds had miniskirts and low heels on however, which I kept forgetting about as I showed them ways to contort their bodies to the beat. “No podemos hacer!” I kept hearing (We can’t do that!).
Public health work can be challenging in ways I hadn’t thought of: Crossing Borders, the NGO that I am working with from home here, is partnering with another NGO, International Child Care (ICC) which has been based in Dominican Republic for some time now. We are in conjunction running a sexual health campaign in the barrios using different and varied methodologies. I am traveling with Crossing Borders as a team member, participating in most activities with this project, but I am also going to be slowly but surely spending more time on my own filming a documentary.
Lastly, on that same afternoon, we visited the landfill I had previously referred to as Cien Fuegos (100 Fires). I climbed down the side of a neighborhood, crossed a small but highly toxic stream, to climb back up a hill that gave way to piles of trash. Shoes, plastic bags, pill bottles, jeans, cans, “disposable” plates and cups: anything you could imagine. People picked through the garbage that was the freshest, with a long L-shaped pointed metal pick. Some wore protective clothing and rags over their mouths, and some others went nearly uncovered, including a kid who couldn’t have been older than 8.It’s one thing to see something in pictures all the time – people picking through trash at an uncovered landfill – and another to be in the thick of it. I am going to be returning many times to this site, hopefully investigating with the county, city or state about the landfill’s history, system, rules, expectations, expiration date and the like, as well as performing interviews with its many and varied occupants.More poetry later, for now I am still shocked by the reality.
Besos y abrazos para todos
Isabelle
PS. Escríbame en español si quiere porque necesito practicar en cualquier manera posible!!!
6 brothers and sisters who all sleep in the same bed
“Daniel Peluqueria”
Brothers in front of their house
Space between the houses
Big Haitan family living under one roof & me
Family in front of house, 5 to a bed
Looking like parents already; playing with a white doll
Showing me their cool card moves
Dirty, oversized dress
Pots and pans to make the house look nice (a tradition)
Grown old and still alive
