black water

Aguas Negras, meaning Black Water, is the name of the community bordering the customs port of Puerto Plata. More than a thousand families reside here in the warren of crumbling concrete and rusting tin. The dirt roads run with rotting trash and sewage. Most homes do not have toilets, and there is a community latrine that members of our group describe as “inhumane” and “foul beyond comprehension.”

About 40 of us have come here today for various service projects – painting homes, laying concrete on a dirt road, serving breakfast in a school for undocumented children. I have come to assist with the delivery and installation of a water filter in a local home.

First everyone gathers at the school, where we meet its founder Sandra, truly a saint of a woman, and her eyes shine with the love of God. She is a pastor in this community, and she has worked hard to acquire birth certificates for these children so they have hope of future education and jobs. But unlike the program in La Mosca, this is a true school, with teachers and uniforms, desks and backpacks. The children are bright-eyed and beautiful, happily receiving little gifts our group has brought. One nina of about 5 strings new plastic beads around her neck, pops heart-shaped sunglasses on her face and a Tootsie Pop into her mouth. She holds a tiny teddy bear with a Rotary T-shirt on. Truly the sweetest little diva I’ve ever seen.

Everyone gears up for their work projects, and we meet with Sara, who works in this neighborhood for Project Las Americas. Sara is a beautiful, extremely petite woman originally from Spain. She seems to know each person in this barrio personally, and as we gingerly step between foul puddles on the road, she stops to wipe a child’s nose, to ask another how his mom is feeling, and to laugh at a mangy barking mutt who is paradoxically named Allegria, or Happiness. Sara is a tiny powerhouse, a model of service.

We watch her demonstrate the assembly of a blue plastic HydrAid water filter. There are several parts that must be put together correctly so the filter does not leak. We ask her how she has chosen the people who will receive this today. She says one way she knows they are ready is if they understand the value of agua pura enough to fetch it from the filter at the school.

There are some community taps which only turn on about every three days, so fetching and storing water are just the way of life here. But bathing in this water gives the women constant infections that often result in cancer. And drinking it leads to untold numbers of health problems. But, Sara says, the people do not understand that their lifelong poor health is connected to the water. Education is a huge first step in this process.

Sara has a teenage assistant, a boy from Aguas Negras, who she is training up so that he understands the filters as well as she does. We carry the filter bucket, a diffuser tray, three bags of sand, a chlorine dropper, and written instructions. “Permiso,” Sara calls as we enter the small concrete abode. Andrea, the homeowner, graciously welcomes us inside. She has prepared a spot in her tiny kitchen for the filter and her 15-year-old daughter is here to watch. The sand must fill the filter to a precise level, in different textures, from gravel to a finer grain. Sara explains each step and carefully cleans the clear output tube with bleach. Andrea listens closely and asks questions, pointing to the illustrated instruction brochure.

We talk with Andrea, again stretching my rudimentary Spanish. We admire her high school diploma on the wall, and the photos of Evelyn’s quincinera. Her face is open and appreciative, and she tells us proudly about her 4 children. When it is time to go, I wish good health and God’s blessings to Andrea. She squeezes her face to mine, kisses me on the cheek, and with tears in our eyes we embrace.

As we pick our way through the muck toward the bus, our hearts are warm with love for Andrea and all these dear people in Aguas Negras.

not a drop to drink

On Monday I wake up to a strange roaring noise, and it takes me a while to realize that the sound is a torrential tropical rain. It pours in sheets from the sky, drips from flat palm branches, pools in the sand.

The irony is not missed on me that we are here to help the Dominican people find clean water, yet endless gallons of it are gushing from the heavens. What’s wrong with saving rainwater? I am told contamination is the problem. People do collect free agua from the sky – indeed, we have seen black collection tanks on top of many homes. Rain pours down the corrugated roofs, into gutters, through pipes, and into tanks. But it carries bird poop, rust, dirt, and mosquito larvae.

I sit with Mom and Dad on their patio to think, journal, and watch the rain. This is a luxury I am not accustomed to, and I begin to feel restored.

la casa de Francisco

We approach our host’s home with a bit of trepidation because we have met Francisco and we know he speaks no English. A honk from our driver opens the iron gate. This house is outside the city, but the neighborhood still feels tightly packed and perhaps unsafe. We drive into a small courtyard surrounded by a tall concrete wall. Francisco’s wife Veronica greets us on the charming front patio, framed by an arched entrance. Two giggling children join the greetings – Francisco (8) and Gabriella (6). Their sister Natalia (12) is sleeping at a friend’s house.

Veronica leads us to her daughters’ room – Mom and Dad will sleep on Natalia’s double bed and I get Gabriella’s single with the pink Barbie bedspread. We gather in the lovely, tile-floored sitting room. The children are in their pajamas, giddy with excitement. Four Chihuahuas bark ferociously at the screened back door.

Our conversation flows in its own funny, broken way – with hand gestures and a mixture of words in Spanish and English. “How you…together?” Veronica attempts, pointing back and forth between me and Mom and Dad. I reply, “Mi esposo esta el hijo de ellos.” And in case there is any confusion, I add, “Y tambien, ellos son abuelo y abuela de mis ninos.” I don’t know if my sentences are entirely correct, but I can’t help thinking of how proud my high school Spanish teacher, Senor Fierros, would be right now. Words I learned in 1985 are still in my head somewhere! However, I soon realize my strenuous attempt at fluency might have been a mistake. While I have been imagining a muy bien from el maestro, Veronica has misunderstood my competence and has spoken about 4 more sentences, of which I understand about 3 words.

She serves us tamarindo juice, and habitueles con dulce – a warm puree of beans with milk, sugar, and cinnamon. Francisco encourages us to crumble crispy dried yuca on top. It is 10:30 and we are ready to fall flat from exhaustion. After our dessert, Francisco offers the use of their Internet, and I am glad for the chance to e-mail home. The Internet service seems temperamental and Veronica has to reboot the computer a couple of times. She shrugs and says “Is normal.” I see a Facebook icon on her desktop, and together we solidify our new friendship on the global social network. After that, to bed, where Dad’s sleep apnea machine hisses softly across the room and we all sleep soundly until the 4 am rooster call.

At a more reasonable hour in the morning the three of us take turns showering and getting dressed before emerging from our room. We find the family up and about, all pajama-clad. Francisco enthusiastically greets us in his short blue bathrobe and shows us around his fantastic backyard. It is not all that big, but grows an amazing assortment of tropical delights – mango, banana, coconut, lime, avocado, and cashews. Inside, Veronica has prepared a typical Dominican breakfast (she says this is very special because she does not usually cook). We enjoy strong Santo Domingo coffee, eggs with ham, papaya, mango, yuca, batata (like a sweet potato), and mangu (mashed plantains with butter). We present host gifts, play with the children, play with a Chihuahua puppy, take some photos, and then it is time for adios.

After a busy Rotary project fair at another location, we return to the hotel around 3 pm. It is Superbowl Sunday but we cannot find a TV in any common areas. I make a quick, expensive call home on my cell phone and end up missing my family even more.

pick some perfect peppers

Another very long drive brings us to the town of Moca. Here, we visit an agricultural co-op, consisting of two very large plastic greenhouses filled with the most beautiful bell peppers I have ever seen.

The produce is farmed organically, with very little water, and the farmer passionately and painstakingly describes his business to us, with the help of an English translator. But by now our eyes are crossing with exhaustion. I walk away thinking I must have dreamt up these perfect rows of perfect pepper plants, each climbing up its own white string toward a hazy plastic sky.

Again with the driving, and now we have been on the road or meeting new people for about 10 hours. Mercifully, we are driven back to Santiago to a beautiful garden setting. Dinner is catered and the Rotario members gather to make merry with us. They hold their formal weekly meeting with all 15 of us sitting up front, the language translations of course doubling the time. Afterwards, we are driven to the homes of Rotary members who will host us overnight.

La Vega

After leaving the La Mosca barrio, we are hot, tired, hungry, and emotionally fragile. But our day has only just begun. We drive out of Santiago to La Vega. I'm not sure how far away this is, but it seemed like a very long drive. We stop once to fill the car with gas, and José gets back in the driver's seat with a bottle of El Presidente beer. He grins, takes a swig, and we are back on the road.

We pass a few open shed-like buildings with a large gathering of men inside and motorcycles parked all around. José tells us this is the "fighting of the roosters." When we tell him what we call that in America, he spends the next few miles working on his pronunciation of "cock fight."

Soon we pull up at an open community pavilion just off a dusty road on a beautiful mountainside. A local Rotary community club has gathered there to tell us about their projects and to feed us a snack. Ladies beautifully present crackers and cheese on a lace tablecloth and offer Pepsi and homemade passionfruit juice. After a small meeting and the exchange of Rotary greetings and banners, we hike down the hill to visit homes that have received the HydrAid water filters.

The path is steep and rocky, the homes modest and neat. Three different families proudly show us the large blue plastic filters standing in their kitchens. One is an older couple, with pots of bright flowers outside the entrance to their tiny thatched-roof house. They allow Rotary leaders to inspect the filter, assuring that all parts are in working order. The husband tells us that before the filter was installed, he had a constant sick stomach and skin problems. Now he is in great health and we are charmed by the sparkle in his eye. The wife says they use the filtered water for drinking and bathing. She leads us to her outdoor cooking fire, where she has prepared fried yuca root for us to enjoy.

Another house, extremely dark and small, and dirtier than the others, is home to a family with two children. These kids have a sad look on their faces unlike the happy kids of La Mosca. Inside, the family gathers for a photo around their filter, which is pouring water out at a fast rate into a large container. Dingy laundry hangs on a string in the front yard, cages hold ducks that provide eggs used for income, and a rickety outhouse looks strangely picturesque under a leaning palm tree. Again, we walk away painfully aware of our own excess.

things i wish i had brought

- English-Spanish dictionary (although my language skills have already vastly improved)
- small gifts for the children in the schools I have visited
- better walking shoes
- family photos to show my new amigos
- more memory cards for my camera
- my own pillow
- my husband and children

eating trash

Our first destination is in Cien Fuego, a barrio built against the garbage dump of the large city of Santiago. As we bump along the pitted dirt road in our air-conditioned SUV, we start to feel uncomfortable as we gaze out at the pitiful rows of makeshift homes. The living conditions worsen the closer we get to the dump, and finally we stop in a neighborhood aptly named "La Mosca" -- The Fly.

Crude shacks are lined up almost as far as the eye can see, and an enormous mountain of city trash looms above them. There is no running water or electricity to these homes, and we see women and children carrying buckets of "non-potable" water from a community faucet.

We are led to a concrete building--above the door is a painted sign: Programa Niños Con Una Esperanza. We have not been prepared for this and we have no idea what to expect. The room is filled with rows of Dominican children in bright blue T-shirts. The 15 of us are led to the front of the room as honored guests. As we pass the chidren, they smile at us with sparkling dark eyes, and some shyly wave. We reach the stage, turn around to face the more than 100 pairs of eyes, and are overwhelmed. Pastor Pablo, who runs the program, gets up to explain. These children cannot go to school, he says, because they do not have documented birth certificates. Most of them live with one relative or another and survive by picking plastic, paper, and metal out of the dump for recycling. Their meals come from what they find in the garbage as well. It is not uncommon for children to be run over by the garbage trucks or burned by trash fires.

Pablo started what he calls his school because he believes children should not work. He says when he meets these kids they are sin esperanza o sueños--without hope or dreams. He works to build their self-esteem, put healthy food in their bellies, and give them a future. The program serves 265 children now, and provides them one meal a day of bread and milk.

The small, rough concrete building with rusty-railed, uneven steps would probably be deemed uninhabitable in the U.S. Here, it is palatial. Pablo leads the children in songs of greeting: Yo tengo un amiga quien se llama Tara. Hola, Tara! Three children come forward to formally thank us for visiting them. Their faces are sweet, their smiles sincere. All of them give thanks to God for the hope they now have, and then come around for handshakes or hugs.

When we step outside to go back to the car, we step over water carrying all sorts of waste down the gutters of the dirt road. José has found a nearby corner store with bottled water, and hands us agua fria along with the warning to sanitize our hands and reapply repellent. Dengue fever is a serious problem in this area, along with multiple parasites, viruses, and bacteria.

I feel a bit sick as I leave the kids behind, with my water bottle in hand, money in pocket, skin sanitized, and mosquito repellent applied. I am amazed by Pastor Pablo's commitment to help these children, and I'm glad for the local Rotario Santiago Monumental members who fund his work. May God increase their workers and their funds.

Rotary motto: service above self

We gather for breakfast at 7, and as I eat sweet papaya and drink strong Santo Domingo coffee, I learn there are about 70 people in our service group. The vast majority are members of Rotary International here to inspect sites of water filters already installed, to learn more about the need for clean water, or to look for new projects for their clubs to sponsor. There are also students from Central Michigan University here to formulate business plans for the long-term commercial sustainability of the water projects. It's quite a team, with heads full of ideas and hearts full of compassion.

I am already reaching one of my goals on this trip: to understand more about how the parts fit together in my father-in-law's Rotary organization, Thirsting to Serve. Jim is the president of his Rotary district's clean water project, finding funding and partners to make clean water possible for families in Honduras, India, the Dominican Republic, among others. The effort requires many partnerships, as cooperation is needed to produce the water filters, research their effectiveness, ship them out, raise funds, reduce costs, and deliver to homes. During the hour-and-a-half drive to the city of Santiago, representatives of the different Rotary districts stand up on the bus and explain their parts of the water project.

At around 10 am we arrive at the towering Santiago monument to war heroes. Local Dominican Rotary groups are waiting to greet us and to drive us around town to see their service projects in progress. The heat is intense as they organize us into separate groups, and several shoeshine boys mill around asking for money.

Mom & Dad Van Dyke and I are paired up with Jose, a civil engineer, and he leads us to his Lexus while talking on his cell phone. Very soon we start to see the vast disparity between those who have dinero in this country and those who have not.

first impressions

Friday stars with a 3 am departure from my home to Chicago's Midway airport. Temperature: a mild 30 degrees. Color palette: varying shades of gray, black overcoats, dirty snow, pewter skies, and dark bare-branched trees.

A stop in Atlanta joins me up with another 30 or so people on this adventure. Many from Michigan, including Mom and Dad Van Dyke, some from Pennsylvania, and a few from Chicago. Energy levels are high, people are excited to meet others with the same passion for bringing clean water solutions to the world.

I doze off on the second flight until my seatmate wakes me up with a tap on the shoulder. "You wanted to see sunshine?" he says. "Take a look." Out the tiny porthole window, azure sky stretches endlessly. Below, dazzling sunlight reflects off the surface of the ocean. Verdant green hills are already visible as the large island comes into view. I realize I am seeing the Dominican Republic as well as Haiti, as the Puerto Plata airport is only 150 miles from Haiti's eastern border. My seatmate has told me earlier that he travels to the Dominican twice a year and he has never seen an airplane as large or as full as this one. "Must be all the humanitarian stuff going on," he mutters.

We land on the airport's one runway, exit the plane, speed through customs and immigration, and emerge outside into color, light, and heat. The over-80 degrees brings instant perspiration to us norteamericanos, but it is not long before our luggage is loaded on buses, tips are solicited, and we are on our way to the hotel.

Eager to learn more about this country, I watch the flashing images out the bus window. The landscape rolls by in hills and mountains, impossibly lush vegetation, fields of sugar cane, and tall palm trees. Concrete buildings painted in pastels, corrugated tin roofs, strung-out lines of laundry, coconut vendors, pickup trucks piled high with bananas. A busy scooter-washing station, barefoot children darting between cars, an entire family riding one motorcycle.

Election posters are everywhere, though voting time is in May. We pass a rum factory that has been in operation since 1888. A rocky cove is full of colorful windsurfers. We pull up to our hotel around 4 pm. After a group dinner in the dining hall and a text message home to let my family know all is well, I prepare groggily for bed.

Although a sign on the bathroom mirror clearly says the water is "no potable", old habits die hard. I start brushing my teeth, as I rinse, I recall the instructions not to let this water enter my mouth. A tourist guide I read earlier said in case of such an occurrence, one could kill the germs with vodka, and since my room comes handily equipped with a liquor dispenser, this seems the best fix. I fill a cup with vodka, dip my toothbrush in it, and swish some in my mouth. I do not recommend this.

After a long drink of water from the jug provided, I end this 20-hour day falling to sleep on a rock-hard bed, wishing I could share all these first impressions with David and the kids.