Dear diary, on my MAlt trip I...

Author: [no author name found]

MEXICO/ARIZONA

A group of twenty migrants comes in, maybe more. All at once, all of us grabbing mugs and switching to Spanish. We finally get all of them some chairs, burritos, all that. I've had groups that wanted nothing but water and a place to sit but this one was particularly tired, I could see it in their eyes. They stay for a while and I start washing dishes. I come out to see Lisa speaking English to a tall man who speaks softly, showing her pictures of his kids riding on tricycles and toddlers hugging his legs. They're back in Oregon, he says. He shows pictures of his house, modest with a green lawn, and brick landscaping he put in himself - because then he could afford it. He lends out his calling card to another migrant who was robbed by a man with a gun at the border then starts making the rounds to thank us before he leaves. I come out of the bathroom, my hands covered in dirty coffee grains from the dishes and he sticks out his hand and shows that same soft smile. I hesitate and tell him my hands are wet and gross from the dish-water. He looks back at me and smiles warmly and says not to worry, "Mine are dirtier." Then he shook it and left.

Friday came fast. Itineraries and Highs-and-Lows and night shifts, abnormal sleeping patterns and the (very) occasional shower, my sense of time is thrown off. The week went by fast, but it's got this really long feeling at the same time - like enough has happened to make it feel like I've been here, and I could almost say "lived here" for months. Maybe years…I feel like I've seen so much while being at the center, sitting next to them when they're so vulnerable like that, hearing what they have to say. It has made me….I don't know, softer. It's gotten me down to that softest part of me. While I've taken so much from all the things I've seen here, seeing the scared face of a fifteen-year- old boy sitting across from me, holding all he's got in a clear bag, and seeing my brother. Fifteen, too. While just that's been worth every lost hour of sleep and everything, it's been incredible to see everyone here with me experience it all too, to see their reactions, the way their eyes grow big or what they've got to say while we're on a blanket going around the circle. I guess I've experienced and understood a lot of this trip through the people here with me as much as I've been using my own eyes. And I think that's really valuable. Having chamomile tea just hours before our morning shift, laughing about Cedar saying something about dolphins, hearing everyone and feeling the hot mug, together, understanding and experiencing it at the same time, it has made the trip for me. - Brian Watroba '11

DOMINICAN REPUBLIC: COMMUNITY PHOTOGRAPHY

Seven ball, corner pocket. Next, the four, side pocket. Then the three, banked off the opposite rail into the corner. Finally, in the same pocket, the eight ball, bounced off three rails for effect. Easy.

I wish I could say that I was the one who made these shots, running the table and ensuring the lasting embarrassment of my opponents, but I wasn't. No, I was the one leaning against the damp wall of a "colmado" in the mountains of the Dominican Republic and watching, dumbfounded, as my challenger ran the table while I missed every shot. My opponent smiled to himself as he racked up the pool balls for another game, hopefully against a more competent player.

As one of the Dominican men who ringed the table stepped forward to take my cue, I glanced out towards the muddy road. Past the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool area, the rain seemed to veil the vibrant greens of the forest and dim fried-food outlet across the street, where a faint fluorescent light was just starting to flicker. When it rains in the Dominican Republic, everything stops. After all, why go outside when you would only get wet and muddy? Occasionally a motorcycle would roar by, but not much else.

The relatively busy colmado - a sort of bar/pool hall/dance floor, was an exception, a party started thanks to the presence of Americans in town for the week. We were in the colmado to relax, dance, and have fun. Gradually the local residents filled up the area, drawn by the endless bachata and merengue music that signaled the beginning of a party. With the onset of the music and the dancing, I lost my already tenuous sense of time, only vaguely sensing the gray light's gradual thickening into night. At some point, a fluorescent light came on, throwing the pool player's shadows across the tables. Behind me, rain dripped from the tin roof into a puddle on the ground.

Standing in the semi-darkness of the colmado, I remembered what a friend had said to me the day before-that the first time you really visit a third-world country, that you spend time there and see beyond the tourist spots, is an unforgettable experience.

All I could think was that here, amidst the dancing and the pool and the rainy night, it was the U.S. that seemed like the third-world, not the Dominican Republic. After learning the stories of the children from the community through photos and interviews, their lives and those of the other members of the community became more real and tangible than anything I could think of from the so-called "first world." What I had deemed important the week before was so distant that I couldn't really remember it, and the U.S. was only an idea, and not a very interesting one at that. It was one of those moments that we search for when we travel - the moment when, if someone asked you to go back to the country that you had left, you would never want to. - Sean Dennison '11

DOMINICAN REPUBLIC: AGRICULTURE

Dominicans do not like working in the rain. As the mist rolls up the mountains and the sky opens up with big fat drops falling on the lush tropical forest paths, they will stay in their homes. As we gringos pass in our colorful raincoats, shouting "hola," they shake their heads and chuckle bemusedly.

Dominicans have an interesting, somewhat vague sense of time. Take ahora and "ahorita" for example. In Dominican they can mean anything from "in a while" to "soon" to "eventually, we'll see" - certainly not their literal translations of now or right now. In fact, it was not uncommon for our friends to use the past tense to describe actions that would happen in the near future, emphasizing something that was happening immediately. We heard many yells of nos fuimos (we left!) just before groups of Dominicans decided to get up and go about their business.

Our MAlt trip focused on sustainable agriculture and coffee farming and took place on the farm of Alta Gracia in the mountainous northern region of the Dominican Republic. We were based in a town called Los Marranitos, which a small village comprised of clusters of houses of both Dominicans and Haitians on the sides of a very steep dirt road. The landscape was green in every direction, with the stunning forested mountains of the Cordilla Central on all sides and views of the small city of Jarabacoa in the valley below. Food was fresh and delicious, and copious amounts of coffee were available - a simple but delicious luxury.

When the rain interrupted our coffee picking or community garden work plans, as it did on two of our work-days, we found other things to do.

We hiked up through the hills to the village's water source, picked passionfruit, starfruit and tomates de arbol, visited a bamboo school where locals learn the trade of growing and making bamboo furniture, read to neighborhood kids, or tried our hand at pottery in the Taíno Native-inspired art center near the farm. In the evenings, we would either stay in to play cards and dominoes (hugely popular in the Dominican Republic) or go out dancing merengue and bachata. Even the six-year-old son of our cook could dance, and sometimes treated the girls of the group to a dance before breakfast.


- Rowan Braybrook '09.5 and Annabelle Fowler '10

SAN FRANCISCO

I'm sitting in a fish theater next to Rachel, the seven year old I'm tutoring. We're staring at the fish tank from our velvety-soft seats. "That one's fat and ugly," I say, jokingly. "Don't judge the fish," she scolds, reading off one of the many purposely coffee-stained signs that decorate the Pirate Supply storefront whose profits support this writing center.

I've been working with Rachel at 826 Valencia, a writing center in San Francisco, all week - she's incredibly bright, and enjoys doing her homework backwards while consuming Oreo snacks one after another, the way some college students down energy drinks. Marisa, an 826 employee, encourages me to write a story with her to submit to the "young writers' wall," a shrine to those tutees who exceed the expectations of their teachers by writing inspired non-required essays, poetry, and fiction.

Although only six students can be featured on the wall at a time, I'm impressed with all the tutees and how well-behaved they are considering the freedom they're allowed, the endless sugary snacks they demolish, and the fact that they've been cooped up in classrooms all day.

The other MAlt participants and I have been enjoying the busy city's 60-70 degree heat - tropical in contrast to Middlebury's single-digit depressing cold. This week of February break has improved my winter mood tremendously - the only equivalent elixir might be running on a treadmill under a SAD lamp, listening to John Mellencamp hits. Not only is the weather wonderful here, but the children, though tiring at times, say funny things and remind me of my humanity - it wasn't long ago that I was struggling through pre-algebra.

We have also volunteered at the Glide Memorial soup kitchen for early morning breakfasts, and at the San Francisco Food Bank sorting goods to be driven to programs that help families in need. During our short hours off work we have napped, explored the DeYoung museum and the shopping district, enjoyed burritos at the "best taqueria in the whole world," and consumed gelato nearly to the point of abuse.

The other Malt participants seem to be enjoying the city. I've helped show them the distinctive neighborhoods and laid-back quality of the west coast many of them have never experienced. I'm from San Francisco - I went to school here - yet I'm even more enamored by the city the longer I'm on this trip. Volunteering has made me more impressed with the constructive kindness people like David from the soup kitchen or Jory of 826 display through their enduring commitment to their respective organizations. Jory has been working at 826 Valencia almost as long as it has been around, and though he goes home exhausted, I overhear him say that he can't envision his life without the organization that's become a second home to both student and teacher.

826 feels like home to me, too. I'm encouraged to express a sense of humor here, and Rachel enjoys that. As we gaze absentmindedly at long skinny fish and fat ones swimming lazily, I know she appreciates my company, and that maybe I'll get to help her write a story, find a place on the Young Writers Wall, and achieve the same sense of pride I feel sitting here with her. - Miranda Tsang '09