Sticks and Stones (written 5.21.09)

After much anticipation, grant writing, hurry-up-and-waiting, and endless community mobilizing, I was finally able to begin buying materials for the stoves this week. After going to the hardware store to get an estimate of how much money we would need to buy half the materials now, I traveled several cities and modes of transportation to the south in order to transfer the money from my account to that of the hardware store owners – 27,055 pesos, or 773 dollars, ¼ of our grant, gone in the blink of an eye. I felt satisfied knowing that I wouldn’t have to travel with this much cash on me, but it’s interesting how money flies so easily, even in the developing world. Especially in the developing world. Anyway, after this transfer, it was back to site to wait on the 5-6 large trucks that would be arriving in 2-3 days. That’s right, you heard correctly folks. I spend upwards of 1,000 U.S. in a country where that goes a long way, and can’t get a guaranteed arrival time, or even a date, for my materials. So I hurry-up and wait, something I’m very good at by now.

After a light afternoon rain, characteristic of the month of May here, my first truck showed up with a bed full of sand for mixing cement. We go house by house dropping the materials off, because I don’t trust that everyone would come pick their materials up from a central location before they could be stolen. On our way to our last stop, we’re flagged down by a dona who says there is another truck at her house, waiting on me to tell them where to go. So I hop off the sand truck and onto the bag-of-cement-sheets-of-zinc-1x4-rebar truck and make my rounds all over again. People seem in shock that materials have actually arrived, which I like to think is the reason they seemed somewhat ungrateful, saying things like “where’s the rest of it?” and “can’t you put it 5 feet to the left?” instead of “Oh gee, muchas gracias.” I have to remain positive, trying to see things from their point of view (which is, wow, this is actually happening, we might see this project through to the end), or else I will go crazy and feel less valued in equal but opposite proportion to the amount of work I put it.

At the end of yesterday’s deliveries, I felt tired but satisfied. I have been fretting for months about this material delivery business, and it wasn’t so hard after all. I waited around at home for several hours to see if another truck would show up, until about 5:00, when a heavy rain started and I thought they wouldn’t possibly send anything else for the day. I allowed myself a shower and a hot tea, and just as I was settling into the evening, a truck came roaring down the road in front of my house with about 300 cement blocks. I was expecting 300 cement blocks. But they didn’t stop in front of my house like the others had, and they roared by again about 15 minutes later with an empty truck, not so much as glancing in my direction. I hoped against hope that it was a coincidence…that someone else had recently ordered 300 cement blocks?

Too good to be true. I set my alarm for 8:00 this morning, as I had no idea when the next truck might show up, and as I was hitting the snooze at 8:15, an inappropriately happy voice, accompanied by large truck horns, summoned me from my little cabin to inform me that a truck full of sand had just roared past looking for me. I had just enough time to put on my glasses and Chaco’s before running to hop in the truck to make another round of deliveries. I found out that these same men, in fact, had left all the blocks at one woman’s house, and had to coax them into delivering them separately after we dropped off the sand. It was a trabajo fuerte – hard work – but that’s what we had previously agreed to, and I have recently promised myself never again to be stepped on by a Dominican man, if I can at all help it. By 9:45 we had everything sorted out, and I was able to go home, shower, and put a little sustenance in my already tuckered out body. All that’s missing now is 120 cement blocks and another truck of fine sand.

My daily routine, for the past 48 hours, has been conformed to the coming and going of trucks full of sand, cement, zinc, rebar, and wood. Depending on what I’m in the middle of (like shampooing my hair or eating lunch), I feel a certain sense of panic when I hear the sound of gravel being tossed willy-nilly by a truck-driver who has a certain self-assumed similarity to Jeff Gordon (he’s a Nascar guy, right?) Even sitting here now, calmly typing this story, I wince when I hear them coming over the hill. What can I say? I am a product of my upbringing, my familiar environment, and in America, we do this kind of stuff on a schedule!

Of course, now that materials are arriving, everyone and their brother wants a stove. They literally tell me “inscribame!” Sign me up! And I can do little but gawk at them, shake my head with my lips sassily puckered, and tell them “too late!” I spent months trying to mobilize a group of 20-25 people to come to 3 meetings, getting their word that they would pay 500 pesos (not really that big of a sacrifice – the same as a week’s worth of food for 2-3 people) and it’s been like pulling teeth. I’m not sure what exactly were the main contributors to their reluctance – wariness that I would take their money and run? Maybe it wouldn’t be the first time that someone of a higher economic echelon had duped them. But be that as it may, I’m not here just to give. I’m here to work with the community, and sometimes I feel all they want me for is to give them stuff. The kids demand little things – “Give me a pencil! Give me something to drink! Give me a candy! Give me a book!” – and the adults ask for more. “Give me your necklace, give me a stove, find me a white girlfriend.” I try to remain positive, and think of the real, worthwhile connections I’ve been able to forge with a discouragingly small portion of my community. These relationships are what counts, and all the rest is just sticks and stones.