Man vs. Beast (written 9.30.09)

On my way to buy eggs and a Pepsi yesterday – yes, only the bare necessities – I came across a strange scene. A small group of campesinos were gathering around a dead donkey on the side of the road, with an identical but live and visibly flustered donkey waiting nearby. I asked what happened, and the general consensus was that the one had murdered the other. Stories as to how exactly that happened were less conclusive:

1) The one bit the other, and that killed it. (?) With no real visible flesh wounds, I discarded that as absolutely impossible.
2) The live, male donkey had been trying to mate with the recently deceased female donkey. She, unwilling, tried to get away, fell, and somehow broke her neck. This story seemed more likely, so I chose to accept it as valid.

This all happened, apparently, in the span of a few minutes, right before I left my house to do my shopping. How fragile life is! Also, I may not be a native, but I know enough by now to realize that the beast of burden was no pet, but rather a valuable source of labor to the now grieving owner – a really nice guy, who I patted on the shoulder and gave my condolences to as I walked past. I also had a brief interaction with the owner of the culprit, who muttered “that donkey’s crazy” as he walked past to lasso his liability.

Clearly the newly burro-less campesino had to be compensated, and whether it was from a lack of cold hard cash or designed as a slap in the face of ironic fate, he was awarded ownership of the offending beast. I suppose one hauls cacao and alimento for the pigs as well as the other, and that’s what matters in the end. Still, I can’t help but wonder if the transaction didn’t leave all parties feeling like a bit of an ass.

What’s my age again? (written 9.30.09)

A Haitian-Dominican friend of mine recently found himself asking the same question as Blink 182 did in their late 90s pop-punk smash song. This friend stopped by my house the other day to chat and maybe finagle some help with a homework assignment. Toward the beginning of our conversation, he said “Well, I guess you’ll be getting married right when you get back to the states”. Don’t worry, he’s not like THAT – and by that, I mean the Dominican men who don’t even know me who ask me similar questions with lecherous grins painted on their mouths. I told him, “Well, ya know, I’ll get married whenever I’m ready, but that’s not now. I might want to go back to school first.” We’ve had conversations about ambitions and families before, so I wasn’t surprised when he responded that he also wanted to finish school before starting a family (high-schoolers range in age from early teens to late 40s here). He continued, however, with something I wasn’t exactly expecting. He had always believed himself to be 25 (this year at least), and had even told me so in the recent past. I thought he looked a little older, but who am I to say such a thing. A recent review of his birth certificate, however, confirmed my doubts – he’s actually 30! This information was obviously very sobering to him, as he told me “yes, I’ve always told everyone I’m going to wait until I’m done with high-school and have a job before I get married, but apparently I don’t have as much time as I thought”. He was by no means despondent, and was cheered when I offered that you’re only as old as you feel and act. Still, I can’t imagine looking at my own birth certificate and finding out I’m 5 years older – that would make me almost 30 as well!