I often remember a quote from one of my favorite teachers in high school, Ina Baker, when I’m stuck between making a buying decision. She always said, “You vote with your dollar.” We have the ability to help promote the longevity of a business or brand by purchasing more of a product, and conversely, contributing to its demise by not buying.

People beg for money on the streets here quite frequently. My usual rule is that since I don’t know where the money goes, I don’t give out money, or I try to give food instead if indeed that’s what they’re asking. I make exceptions when the person seems out of place, i.e. someone who seems unaccustomed to begging (maybe meaning they really do need the money), and I realize it’s a completely different story when someone is selling something on the street. This person is not begging, no, they are trying to make an honest living by spending their time working. Instead of asking for money, they are doing business.

I love to support people who work hard. Often, when I’m in the communities I’ll buy food or drinks or something else from an associate of Esperanza because I believe it helps to promote what Esperanza and HOPE International believe: a sustainable way out of poverty comes from improving a person’s economic condition.

Walking to the supermarket this past Saturday evening, a voice next to the shopping carts called out to me “Quiere bolas de maiz, a 5 pesos?” (Do you want corn balls, 5 pesos each? – about US $0.15 each) I had my agenda, my shopping list ready, so I paid little attention to the young man, and walked into the air conditioned store.

I had just spent $1,600 pesos (about US $40) for some food for the week and had about nine grocery bags in my hands. I heard a voice from the shopping carts again. Something about the meekness in his tone struck me and made me stop to pause my route back home. A young man walked out from the shadows and I could see in his hands a medium-sized tin bowl covered in saran wrap were a pile of fried corn balls.

I felt compelled to buy from him. I wanted to continue what he was doing. Honest work, hard work, at night, in a place that was lonely and challenging. Shoppers were spending thousands of pesos on food, and he was asking just 5 pesos for his home-made goods that most likely his mother made and asked him to sell.

So with nine grocery bags in hand, I reached in to get my wallet. He offered to help me hold the bags. I saw a $25 peso coin and two $5 peso coins. I really didn’t want five of the fried corn balls, and I didn’t want to overpay him (because that’d be too obvious), so I got the two $5 pesos out and asked him for two. He gladly took the money and wrapped the fried corn balls in napkins and gently placed them in one of my bags.

I felt satisfied, but guilty for not buying $25 pesos worth from him, and continued my way back home, wondering how long he was going to stand there selling his home-cooked fried corn balls in front of the massive shopping center in the night by himself.

I know that next time, I’m going to vote for him with my pesos.

I live two blocks from a park by the sea. It’s not a forest though, it’s more like a beach. A beach that’s open to everyone. It’s free, it’s fun, and it’s family friendly.

I spend a lot of time there, mostly playing sand volleyball. You may ask why I don’t go there to swim. Nobody does, the water isn’t safe because of the amount of local pollution and runoff from the close proximity to the city. But that’s beside the point; I go there to play volleyball in my bare feet.

Onlookers marvel at the two pristine courts complete with poles, nets, and lined boundaries. Dominicans comment that in a city that struggles with immense traffic jams when there is even the slightest bit of rain, two uncompleted unsightly apartment/shopping towers nearby, and plenty of old buildings that should be but can’t afford to be razed, at least we have excellent sand volleyball courts.

Normally I just kick off my flip flops and get in line. Yes, you usually have to wait in line because someone is always on the court. I have a ball, which is an advantage for me, because it usually means I get to play, and even though I’m a bit taller than 6’3″ I still can’t spike the ball well. A local young women’s volleyball team has taken it up themselves to teach me how to “Matala, no son de tu familia!” (Kill it “the ball” they aren’t your family).

Most of those waiting in line are eligible volleyball players. They’re loud, aggressive, and fit the height requirements, but there are always those, usually small kids that are relegated to the sidelines to chase the balls. I’d be cast off as well if I didn’t have my height or my ball and a little bit of athleticism.

This past Tuesday night we had a group in town visiting the schools we work with. Even though it was late in the evening, we all went down to my second home, Playa Guibia, to play some volleyball.

Good thing I had my ball, because after a local crew bowed out for the evening, we were able to continue playing.

I noticed that our ball boy for the evening spent his time alternating between making sand angels and swimming in the sand, but when the ball rocketed past the boundaries from a spike or an errant hit (much more likely) – our friend immediately stood up and went on running for it. He sped off in its direction and returned with ball and looked like, well, you know, an 8 year old boy who’s overjoyed to have a chance to participate. I mean, each time he brought back the ball, it was like he was being given an opportunity to be involved in the game of adults. He had a job. He had a purpose.

I spotted him all over the courts. If he wasn’t making sand angels, he was building castles or subdivisions to those castles. (It was pretty clear he was astute in both ancient and modern residential architecture). He seemed very busy, but nevertheless he was happy to be interrupted, always happy to play with us.

As the night went on, I thought to myself that his parents must wonder where he is, and would frown at him dirtying up his pants with his chorus of angels across the sand, but then it dawned on me, that he didn’t have parents, or at least, ones that cared where he was at 11 at night. He asked me for 5 pesos (about 15 cents) and I told him he deserved more for being a good player and fetching us the ball.

So when the Americans finally got tired and started getting ready to leave, he came to collect his fee. But he wasn’t begging, no, he just wanted to be involved in the game, to be able to play like any 8 year old should. In total, he got 20 pesos, and turned down an offer for a bottle of water. He slinked away and headed back out to his vast playground.

I took a look at the ball I held. It showed signs of serious wear, in fact, the stitching started to bulge where the inexpensive ball took too many hits from my training session with the young women’s volleyball team, which for the record, are still trying to get me to spike it correctly.

I looked at the ball, and then my friend making the rounds in his subdivisions, fleet of angels, and castles in the sand. I called him over.

Holding out the ball, I asked, “Mira ‘manito, tu la quieres?” (Hey little brother, do you want this?)

“Que?” (What?)

“La pelota, tu la quieres? Te la regalo.” (The ball, do you want it? I’ll give it to you.)

Two dirty hands reached out and took hold of something so prized, so valuable, so unattainable for an 8 year old of his stature:

free admission to every future volleyball game.

. . .

A friend and I got a coca-cola and sat down before heading home.

I looked over to the court where we played and I saw a young man finally playing with the big boys. Half their size, he was dwarfed by giants around him, and even though he couldn’t get that ball over the net, it didn’t matter, he didn’t get booted off.

This was his game now, because it was his ball, and you know what? He looked like what an 8 year-old should look like: happy and playing with the big boys.

It’s an election year for Dominicans, and it’s nearly impossible to go anywhere in the capital, or really anywhere in the country without being visually assaulted by yet another political slogan or image. My favorite form of political advertising has become the fleet of converted commercial trucks with stacks of concert speakers blaring out political dance music at 1,000 of decibels. Many are hoping that with the actual elections being next month, the fervent political activity will die down, but others tell me, that it’ll never cool down, it just means half the population will still be angry, and wait another four years before the next beacon of hope emerges.

Politics, to me, has always seemed like a sport where there’s really only two rivalries. Fans wear the colors, check the stats on the internet, attend the events, and like to bring it up in conversation and put down the other team. Even though I consider myself willing and able to talk about anything, I’ve always tried to stay out of that world. Maybe it’s because I don’t like the banter, or that I’m slightly pessimistic that anything will really change for the average citizen apart from real and dedicated involvement in community and local government. Still, my apathy hasn’t precluded me from taking up an opportunity when it arises.

“Llego Papa!” is the slogan of the PLD political party. It means “Papa has arrived!” and it’s a reference to former president Hipólito Mejía who was president from 2000 to 2004, a man regarded by many as having a father-like style to leadership. During that time, the Dominican economy experienced one of it’s worst economic downturns in recent history with inflation going from 1 Dollar to 16 Pesos, to 1 Dollar to 60 pesos. The reality was that millions of Dominicans took substantial hits to their savings and investments. Depending on which side you’re on, this was either the result of the crash of global economy after Sept. 11 or the government’s mismanagement. Currently, the exchange rate and is 1 Dollar to 39 pesos, and Dominicans will say that the government is still corrupt.

On our way up to Santiago for a meeting on the morning of April 13th, the microfinance director, Pedro Lacen, and I made a stop at a popular rest area on the highway going North. I had just returned from the restroom and Pedro mentioned, “Llego Papa!” I chuckled and asked for clarification: “Really? Papa himself? Or just his campaign of people?”

“No, really, he’s here!”

. . .

“I want to go see him!” I said with excitement.

See,  given the opportunity to meet any US president or world leader I would do it, but in this case, we were running late, and all I wanted was to check to see if Papa was in the building.

Hipólito (Papa), in fact was sitting in a private room doing an interview with a TV station. I stood there and marveled at this celebrity, a glimpse of a fame, and quietly walked out, content with a smile on my face.

Pedro, turns out, was talking to the head of Hipólito’s security, ex-General Carlos Díaz Morfa, and said, “This American really really wants to meet Hipólito.” (I dunno if I’d say “really” I mean, we were running late, and I was already nervous because I snuck up to the window to take a look. Morfa spoke to me in English and asked me what I do in the country. I explained to him that I was a volunteer with a Christian microfinance organization focused on alleviating poverty throughout the country.

“Oh! Wow! Well, Hipólito definitely wants to meet you! Give me a second.”

I’m standing there waiting, wondering what’s going to happen next. Meanwhile, Pedro accepts a phone call and walks away. Morfa returns and says to me, “Come in and sit down, we’re about to leave but Hipolito would like to meet you.”

I turn around and motion to Pedro, I’m about to head into the private meeting room. I walk past a lot of security: guys with firearms at their side or their belt, walkie talkies and security headsets with the cables in their ear.

Morfa pulls up a chair and sets it about three feet from Hipólito. The man sitting next to Hipólito stares at me without any emotion and waits for me to break my gaze; I’m pretty sure this is a security check. I set down my backpack.

Hipolito had just finished his breakfast, so he sets down his napkin turns to me and says in English, “So where are you from?” offering a smile.

I answer him that I’m from Richmond, VA which is pretty close to Washington D.C.

He remarks that “Oh, I spent two years studying in Raleigh, NC and I’ve been to Richmond, it’s a great city. A lot of history!” Hipolito makes an interesting turn of conversation, and compliments our country’s openness to diversity in electing an African-American president. (I’m really unaware of what this significance means, finding out later that he’s trying to make up for a public misstep where a previous quote about the president had been construed the other way.)

At this point, I’m not sure what I should say, but I’m never one who lacks words or ready small talk fodder, so I feel like I should follow-up with a bit of local trivia about Richmond, namely that Steven Speilberg just finished filming a movie about Abraham Lincoln there. I’m impressed that even in my nervous chatter, I manage to accurately speak of Richmond’s recent and ongoing fame, all the while in Spanish.

I’m not sure if they are equally moved by RVA’s current limelight, but Hipólito acknowledges this fun fact and continues “What is it that you do here?”

I answer him in Spanish explaining that I volunteer for a Christian organization called Esperanza and we help people in poverty by making small loans enabling them to start small business. Both he and his right hand man are impressed this time, and he makes the comment in Spanish “Well, he talks with a Dominican accent, not so much of a gringo accent does he?

I just got complimented by a former Dominican president on my Spanish. I think to myself that I have finally arrived . . .

Pedro, outside of the breakfast room, has finished his phone call and made his way past security. He comes up taps me up on the shoulder and reminds me, “We need to get a picture.” That’s right! I remember. I’m so nervous and jittery, at this point, I could probably be convinced of anything.

I introduce Pedro, the Microfinance Director, to the former president, and they shake hands. The obvious contrast of a volunteer introducing the director to a former president makes me laugh.

I ask Hipólito if we can take a picture and he agrees. I reach for my backpack next to me and think that all of his security are probably drawing their weapons and aiming at me. I smile and just proceed slowly. I certainly don’t want a scuffle this early in the day.

Out emerges my camera and I set it on automatic. I want to ensure that this picture comes out well. Pedro starts looking confused with the camera. The thing about a DSLR is that the LCD screen usually isn’t illuminated in live view mode. So you have to look through the viewfinder to see. Now he’s fumbling with the camera looking for the button. I’m sitting there next to the former president of the country and his right hand man, and thinking, “Oh goodness, I can’t believe this is going South. . . I just hope he doesn’t get impatient and leave!”

Finally, the pictures snaps, and it’s clear that Hipolito and Co. have to go. I shake his hand, and he adds that it was a pleasure to meet us and that we should keep on doing good work here in the country.

I tell him good luck and God Bless!

We walk past the security again as Hipólito does a few more meet and greets. Morfa is waiting for us outside.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

Obviously, I’m elated. Meeting a former president was a surreal experience, and even though I was incredibly nervous, I know it was success. Morfa starts joking with me about being star-struck, and I continue on that streak just thanking Morfa for the opportunity to meet Hipolito. I get introduced to a few more people of the campaign, and then Pedro and I make our way back to the car.

At that moment, I’m not really sure what just happened. I’m smiling though. Still pretty excited from the encounter. Pedro punches me in the arm and says, “Look at this Gringo, ready to join Papa’s campaign!”

Well, I dunno about that.

Me, I’m just staring out the window as we drive away looking at the campaign signs for “Llego Papa!” and I think to myself, “I just had breakfast with that guy . . . ”

I do miss driving. I don’t have a car here, nor the desire to acquire one. Where I need to go I can get to via public transport and the occasional taxi. It’s quite clear though, that if you’ve got a car here, you’re someone of importance. In the States, if you’ve got a really nice car, then you’re considered important. Here, if you’ve got a relatively new car, it usually means you’re important and you’ve got money.

In my life here, I’m trying to completely sidestep this prerequisite for social acceptance by pulling the “gringo card” and using Dominican slang to show that not only am I a foreigner, but I’ve made significant efforts to be a part of the culture. So far it’s worked pretty well.

Any dates I’ve been on have been walkable, or taxiable. It does change the conversation when you can’t say, “I’ll pick you up around 7:00,” but you can say “My driver will pick you up at 7:00.” (Just don’t tell her that it’s Apolo Taxi, and make sure the driver takes away his taxi placard.)

So I’m sitting in this taxi last week talking to the driver about a wide range of topics. It’s true that Dominicans are usually very sociable and could talk about anything for an hour. I feel at home in that respect by the way, but one must note that Dominican taxi drivers take that skill to a whole new level. This guy was hitting just about every cultural topic between here and a kilometer, and deftly maneuvering his tiny Japanese made car through bad roads and aggressive drivers who cut us off.

Both of us see a luxury car fly past us, one that doesn’t belong on this kind of road, and he makes the comment that so many people waste their money into cars like that. He does a few calculations for gas, insurance, and repairs, and “Before you know it,” hey says, “You’re driving around in a mortgage.”

I tell him though, that I don’t think that stuff is really important. Sure, I love cars; in fact, I’d willingly accept a donation of the Audi A7 featured left, but deep down I miss driving my ’98 Honda Accord.

He goes on to say that he’s quite comfortable in his tiny Japanese car and he doesn’t care what people think. He goes through the repair record, or rather, lack of one, saying that this current car has given him less problems in 3 years than that of a troublesome vehicle he had for about 6 months.

He comments about how when he and his girlfriend go out, he can park the car, “On just about every street, or corner. I see a space, and then I’m like ‘whoop . . done’ and we’re parked. Then holding hands going to get some food.”

“But you know what?” he adds, “A car doesn’t fill me. No, a car doesn’t do that for me. It’s more important the people I have in my life and the kind of life I live. This car doesn’t break the bank, it allows me to save, takes me everywhere I need to go, and my beautiful girlfriend, well, she just likes to be with me. And she doesn’t like driving around looking for parking either.”

Again, I’m struck by the purity of life down here. The clarity that comes with not just having less, but having more foresight into what’s really important.

Like everything though, it’s a process, and it’s not like any of us don’t have desires for things like cool cars.

You just have to know what fills you, and keep choosing that.

I arrived early to San Cristobal and sat down in the park. A light breeze wafted over the area bringing smells of bread and the fruit being sold on the corner. A lot of people were mingling about and some said “good morning” to me. Back home, people have told me I am fairly approachable, so quite often I found myself in conversations with complete strangers. An other occasions, people have told me that I talk a lot. Well, by one way or another, I find my fare share of public conversation.

In this country, being a tall gringo (here it’s an endearing term) it’s easy to play the game “One of These Things is Not Like the Others” and it usually means I’ve got money in my pocket just waiting to exchanged for some good or service in the local informal economy – at least that’s how I’m seen.

A mainstay of the informal economy are the shoe shiners. Kids carry large emptied tin cans, or small wooden toolboxes around with them hawking their services to anyone who’ll listen. I usually wear sandals outside of work, so I’m immune to the marketing, but in this case, my brown shoes, not all that scuffed in my opinion, have caught the attention of a young man.

“Can I shine your shoes? 10 pesos.”

He’s willing to clean and shine my shoes for 30 cents. He looks like a decent young man. School backpack on his back. Clean clothing. A smile showing all his teeth. But what I notice is that he speaks with dignity and peace. There’s no quick sell, no hurry, no emotional guilt.  After over a year here in the DR of dodging shoe shiners, I finally comply.

“What’s your name young man?”

“Ariberto. What’s yours?”

“Aaron. So tell me, why aren’t you in school?”

“I go to school after lunch. I work in the mornings to help my mother, and then I go home to have lunch, and then I go to school.”

“Oh ok. So how big is your family?”

“I’m the oldest. I have two brothers, one sister. But my dad is sick. He used to be a watchman for a bank, but he got diabetes and his foot swelled up really big, so he can’t work, he can’t even walk that well. So to help mom, I have to work.”

“Do you want some of this?” (I offer him so food.)

“No that’s ok. I ate. I buy breakfast in the morning when I’m out in the streets.”

He spoke slowly, honestly, and with intention. Quite eloquent I must say, with a gentle cadence to his delivery. I pay him 20 pesos, because I believe him, and I don’t want him to have to make change.

I doubt 30 more cents would help me more than that family he comes from, and certainly in light of the fact that he refused food because he already bought breakfast. A small part of my cracks inside when I think about him having to buy his own breakfast. For whatever reason he does it, or has to do it, it just makes me sad.

. . .

I’m still waiting there in the park. Not much to do, but just taking it all in. About 10-15 minutes later, Ariberto comes back and asks if he can sit down next to me. I say sure. I can tell he just wants to feel some peace in the morning amidst the noise on the streets of commerce. Maybe I’m one of the few gringos who actually talks to him. People have told me I’m approachable . . . haha.

We start talking about life. He asks me what I do. He says that’s a good thing to help people who need it. I ask Ariberto what he’d like to do in the future. He’s not sure. He doesn’t really think about it. He mostly thinks about each day ahead of him. But someday he’d like to own his own business. I’m convinced that for a 10 year old, he is very mature.

I ask him if he goes to a church. He says, yes of course and he likes it too. I asked him if he believes in God, “yes.” And Jesus? “yes.”

“And the Holy Spirit too. It’s a Trinity you know.” – Ariberto responds.

I like this kid. He’s smart and clever to boot.

“Well you know Ariberto, God has a lot planned for you.” I say. He smiles. I continue,

“I know that he’s got a great future planned for you. You know he’s got big plans for all of us, it’s like Jeremiah 29:11 says “He knows the plans he has for us.” In fact, that’s the verse we use for Esperanza.”

For a second, I think Ariberto enjoys sitting there, not having to be the big brother, not having so much responsibility, not having to work in the morning to help his family, to buy his own breakfast, to carry the world on his shoulders.

We sit there in silence. Make some jokes. More silence. Ariberto politely excuses himself. He’s got to get back to work.

I believe God has good things planned for him. I pray that he stays on that path.

I should get my shoes shined a lot more often, not because they need it, but because there are more Aribertos out there to meet.