And Haiti’s neighbor on the island of Hispaniola, the Dominican Republic, has a long history of racism against its darker-skinned and less fortunate counterpart. Dominicans—and this is a generality that certainly does not apply to everybody—have a tendency to look down upon Haitians, rather than seek to improve the lot of their island mates.
I had to take at least three different guaguas, or public buses, to get to the border of the two countries. The last guagua I took was a little white van, driven by a Dominican man who quizzed me on whether I was married; why not; where I was going; and what on earth I was doing. My blonde hair and freckles were not just an incongruity. They were shockingly foreign.
The roads were no longer paved, and I was not sure I was going to reach my destination, which was the house of a friend who was working in the Peace Corps, building an irrigation system close on the border of the two countries. Every so often, we would pass a small house with a tin roof that seemed to be bursting with people. The wealthiest abodes might have a chicken roaming in the front yard. Others no doubt subsisted on the potato-like yucca and rice, and could only dream of meals of meat.
As the day waxed and the sun started to fall into the horizon, I began to panic. I wasn’t exactly sure if I was headed in the right direction. Surely, if it became dark, I could knock on the door of one of the homes and ask to spend the night. Perhaps I could claim a corner of a room until the sun rose again. What if I could never find a ride back to Santo Domingo?
Just when my memories of my family, my college life, and my friends back in Santo Domingo seemed to no longer fit my current existence, the man driving the white van pulled into a small town. We passed several houses on the main street and finally slowed in front of one with an American on the front porch, who was obviously the one expecting the blonde girl.
