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Sunday, February 23, 2020
SANTO DOMINGO, Dominican Republic, Jul 31 2010 (IPS) - Gaston Dorelus has little education, no vocational training, no extrinsic qualifications to make his way through life any easier.
But he does have one asset that has ensured his survival: his indefatigable legs.
Gaston walks. He walks great distances, and his invincible spirit undoubtedly lends to his youth that extra bit of strength needed to overcome the obstacles he faces as a Haitian immigrant to the Dominican Republic.
“Man, you are really strong!” says Amiano Lopez who lives in Villa Sonador, when he hears about how Gaston came to work as a “paletero”, or ice cream peddler.
Dominicans are ready to praise such hard-working Haitians, but they are much less ready these days to work at such low- end jobs since the fast pace of development on this side of the island has made them undesirable.
“No Dominican does what I do,” says Gaston. Some do, in fact, but they get preferential treatment, better routes, less supervision, fewer hassles.
Nevertheless, most chiriperos these days are likely to be Haitian, whose numbers have swelled dramatically since the earthquake.
“Jeepetas” – Prados, Monteros, and other four-wheeled fantasies of conspicuous consumption – fly past Gaston as he plies the shoulder of the treeless highway that cuts through the open rice fields of this valley.
The ball of fire above throbs monotonously like a cosmic headache, and all that Gaston has to protect himself against it is a tattered baseball cap. He can’t afford sunglasses to alleviate the obliterating light.
“Lleeggooooó Yos… mata el calor.” “Yosé is here… kill the heat.” The children come running like mice to the pied piper.
That little ball of sweet coldness in a cone costs 10 pesos, about 27 cents, of which Gaston receives eight. On a good day he makes 13 dollars, on a bad day, five or six. And he sends 110 to 138 dollars back home monthly to his family.
That doesn’t leave much room for future savings or for daily needs. He wears the same clothes day in and day out, eats the same scant, starchy diet.
“I can save a bit, but I don’t eat well. For breakfast I eat guineo (green bananas) and spaghetti, I don’t buy anything at midday, and for dinner I prepare some rice with something on the side.”
Keeping pace just behind him, his wife Ketya peddles cheap clothing. The clothiers would appear to have the most difficult job, walking as they do with a large tub overflowing with belts, underwear, shirts, pants, dresses and shoes. But they cut the most gracious figure of all street peddlers.
In traditional Haitian style, the tub perches above one’s head, steadied by a kerchief or towel wrapped tightly like a crown over one’s skull. The rest of the body is put to work too: on each extended arm hangs a variety of articles. They are walking closets.
Ketya buys wholesale in Santiago or Dajabon, so her profits are cut significantly by travel costs. On a good day she may earn about 14 dollars. But good days are rare.
“I like it here,” she says haltingly, either because of her imperfect command of Spanish or her ambivalence. “I can earn more and be with my husband.”
But she cannot be with her children, who are still back in Haiti. “No,” she says quietly, “I want to be with them, but I can only visit them for now.”
Of all the peddlers, the most ubiquitous are the pirates. They too are known by their appearance – a backpack, music on CDs in one hand and films on DVD in the other.
The selection is pretty uniform: bachata, reggaeton and merengue in the right; blockbusters, juvenile, kung fu and porno in the left.
Unencumbered by food carts or tubs of clothing, these peddlers travel the farthest, covering miles per day in their effort to sell their wares.
Johnny, 23 years old and newly arrived, earns about 200 pesos a day. “Things are bad,” he complains in his slightly accented but adequate Spanish. The speed with which these immigrants learn the language is testament to their will to survive. Necessity is a stern taskmaster.
Johnny is unburdened by immediate family. He is free to make his way as he wishes, unlike Gaston. But his freedom hasn’t yet brought him the rewards he seeks.
“I’m not earning any more here than I did there,” he laments. Too much competition and nothing to set him apart. Stand on any corner for more than five minutes and you will see three or four more just like him hawking the same wares.
He wanders the blistering, treeless streets of Bonao till nightfall. Then he heads home to a small village nearby. For dinner, it’s starchy tubers or a bit of rice with an even smaller bit of meat.
Whatever their station, they all dream of one thing: halting their long walk toward their daily bread. Gaston has plans:
Modest dreams, perhaps, but nirvana for someone looking to rest his weary legs.
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