Dominica is the grit of South Africa’s townships, the ease of the Caribbean and the friendliness of my Oregonian hometown. If the kids don’t beat them to it, the roosters and barking dogs wake us up in the morning. I walk down the dirt path to the beach passing vegetables growing next to wash buckets, heavily laden mango trees, and school uniform shirts hanging on clothes lines. I have always loved the smells and sounds of a town waking up in the morning. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Portland, Portsmouth, Botswana or Mero; the intimacy touches me.
This morning Shelia from the snackette tells me about her argument with her 21 year old daughter and Allison teaches me how to filet Ballou fish. The return to basic needs feels comforting. I like the challenge of creating meals out of what we can buy from farmers or friends in the village. The lettuce and tomatoes have dried up this year but I see watermelon for the first time. Maybe there will be fish later in the day. We listen for the conch shell to let us know the fishermen have returned. Meat and dairy are luxuries.
The volcano ash from the neighboring island drifts into everything, including our water. We hear the tap may be shut off for the weekend. It isn’t much of a topic of discussion. There is always the Layou River. Alden thinks this is simply part of the adventure. “I want to add to my life experience”, she says. Satellite brings old episodes of Seinfeld but no one knows what the Olympics or Oscars are. The surprise of this dichotomy threads through our days.
To be a woman in a country where beauty is in soft lines and practical clothing frees a part of me I don’t often realize is captive. I wear the same thing day after day like a badge. Everything is done out of practicality here. The lack of choices gives me time -- to talk with local friends who offer plantains or grapefruit from their yards and an herbal remedy for heat rash. I set out to buy toilet paper and end up with an armful of bananas and a recommendation for computer guru in Roseau. I vow to bring this same openness to spontaneous exchange back home.
We sit at dinner and the girls tell me about their first full day at school. “We pray so much and everyone seems to know the words!” Alden reports. Willow then asks, “Did Jesus really make Rose come back alive?” It takes us a few minutes to put together that she is asking about the line “Jesus rose from the dead.” We cannot stop laughing and Willow chuckles for a minute then presses, “Ask my teacher, Ms. Joseph, she’ll tell you!” With tears in my eyes, I finally tell Willow that I am not asking Ms. Joseph about Rose.
Amidst so much that is different in Dominica, the kids remind me that people are the same wherever you are. Friends from school come over to play with our markers and temporary tattoos. Kids shriek at late night hide and seek, sing dramatically to High School Musical and bodysurf together when the waves are big. Last night Willow was playing with a Swedish neighbor who spoke no English. They figured out a game to play together (something that involved using pencils as swords, naturally) and language didn’t matter. I love watching our girls being swooped up by friends as they walk into school. The black and white arms get intertwined as they enter the classroom. The father of one of the families in town tells me this morning on the beach, “I like watching our girls play together. They know that skin doesn’t matter. If we each cut our arms, our blood is the same color.” I leave his house with a baggie full of peeled sugarcane. His five girls sleep three to a mattress most nights.
Dominican families live closely, many sharing beds with siblings and walking through town in a towel to take a shower or brush their teeth. As a result, the sense of personal space is different. Alden tells me all the kids crowd her at recess. Willow says they don’t stop touching her hair because it’s so soft. How does the excess American space we have change our kids’ abilities to reach out? To get closer? To form relationships?
The economic differences create a different code here. If you need something, you just ask. Do you have a pair of socks for gym? Is there any lettuce in your garden I can have for dinner? Here is a Brownie uniform that doesn’t fit anymore. It’s yours. Nothing goes to waste, yet there is not the sense of hording or urgent possession. We see shoes we gave a girl three years ago on a different boy’s feet in town. When our girls take friends on a hike, everyone shares whatever food they have. The same goes at school, so our girls pack extra so they will get enough for their own lunch. Children are so used to not having toys, a friend here tells Jamie, that they create race cars out of empty bottles and dolls out of coconut shells. When they are finished playing, the toy is left behind. No need for any strong possessive spirit. The same goes, however, for the toy that is purchased from a store. They toss this aside, too, she explains. Because to a child it has the same value as something that is self created.
Dominica challenges as it grounds. As we begin the second half of our trip, I look for the ease of living, the friendly smiles of fellow villagers and remind myself to let the grit cleanse.
The picture below shows the inside of some of these costumes that are airing out before they’re worn for the parade. You can see that these costumes are made with an old jacket as the base, and all of the fabric is sewn onto the jacket. I can only imagine how these costumes are to wear in 80 degree heat while dancing! 
