Dominican or Brazilian?

That’s what a group of women yelled to me on our last walk around Sevilla. They were a group of Dominican women working as contracted maids in Spain. The Dominican and Spainish government have had this deal going for years where both governments in the spirit of international cooperation facilitate the exploitation of female Dominican labor by middle-class Spainish families. As immigration schemes go, this one is not that bad. As they explained after two years of near slavery they get that much-coveted visa and are “free” to work elsewhere for shit wages. Talking to them, even if ever so briefly was a nice trip back down to Earth. After being a white man in Senegal for four months and spending a week in Spain, doing the hostel circuit hanging with other privileged young people from North America, Australia and Western Europe I had forgotten that I am Dominican and we have it rough in this world.

The irony of all of this is that not until too long ago, Spain was a net exporter of people. And now they are all pissed about immigration with right-wing idiots holding protests claiming that Spain is Catholic, not Muslim (never mind that the Muslims in Spain achieved heights of civilization never matched by the Catholics, and that they built most of the impressive shit which drives Spain’s tourism industry). In 1933, political upheaval brought a new government to Cuba which rescinded the imperialist Platt Amendment and also passed a new law restricting how many foreign workers could be employed by Cuban companies. The law targeted the numerous Spainish who had immigrated to Cuba, and now just a lifetime later Cubans pray, beg and hustle to make it to Spain. Spain is actually one of the few countries that has become a First World, certified-developed country under neoliberal hegemony (mostly through tons of EU development aid, none of that free trade and foreign development non-sense they preach to non-white countries, and it’s still not as rich as the EU15 average). It’s prize? It now has its own seat in the global exploitation game.

Sharp

Unfortunately I wrote down the wrong contact information and I never saw my Dominican friends again, but they had told me about the Dominican neighborhood and I decided to check it out without them. They had both said that they avoid that area cause they knew everybody and all the Dominican girls would be gossiping and hating on them. The Dominican neighborhood in Madrid was interesting cause it was more Boston than NYC, i.e. a couple of thousand Dominican scattered in random neighborhood rather than agglomeration of Dominicanness that is Washington Heights, at least until the yuppies finish their Reconquista of Manhattan. But it did allow them to be as tacky European as they wanted to be, I have never seen more Armani Exchange t-shirts, tight jeans and pointy shoes in my life. Moreover I kept being thrown off by the number of white folks in the area, and had to keep reminding myself that I was in Madrid not Santo Domingo or NYC. Still there were Dominicans there. I asked the first black kid I saw for the barber shop. Regrettably I got a fucked up cut in Dakar from a Guinean dude who messed up the areas around my ears (I am still recovering, I should be fine) and should have waited until Madrid to get a sharp, NYC-style line-up, the kind so sharp you can use your sideburns to trace straight lines on paper. Instead, my new buddy Tracey got to feel what it’s like to be Dominican sharp. Afterward I asked them for a good restaurant and I bought some arroz blanco con gandules and pollo guisado. Again the price was ridiculous, but it was enough that we were able to eat for dinner the next day.

Self-Hating but I Love Them

As much as “The Most Self-Hating Group of Black People on the Planet Earth” annoy me, I love them. It’s one of those “can’t live with them, can’t live without them” type deals. They’re my people, what can I say? My only goal in Madrid was to find my tribe, get some food and chill with them. I quickly got my wish. After the rain let up, I went out for another calling card. I wanted to say hi to the nice lady from the day before since she had saved my life, but her kiosk was closed so I went down to the next one. After buying the card I was so busy lamenting the price, 10€, that I didn’t notice that the man who sold me the ticket was black. Was he one of mine? I asked him if he was Dominican, and he said yes so I chilled with him and his friend who was there to keep him company. After being flummoxed when I tried to explain what it was that I was doing in Senegal and why I would ever go to Africa (remember the title of the blog), they were even more shocked that I hadn’t had platanos in four months. How had a survived? I had often wondered the same thing. The friend pitied me that he invited me to his house for a home-cooked Dominican meal. We took the bus to the bodega, and I felt like hugging the platanos, and yuccas and Goya cans and never letting go. He made platanos sancochados and huevos revueltos with way too much oil, the way Dominicans do it; I bought us two forties to wash the food down. We sat on his plastic covered couches, and I heard his sister-in-law curse at her children in Spanish. It felt like home. Then he got up to get some more oil, his platanos needed more grease he explained.