|
|
Haitian Immigrant Street Peddlers Try to Get a Leg Up
By Jon Anderson
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.
| |  | Relying on the kindness of strangersOn the lowest rung of street
workers are the beggars.
Since the earthquake, their
presence in the provincial
towns has grown
considerably, though no
one as yet knows their
numbers with any certainty.
Dominican paranoia about
the growing Haitian
population as a whole has
people citing exorbitant
figures as high as two
million for all immigrants,
of which the beggars would
form a small but very
visible portion.
Julíta stands in front of a
Pizza House restaurant
window, staring at a family
eating at the benches
inside. It is an old trick:
stare them down, guilt
them into coughing up a
few pesos. Her mother
Cecile has taught her well.
She says she is eight
years old – her mother
says nine, but she looks
barely big enough to flesh
out seven. Ask where she
is from and she answers,
"La Ocho", a low rent
neighbourhood in Bonao
where Haitians have
settled.
Ask her origin and she
perks up, "Haiti!" But what
town? "The 'campo'
(countryside)." She has no
idea what her hometown is
called. Haiti is her symbolic
home and as such it
exercises a powerful allure.
But it remains a dream of
home.
Wearing a dusty black
dress, she treads the hot
pavement barefoot. She
clutches a purse with a
broken strap, an accessory
of which she is obviously
proud. She fiddles with it,
keeps it tightly secured at
her armpit.
"Dame algo (give me
something)," she repeats
all day long, jutting her
hand in the face of
prospective Samaritans.
She doesn't take no for an
answer.
But she doesn't play the
sorrowful waif. She is
disconcertingly cheerful. If
the mark ignores her, she
launches a sermon: "Why
are you like that? Jesus
loves you. Give me
something."
She is obviously bright and
has made the best of the
lessons that the street has
taught her.
But she has never stepped
inside a classroom and
cannot read or write. What
math she knows she
learned by adding up the
pesos she cadges.
"I earn 50 pesos a day,"
she claims proudly. Not
quite a dollar and a half,
but a solid contribution
nonetheless. It guarantees
that the family will have
enough plaintains for the
evening meal.
With such simple
calculations, one survives
but the loaves and fishes
never multiply. |
|
Ambulatory street peddlers, or "chiriperos", are at the
bottom rung of the informal economy. They sell anything from
sweets to clothing to cellular accessories. In this country,
anyone having to get around on foot is stigmatised.
"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:
"I need about 50,000 pesos to set up a little business,
selling agricultural products to Haitians. The produce is
cheaper on this side of the border. I also want to buy a
little motorbike and rent it out to a responsible person."
Modest dreams, perhaps, but nirvana for someone looking to
rest his weary legs.
(END)
|
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
What is RSS?
