Mar 18, 2011
This subject requires two disclaimers. First, in the fifteen years we’ve been missionaries to Haiti, we have only gone on vacation in the Dominican Republic three times. Frankly, the logistics are not that easy and it’s difficult to find the block of free time necessary to make it worth it. It is also hard on the sensibilities. Somehow, the stark economic disparity in the world packs an even bigger wallop when it is manifested right on the same island.
Second, all discussions about the resort beachwear of our fellow vacationers is a purely dispassionate, sociological analysis. There is nothing prurient about skimpy or missing clothing at a resort populated largely by middle-aged people — myself included — suffering from too little inhibition. To put it simply, it’s not pretty.
On the first point, sadly, it is truly night and day between Haiti and the Dominican Republic. I first experienced this gut-wrenching difference in the way I imagine most Haitians do: I drove over the border expecting the island to be somewhat equal in its condition from end to end. Not even close. The DR is another world all together. To start with, there are highways and high-rises.
Having spent three or four years in Haiti before making my first trip, I was sad, hurt and angry when I saw the inexplicable difference between the two island-sharing nations for the first time — and to a great degree, I felt the same this time. I can’t imagine how a natural born Haitian feels, especially those old enough to remember that Haiti was once developmentally ahead of the DR.
In his book “Collapse: How Societies Choose to Succeed or Fail,” Jared Diamond gives a very plausible reason why the mountains cutting Hispaniola in two mark more than a border. Even from the air, one can see they make a line between two disparate environments: one forested and the other unnaturally barren; and two economies: one developing the other staggering. Diamond blames the difference on the nations’ most notorious dictators, Trujillo and Duvalier. He postulates that Trujillo invested in his country and Duvalier did not. My experience confirms Diamond’s theory.
It may seem odd to mix thoughts of stark economic disparity with revulsion over resort wardrobe fiascos, but the visual assault of overweight men walking around in Speedos only adds to the rotten feeling I have in my stomach for how far Haiti has fallen behind its island partner.
Intellectually, I tried to understand this flaunting of poorly maintained bodies as the physical manifestation of the difference between our British sense of liberty and the European concept of freedom, which is more French. But this puritanical rationalization failed to lessen the impact of this in-your-face proof of the grotesque character of inequality here and in the world.
The resort’s invisible management technique for handling dissatisfied clients added to the poignancy of the metaphor. In the five days at the resort, I never saw a person higher up in the management structure than a desk supervisor. There were no captains on the ship to address about the issues of no hot water in the showers, running out of beach towels before noon and not having two rooms next to each other to accommodate a family. I could not help but think that it was by design that disappointed guests were faced with only overworked staff with whom to register their complaints.
Planned or not, this shrewd, inside-out application of economic disparity did effectively quell complaints. It also reminded me of the real world where those who benefit most from exploitation stay in the shadows and leave the people they have divided to be consumed in civil war.
Maybe, I will feel more comfortable enjoying myself in the DR when development on the lagging end of the island, my end, catches up. Regardless, I am through with all-inclusive resorts where, after a few days, the tortured Speedos lose their comedic value and become, like the overly abundant food, just tasteless.