I smile as my elderly neighbor lady interrupts the very serious game of Dominoes that her adult son has been playing with some neighbor-men and asks him to carry the large botellon of clean drinking water up to my second story home for me. He jumps up to do so, leaving his friends waiting with dominoes in hand, as if I am somehow extremely important and worth putting his life on hold for.
“Oh, thanks, but you don’t have to…” I say, trying to show that I can lift it.
“No, no, Janelle,” the mother says with a smile. “It’s no problem. A tu orden.”
I thank her, secretly relieved that I don’t have to carry the giant jug of water up the stairs, and grateful once again for the sacrificial helpfulness of the Dominican people.
“A tu orden” – a phrase which in effect means, “at your service,” has come to symbolize Dominican hospitality to me over the past 2 months since I moved to Montellano to become the Clinical Programs Director following Megan and Nicole’s return to the states. I don’t know how many times people have said this phrase to me, and to others Dominicans front of me, since I arrived here, but it has certainly been an almost every day occurrence. The help I have received from so many neighbors, Community Health Workers, and even strangers via this phrase is one of the things that has made transitioning to life here in Montellano relatively easy.
It strikes me that in the U.S. the only time that someone would say “at your service” to you is if they’re a butler at a fancy hotel, or perhaps someone who is trying to keep your business – someone who finds themselves working for you and thus is at least pretending to want to help you as a part of their job. But here in the D.R, people say this to their neighbors, their friends, even Gringa strangers who clearly seem confused, and they follow it up by putting their lives on hold to help you with whatever small thing you might need at that moment.
I have had moto-taxi-drivers, who need money desperately, offer me free rides to the office because they’ve noticed me walking with a heavy bag. “No, no, it’s no problem.,” They say. “You need help.” I’ve had people who work in the morning so they can feed their families in the evening give me the last avocado off their tree just because I happened to stop by to say hello. They of course refuse to take it back even if I try not to accept the gift. They shove it into my hand saying “no, no, a tu orden! You can have avocadoes off my tree, anytime.”
I’ve had little children reach for my hand to guide me up steep hills. I’ve had strangers pull me onto their porches when the rains come and I have no umbrella. They’ve served me coffee and we’ve talked about their families, and I’ve left, not as a stranger, but as a friend. I’ve even had a middle class woman with a full time professional job come by to clean my house for free just because she said “you’re here helping people, right? So I want to help you. Let me clean your house, ok?” And when she left she said “Hey, if you want me to come clean your house again next Saturday, just call me. I can come any time. A tu orden.”
“A tu orden.” Wow. It’s the sign of self-less Dominican hospitality. It’s the idea that people will stop what they’re doing to help other people, every day, all the time, even if there’s no benefit in it for them. What a wonderful practice. It’s something I can certainly learn from.
So as we at HHI prepare for the September Medical Service Trip, 2011, this is a great opportunity for us to serve the people of the D.R. with the same attitude with which they serve and show love to us. Many Dominican’s have selflessly welcomed and assisted HHI as an organization. They also welcome the volunteers, interns, and staff with open arms. So, HHI helps – not because there’s something in it for us; not because we have nothing else we could be doing. (I do have a game of Dominoes and some laundry to finish, after-all). No, we help because in front of us is a person in need of medical care. And therefore, as their global neighbors, helping them is the hospitable thing to do. So we reach our hands out to assist the people of Poncho Mateo, Negro Melo, Arroyo de Leche, and Severet. We pause to help the strangers, our neighbors, and friends – just as they often pause to help us.
Janelle, you succeeded in beautifully expressing a sentiment I could never quite convey while I was in the DR. What a great post… I hope you and the whole HHI team continue to benefit from having and being great neighbors.