The woman is no taller than my shoulder. I cannot even begin to guess her age. Lines crease her face, the skin dark and tough, like the rind on a cheese. Black hair shiny in a loose braid down her back. Bare feet dusty and sinewy under her long heavy plain skirt. Her gnarly hands reach out to me, cupping a small gourd-like earthen vessel.
“La leche.”
She hesitates; her black eyes dart up to my face and instantly back down to the vicinity of my neck. A glimmer of a smile flickers as she extends her hands an inch closer.
I am wary, and catch the warning look from my guide.
A deciding moment.
We have been travelling since before dawn to arrive at this place, a remote farm in the wilderness of the Dominican Republic. I have come to witness the fields of papas planted with the aid of the Canadian Hunger Foundation, where I work as a project manager. A small parcel of land has been deemed suitable for the cultivation of potatoes, with the help of Canadian expertise, and I am to report on what I see.
In the dark of early morning my host from the Fundaçion Dominicana de la Desarrollo picked me up at my pension in Santo Domingo. His ancient pick-up truck bumped and rattled for at least an hour before we stopped in a small village. We were met by two local men, and a wife who offered us strong ginger tea to cut the chill of the fog and fortify us for the rest of our journey.
I was introduced to my mulo – the beast who would carry me the rest of the way. My jaw clenched, I stared, my face blanched. Not only had I never ridden on a mule, but I was wearing a skirt! My host had not noticed, and, embarrassed, he explained my predicament. One of the men summoned his friend, owner of the small village store, who arrived within minutes. I acquired a pair of men’s jeans, grateful to find something, anything, that would work.
Someone produced a small box for me to use as a step as I clumsily mounted my mulo’s back. He stood calm and solid – I was reassured. This wouldn’t be so bad – would it?
I am not an adrenaline junkie – I do not seek out life threatening thrills – but this morning my body coursed with the stuff. I could feel my heart racing, my mouth was dry. I forgot to breathe. My mulo picked his way down a steep, narrow, crumbly trail, at what must have been a forty-five degree angle. My hands gripped his neck for dear life; the useless harness dangled.
I had to remember to breathe! And trust. Completely. This animal knew what he was doing. Each step was practiced and sure. I forced myself to look out at the exquisite panorama, not straight down at the bottom of the precipitous drop-off on my right. My leg and shoulder often scraped against the sheer rock wall on my left.
Finally, an eternity later, we came to level ground, and now here we are at this humble cluster of rough buildings beside a field of green. We will be shown the potato plantings, the irrigation system, the harvesting and storage processes – I will learn a great deal about papas today.
But first…
“La leche.”
I know the word – is it cow’s milk? More likely goat’s.
I cannot refuse. This tiny woman — I find out later she has never seen a white woman before — has made this precious offering to me. Ignoring any notion of danger, I choose in an instant to take the risk, knowing my stomach may give me grief later. It’s probably safer than water anyway.
I smile, accept the gift. The gourd is surprisingly cool. I tip it to my mouth, and barely allow the liquid to wet my lips.
“Muchas graçias, Señora.”
