From the outside, the Coop Marena Beach Resort seems so ordinary. Disappointingly ordinary, in fact. It was my expectation that we would be among the people at the CTCs, seeing and hearing firsthand how the people of the Dominican Republic work and live. It seems we’ll be at another resort, albeit one that seems more Jersey Shore than Miami Beach.

From out of the hotel comes Luis to help us with our bags. He already has a room, so we head inside to put our luggage away.

Two women stand at a fold-out table at the front of the lobby, checking in conference guests according to a box of slips with the names of people who have registered. As I enter, these women look at me with a combination of surprise and excitement. As I stand in the lobby with a camera on my shoulder and my bag of luggage behind me, I’m not really sure why. But I can tell you that explaining a name like “Wojtkowiak” is no easy task in a country like the Dominican Republic. We finally agree on “Anthony” after a minute or so of deliberation, and I am on my way with an envelope that will get me my room key.

We put our luggage down in Luis’s room upstairs. Down the hall, a massive ballroom is prepared for the conference. A giant cream colored backdrop features a green circle with three white stick figures in the center holding hands, surrounded by what looks reminiscent of the recycling symbol in blue, red, and green. Around the circle are the words “Republica Domincana: Despacho de la Primera Dama”. You may wonder why I have described the backdrop in such exquisite detail. It’s because at this point, it’s the only thing to look at. The room is basically empty of people except for me. I setup my tripod in a corner and return downstairs to shoot some b-roll in the lobby.

It is hard for me to describe the excitement of the lobby when I return. To get back down the stairs I have to dodge more than a few conference attendees who are apparently going to their rooms. “Is this CTC deal really that important?” I think. Apparently so. The goal of the project is to have a 135 total CTCs, which will hopefully unite the nation and help to reduce the technological divide between the DR and it’s close neighbor, the United States.

I move through the lobby with my camera. The lens in front of me is like the 4^th wall on a proscenium stage. Everything in front of me is just a picture, and nothing is real. The mob confronting the two ladies at the table, begging for keys, shouting, pushing, is not real. The old man nodding off on the couch is not real. The woman bumping into me on her way upstairs is not real.

But to all of these people, I am very real. All of these people are giving me the same curious look the two ladies did when we checked in. As I see them looking at me through the eyepiece, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s because I’m white. I wonder, for example, how many Americans have been to this resort. This place is obviously not intended for international tourists, I think. I’m not expecting a fruit plate from an Austrian manager at this place.

As I think about it, these people look hungry. Like they all want something from me. As I return upstairs for the opening of the conference, I’m about to find out what it is. And it’s not what I expect, or why I would expect it.

                As we are driving, I am taping. Excitedly, Paola points ahead through the windshield. “Election posters! You should shoot that!” All along the road, on billboards, banners, and signs are images of the presidential hopefuls for the election to come on May 16. Posters of Leonel Fernandez tout him as the 4×4 (some reference to his policies and four more years in office, which unfortunately I don’t understand). Other posters of Miguel Vargas Maldonado and Amable Aristy Castro portray them as the right men for the job. One thing is clear: Only men with light skin and “good hair” may run for president in the DR.

                Finally, we arrive at the Coop Marena Beach Resort in Juan Dolio, San Pedro de Macoris, Dominican Republic. While I am initially disappointed to find that we are staying at another resort, I am about to find out that this place will offer a distinctly unique experience.

RING!

RING!

I rollover in bed and realize that the phone is ringing. My wakeup call. I reach a hand over to pick the phone up. It stops.

                Oh well, I think. A new day. Light is streaming in through a slit in the curtain covering the balcony. I get dressed and pull the curtain wide, revealing a bustling morning in downtown Santo Domingo. What was once a quiet and deserted nation is now a mirror of Miami. Cars go whizzing by on a busy street, accompanied by delivery trucks and vans. Horns honk. People shout. The city is awake with a vibrant color of life that I would not have expected from my short trip to the hotel the previous night.

                There comes a knock at the door. In a panic, I realize this must be Sanjeev. How long has it been? Am I taking too long? I check my watch. It’s only 9:00. Whatever.

                I open the door to the sight of an attractive young hostess. “Mr. Wojtkowiak?” What kind of hotel is this, I think. “Uhhhh… Yes?”

                “You missed you wake-up call. We were worried about you. You are okay?” I am speechless. I would have never expected such service at any hotel anywhere. That came in a developing nation blows my mind. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. Good morning. Thank you.”

                The hotel’s restaurant reminds me of something out of a James Bond movie. The buffet is housed by intricate lattice doors. Inside, a white capped chef makes omelets to order – and speaks reasonable English. The seating outside features what seem to be mahogany or cherry tables. The courtyard beyond is finely landscaped, with trees in large beds and stone or brick tiling creating a wide plaza.  I expect at any moment for Roger Moore to come riding in on a horse with a safari hat and a rifle.

                It is here that Sanjeev briefs me, so to speak. Until this point I have been very foggy on the details. It is surprising to me that we are at such a fine hotel in the first place, let alone that we have been moving at such a casual pace. It was my expectation that we would be working and staying among the people, not lounging about a lavish European style hotel.

                “We are going to a meeting among all of the CTCs in the DR” he says. CTCs, in case you don’t know, are Communication Technology Centers, a project put forth by the First Lady in Dominican Republic, or the Despacho de la Primera Dama, Dra. Margarita Cedeño de Fernandez. This is another surprise to me. I was under the impression that we were actually going to visit the CTCs and I would be able to document them first hand. Now I have to rethink my coverage and shooting strategy. I mean How interesting can a meeting be?

Flying over the island of Hispaniola at night, it seems as though the cartographers got the shape of the island wrong. Clearly illuminated against the Caribbean sea are the borders of Dominican Republic, stretching from La Altagracia Province in the east, closest to Puerto Rico, all the way to Independencia Province in the west. Somewhere in between, on the southern coast, is Santo Domingo, the capital city.

What is not visible at night is Haiti. Save for maybe a few lights from Port-au-Prince, the country does not exist when the sun goes down. It’s as if it has fallen into the ocean at night, only to be reborn in the morning. Market women light candles to the lwa, to Baron Samdi and Ezili Danto, but I cannot see them from my airplane. I cannot hear them cry for food for a child from this distance, I cannot see them toil for one more day to survive. All I can hear is the captain telling us that we are about to land, and I can see the plane getting lower. Welcome to Santo Domingo.

Las Americas International Airport is small, but very clean, neat and organized in comparison to Miami International Airport. The rush and hustle of Miami are absent, replaced by a relaxing island rhythm. What is most apparent from the airport, though, is that the owners are very aware of what tourists want to see: models snorkeling, children playing on the beach, lovers holding hands in the sunset. There is no mention of a harder reality. For most who visit any developing country, they will never get a sense of what the average native’s life is like. I wonder if this is a careful PR move on the part of the nation being toured, or a product of the ignorance of richer nations.

To get out of the airport and into Dominican Republic, we are led into a line where we will present our passport as well as some forms that we filled out while on the plane. Honestly, I don’t mind, because since we got off the plane I have been checking out I woman I presume to be native to the DR. She is tall and thin, with long black hair and longer legs. She is speaking Spanish to a man, who I am guessing might be a boyfriend, but I’m hoping he’s a brother or another relative.

“Tourist card?”

My concentration is broken by the guard at the front of the line, who speaks just enough English to demand a tourist card from the passenger in front of me.

“What’s a tourist card?” I ask Paola, who is behind me.

“I’m not quite sure. I don’t think we need one.”

She engages the guard, who I shall call Line General, in a brief conversation, all in Spanish, completely out of my range of understanding. I’m trying to keep an eye on Leggy Dominican Girl, who by this time is already through the check-in and heading out the door. It was good while it lasted, babe.

“We need a tourist card,” Paola confirms to me.

Sanjeev, who is already passed through, reminds us to get a receipt. I guess tourists don’t enter the country with Indian passports and visas. But American ones…

About 20 people, including Paola and I back out of the line under the watchful gaze of Mister Tourist Card Line General, himself. A kiosk in the back of the room sells us a tourist card for ten American dollars. They take only cash, and they do not offer a receipt.

The Line General takes our tourist card and lets us through. He does not give us a receipt. Total time with the tourist card: 47 seconds. Cost: $10. Entering Dominican Republic with the sovereignty of a tourist card: meaningless.

Just outside, we meet our guide and host, Luis, who tells us a private interest owns the airport. This tourist card idea seems to be a source of some extra revenue from rich tourists.

The roads of Dominican Republic are silent and empty at 2am. I do not remember passing three cars as we drive the quiet highway along the southern coast of the small country on the way to our hotel. The road itself, for that matter, is only sometimes divided into lanes, and only sometimes completely paved. On the way, the path changed from three small lanes to one massive super lane more than once, and the shoulder changed from pavement to dirt the same number of times.

The ocean, to our left, is eerily vast and quiet in comparison to the vibrancy of South Beach back in Miami. The thriving shore hotels that are customary to Florida, New Jersey, California, and South Carolina are not present outside Santo Domingo, and instead are replaced by miles of rocky beach that is likely the way that rum runners and pirates found it before America had a United States. To our right is an alternating landscape of fields, forests, and small towns made of square concrete buildings and advertisements for familiar products: Fram Filters, Exxon, Coca Cola.

Luis turns around with an interesting thought. “Have you been to the clubs here?”

I think the question is directed at me, but everyone joins the conversation.

“You were telling me about this the last time I was here, I think, Luis. I don’t quite think we made it out.” Sanjeev ponders this while Paola offers, “I can only imagine.”

“The disco here is great. People love to party. They really make time for it. They live for it. But the president has put a curfew out. I think it’s an effort to get him reelected, like he’s showing that he’s strengthening the moral fiber. I can’t believe they’re closing the clubs at midnight on weekdays and 2am on Friday and Saturday.” Luis sounds like he spends a lot of time at the club.

“Will it stay like that?” I ask, concerned about how unfair all of this sounds. I mean, who is the president to run the lives of his people?

“No, probably not. It will probably change back just as soon as he’s reelected.”

Interesting, I think.

We drive on into the night, towards the Hotel Santo Domingo.

My room is possibly the biggest room in the hotel. It’s at least 12 times bigger than my dorm room. I could probably play a half court game of basketball comfortably in this room, with space left over for bleachers and a concession stand. And it has a balcony that overlooks downtown Santo Domingo. For a second, I imagine that this is the kind of room the Ghost Hunters would investigate.

Putting my bags and the camera down, I notice my very own fruit plate on the desk next to the mirror across the room. And when I say across the room, I must say that I’m surprised that I can see it. I make the journey over to the fruit plate. “With the Compliments of Kurt Tschamper, Managing Director”. The note is crossed out dramatically with one big slash running from the top left of the card to the bottom right. I later learn that this means that there are no formalities between Mr. Tschamper and me. It’s good to know that I have such good friends already.

I look at the plate for a long while, wondering how long it has been there, and then wondering if it is safe to eat fruit in a foreign country. Sometimes drinking the water in these paces makes me sick, so who’s to say that the honeydew is any different? After a few minutes of deliberation, I finally build up my courage. I greedily eat some pineapple and kiwi, then cover the plate for breakfast in the morning.

At this point, I decide to clean up and go to bed. It’s nearly 3am.

I turn on the shower, run the water for a few seconds, and then put my hand under the stream. The water is lukewarm at best. I wait a few more seconds. Still no dice. The water feels only as warm as the water in grandma’s swimming pool. I bite the bullet, figuring at this time of night the hot water is done for the day. The water isn’t that cold, and after initially screaming like a little girl, I am able to clean myself without major discomfort. Well, except for the fact that there is no shampoo. Next time, bring shampoo, I think. I have definitely been spoiled by American hotels, where I leave with more shampoo than I came with.

After my shower, I arrange for a 9am wakeup call, and go to sleep in my cave.

As is my usual experience at the airport, Sanjeev and I find that our flight is delayed more than an hour. Instead of immediately getting into the cattle line known as “security”, we use the benefit of this knowledge to grab some dinner at the La Carreta restaurant next to Concourse D. Surprisingly to me, the sweet plantains, chicken, and yellow rice we eat will not be served in Dominican Republic.

The security officer presumes that we are very nearly late for our flight, and rushes us into a first class line. I, dressed in my jeans and t-shirt, am standing among men and women in business suits. Many have BlackBerrys surgically glued to their ears. Some wear looks of irritation at the thought of having to take their shoes and belts off to get on yet another airplane.

It is at this point that I realize that Sanjeev is also dressed in business attire, with a blue jacket, khaki pants, and a tie.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable to travel in a suit?” I ask.

Sanjeev gives me a look as though he might agree, but qualifies his wardrobe. “I found out a long time ago that, if I dress like this, people take me much more seriously. Wearing a suit at the airport has saved me more than a few unnecessary encounters with security.”

It suddenly becomes clear that it is much easier for me, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed American to go unnoticed at the airport than Sanjeev, an Indian man with an Indian passport. The illogic of pulling aside Sanjeev instead of me because of security concerns is striking: It was I who was carrying the bazooka-shaped bag that contains the tripod. But in this case, I have the benefit of being white.

It’s nearly 8:30pm by the time we get through security.

Once at our gate, I meet Paola, a graduate student who will accompany us on this trip. She is Brazilian and she speaks Spanish, which will be a major benefit to Sanjeev and me, who had a hard enough time ordering at La Carreta. I could only imagine the two of us alone in a Spanish-speaking nation.

It is after a short introduction that we learn our flight is further delayed. Some repair is being made to the plane, and as is the usual airport fare, no one can decide what to do: get a new plane, or take the time to fix the old one. And really, I’m not sure anyone from American Airlines cares what is being done, since they already have our money and we’re not going to take a cruise ship to Santo Domingo.

We decide to pass the time by having a drink. A small airport bar is at the end of the terminal. The bar is decorated along a Key West theme, with pictures of palm trees and islands, and a cabana-looking roof overhanging the bar. I order vodka lemonade, a drink that I think fits reasonably with the décor of the bar.

For a while we sit and talk about what we are going to do, what work we have done, my current gig with MTV. It is shortly after I have finished my drink that I notice an employee pulling closed a flexible gate in front of the bar. He gives me a look as though this is a common example of exemplary airport service. A look at my watch indicates that it is 9pm.

“Not so subtle about closing shop, huh?” observes Paola.

“You don’t know, we may have to stay here,” Sanjeev jokes.

“I mean, I just think it’s a little early,” I commiserate.

The rest of the terminal is still open and alive, and there are plenty of travelers about.

“Let’s go before we are expected to clean up, too,” Sanjeev says, rising.

On my trip, I would learn that there is a state-mandated curfew for night clubs in Dominican Republic. It is well after 9pm, and even later on weekends. As we leave the bar, all I can think is, “Nine o’clock, and eighty-sixed.”

By 11:10pm we are finally boarding the plane. It will be the first time I have used this passport, and the first time in 14 years that I have left the country.

First off, sorry it has taken me so long to make a second post.

Secondly, bear with me for the next two blog posts. They may not seem to relate to the major theme of this blog – but they will.

Finally, I apologize for the formatting of this post. I cannot for the life of me figure out how to make WordPress do what I want.

Anyway, here is my post:

Mere hours before our trip to Dominican Republic, I make it to Sanjeev’s office. We have been trying to connect and missing all week.

“Tony, I need you to make a list of all the equipment and write down all of the serial numbers so we can – “

BUZZ! BUZZ!

Sanjeev’s phone is ringing. “This is an important call. I’m sorry, hold on.”

I get a pen and some paper from his secretary and take a seat on the floor. Surveying the equipment, I wonder if maybe Santa missed my house and accidentally delivered all of my gifts to the School of Communication a month late. I open the tripod bag and try not to drool on its carbon fiber, fluid head, OConnor professional quality holiness.

“Yes. Okay. I need… two pairs of pants. Two shirts. No, just, you know, t-shirts.”

I start laughing. Sanjeev gives me a puzzled look.

“I don’t think I need a tie. Okay, pack it anyway.”

He hangs up. I explain, “I wish I could call my room and get someone to pack my suitcase.”

Sanjeev laughs. “Oh, yes. But it costs, my friend. It costs.”

Packing my own suitcase is not done with the same care that I can imagine Sanjeev’s wife has taken with his. I grab the only three clean pairs of underwear I can have and stuff them into my suitcase with three pairs of jeans I wore last week. I mash a dress shirt and some shoes in my bag because Sanjeev has taken them, somehow remember my passport, and leave the room with everything I need in two small bags.

Finally we are at the airport. Sanjeev sends me with our equipment to the customs window. “You’ll have to declare this stuff,” he says. I have no idea what I am doing. I must look just innocent enough to be some mastermind terrorist.

A security guard stops me. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to customs.”

“Why?”

Now I’m confused. “I have this stuff. I need to take it through customs.”

“Okay, wise ass, I know. Where did you come from?”

I point behind me, at the entrance. I am under the impression that this is the only possible answer.

“Oh, okay, sorry. I thought you might have come from over there.” He points to a security door that I clearly could not have come through. It appears that airport employees work on the other side. “You’ll need to declare your stuff. Right this way.”

He takes me to what appears to be a ticket booth in the wall. This is the Customs window. I don’t know how I could have missed it. It’s clearly located behind a Tensibarrier and a baggage rack. There’s also a moat around it. Okay, you got me. There’s no moat. But there is a bulletproof curtain on the inside of the window.

The guard knocks three very discrete knocks on the window. He leaves. As I wait for the bulletproof curtain to open, I notice a sign: “Knock only once. Then wait for officer. Thanks!” The curtain opens. I am greeted by Joe Pesce. He gives me a look like, “You knocked three times. Die.”

“What do you need?”

“I have this stuff that I need to declare.”

“What do you need to declare?” He looks at my tripod case like there is a bazooka inside.

“I have a list.” He looks at the list.

“What are you doing with this stuff?”

Is this some kind of trick? I look around to make sure I am not on Candid Camera. “This is camera equipment. I am taking it on the plane to another country. I’m making a movie.”

“Why do you have all of this stuff on the list? You don’t need to declare this. You need to fill this out to make sure you can bring all of this stuff back with you when you come back into the US.” He hands me a sheet. “Knock when you’re done.” I fill it out.

I am sure to knock one, and only one, time.

My name is Anthony Wojtkowiak. I am 6 feet tall, white, with blond hair and blue eyes. I am from New Jersey, from a town that exists in the shadow of Philadelphia. I am a 21 year old film student at the University of Miami.

Until this year, I had once been out of the country. I had gone to Germany in 1994, shortly after the country reunited. I was there for my brother, who at the time was a world-class remote control car racer. The races were on the formerly Communist side of Germany in Sonneberg: Everything was gray. Everything was the same. Even flowers didn’t seem to grow. We were staying on what had been the free side, in Coburg. While my brother was racing, tending to his equipment and his sponsors, my mother and I were traveling on prepared trips for the families of the racers. I got to see some of this nation, which for a seven-yea-old was quite a unique experience.

One thing I learned was that American policy, whether we like it or not, affects the rest of the world. Not all foreign opinions of those policies are the same. And despite popular belief, not everyone hates us. All too often we are only able to see the world through our American eyes, which offer us only one view of what goes on, and at that a privileged one.

What we do as Americans really and truly matters on the world sphere. Kids in China wear Nike shoes and eat at McDonalds. Rage Against The Machine and My Chemical Romance sell out shows in Japan, Germany, Chile, and Argentina. In Europe, American cars are exotic. Most importantly, people elsewhere really care about our policy.

Nowhere is this truer than in the Caribbean and in Latin America. They are our closest neighbors. After Mexico and Canada, they likely know us the best. But many of these countries are developing, they do not have the advantages we have, and the US has a great impact on them. Unfortunately, no one can expect the United States or anyone to solve everybody else’s problems. The most that can be asked for is that we try to change the world.

And so I have set out to make a film about equitable access to technology for all, rich or poor, young or old, black or white. It didn’t start out that way, and in time I’ll tell you about it. That is, if anyone is reading this. It is my little way of changing the world, I guess. I hope my experience opens eyes and inspires other to make changes in their communities. Because the world could be a better place if everyone cared to try to make it so.

The world changes everyday. The question is who makes that change, and how.