Being on fieldwork presents various opportunities that might not otherwise occur in normality, although one should always consider them carefully before committing, in case they are dangerous, illegal, immoral or all of these combined.

One of these opportunities which I am currently and slowly undertaking is the freedom from nagging with regards to facial hair. As I am at a great distance from people who complain about how it looks messy and scratches, I have decided to grow a beard.

This is something I did last time I was on fieldwork, and something that every man (and some women) should do in their lifetime, for the simple pleasure of slowly shaving it off. After growing a full beard and moustache, you remove it in pieces, leaving you with a sequence flowing from mutton chops and goatee, to a Ming the Merciless beard that can be twiddle in a menacing manner, to a handlebar moustache, ending up with the Hitler smudge on the upper lip before emerging baby-bottom smooth once again. This year I might progress from handlebar to a Errol Flinn type pencil streak of hair, as I think that I might look rather dashing and adventurous. I fear that this might not be the case, but when I do the deed, I may publish some photos so you can judge which amount of facial fluff looks best, and give me reasons never, ever to do it again.

I am quite surprised that I am doing this, given that one of my particular hatreds is kissing men with beards. Having lived previously in a society where men do embrace and kiss each other, I am confident enough in my masculinity to take this comfortable, except when the other has too much facial hair, which gives an unpleasant sensation rather like kissing a sweeping brush. If done several times in the evening (and why not, if you are having fun) this can leave a rash. I always wondered what would happen if two people with more luxuriant facial foliage were to kiss, whether this would produce a Velcro type effect, leading to an awkward social situation where they try to separate themselves, producing that ripping sound. Perhaps if I leave this to grow enough, with any luck I might find out.

Things have been quiet for me recently as I took a short holiday. I was bored of all this Caribbean business so I decided to take two rainy February weeks in rainy Manchester instead. I haven’t been back since this project started, so all of my work with Manchester had been conducted by email. This has worked rather poorly, as the university is two months (and counting) late in paying my wages. This remote control is standard practice in Academia, where fieldwork means that everyone is totally dependant on emails to get stuff done. For example, one of my two supervisors, Prof T, has been on fieldwork in a remote corner of the world since before I started my current project, so all our conversations have been via email. Similarly, my other supervisor, Dr D, left for a separate remote corner in August. Emails from my and their respective remote corners have been exchanged, routed through Manchester.

I thought it would be a waste to fly across the Atlantic and not try and sort some things out, mainly because I could really do with getting paid. It was also rather nice to catch up with friends in the office. As I was on the way out the office, following rounds of coffee drinking with friends and angry exchanges with the finance office, a colleague informed me that Prof T was in town for a week, back from his remote corner for a meeting in London, but that he had popped up to Manchester to pick up some post. I took advantage of this to introduce myself to a man who is central to my work, but who I had never met. I had a vague idea of what he looked like.

Anyway, I knocked on his office door, he did know who I was, and was happy to chat about my progress. After a while of this, there was a knock on the door, and who walks in but Dr. B, who was supposed to be thousands of miles away, rather like Prof T and I. After the initial exchanges of “what are you doing here?” and “I was about to ask you the same question!”, we settle down and had a good meeting. It was all rather bizarre, but productive. I suppose that they can’t get miffed at me for taking a holiday from fieldwork, as it would be rather hypocritical of them…

This little story might be a good opportunity to talk about how the world is shrinking, or the international lifestyles of academics, but as the event was so improbable and bizarre, it is probably best to pretend that it didn’t happen.

The question of skin colour and race is particularly vexed in the Dominican Republic, which is just as well, as it has sustained the academic careers of a few friends of mine. I won’t pretend to explain the complex details of this vexation, firstly because it would take an extremely long time to do it, and secondly because I don’t really understand it. Suffice to say there are a number of curious observations that I have made, that generally worry me.

Of course, a large part, but not all, of Dominican national identity is the denial of the African/Haitian influence in favour of a European history, and this extends into ideas of race. Put simply, people would rather be rubio (literally blonde, but used to refer to anyone with pale skin) than prieto (dark). The reality of how Dominicans see race is far more complex, but this is a necessary simplification. The exact genetic cocktail mix is to take roughly equal parts Spanish ancestry and African ancestry (sourced directly from Spanish slave camps in west Africa or indirectly through Haitian invasions in the 19^th century), add a splash of indigenous influence. Make this a small dash, as although undoubtedly there, it is almost always greatly over-exaggerated. Strain loosely, garnish with a complex racial politics to retain the bitter taste.

Although the country is mainly in shades of brown, with many poetic descriptions ranging from azucar morena (brown sugar) to indio (Indian), by way of canela (cinnamon), the advertising and television is full of rubios. It is easy to spot if a programme or advertisement has been made in the US or the Dominican Republic, as the US productions are keen to show a veritable rainbow, to try and attract all the census categories, yet the Dominicans show light skinned, blue eyed people, as these are the idealised stereotypes that people are expected to aim for, yet represent a tiny fraction of the population. This is something that the two twentieth century strongmen made most of: the dictator Trujillo stirred up anti-black (i.e. Haitian) sentiment to consolidate the country and his power, whilst using the skin whitening creams that are still widely available, whilst Balaguer wrote a rabid diatribe denouncing the pernicious Haitian (i.e. Black) influence on the DR. Given the beauty of the descriptions that people give to the various shades of brown, let alone the beauty of the skin itself, this is something that really angers me.

Secondly, political correctness is decidedly absent in Dominican society. Everyone here is known by their nickname, and this often relates to their physical appearance. With the exception of my friend Orejas (ears), it is the skin colour that is the basis for this. One good friend is particularly dark, so he is known as Morenito (little brown man), whilst his taller cousin alternates between Moreno (brown man) and Prieto (darkie). Sometimes they are jokingly referred to as Haitiano. It is absolutely the norm here to call out to someone using their skin colour as an identifier. Coming from a multi-cultural society where we are busy trying to forget that skin colour exists, this came as a complete culture shock. I am now desensitised to people calling out “Rubio” (blonde) in the cities, in an attempt to attract my attention and sell me something. I also get called Americano¸ as people assume that all blondes are foreigners, and therefore American. This geographical ignorance is not surprising, given the lack of travel people here undertake, the hegemonic influence of the US, and the shocking state of the education system. The mentality here is that there exists their little island (with the cousins living in the western bit, which we don’t like to talk about), with another island somewhere colder, which is called New York, and there is everywhere else, which is broadly homogenous and uninteresting. I did try to explain the fact that I was Scottish, which is not English, and certainly not American, but I don’t think Dominicans understand the complexities of events of July 4^th 1776, let alone the west Lothian question. Some of them have clicked that I get annoyed at being called Americano¸ so they delight in doing so at every opportunity.

Another interesting observation is that the mountain villages where I live buck the usual trend. The richer Dominicans are, the whiter they are. My birthday party, or rather the one with all the rich people that I gate-crashed, was rather pale. This is because these rich families are exactly the same rich families that came over from Spain centuries ago, and who have refused to share their money or their genes with the rest of the population. However, the mountain villages are very different, particularly in the more remote places where the gene pool is more of a puddle. There they are full of blue eyed, blonde citizens, who look far more like a Gringo than I do. Of course, given the above point, these are normally nicknamed Rubio, Americano, Gringito etc. They counter every assumption that is given about the Dominican Republic and race, as they are white, poor, rural, powerless yet as Dominican as they come. I am not sure exactly why these mountain populations are so white, but genetic isolation is certainly what has kept them that way. I suppose it is just one of those fascinating things that show up in a society if you stare hard enough at it.

The baseball season is coming to an end, which means the end of one of the more bizarre aspects of Dominican life. I don’t really understand baseball, as it seems far to simplistic – there is really only one type of pitch and one type of batting action – the pitcher throws the ball as hard as possible, and the batsman tries to hit it as hard as possible. It lacks the nuances and tactical variation of football, cricket and even tiddlywinks, yet somehow the Dominicans remain rabid about it. Like with cockfighting, the other Dominican obsession, it is always far more entertaining to watch the crowd than to watch the action.

However, there is an altogether more interesting part to baseball, and that is the dialogue in the commentary. With its runs and pitches, it is a sport that naturally lends itself to statistical analysis, and like Test Match Special, the pauses in the action are punctuated by chat about statistical analysis. Although TMS compliments this with talk of cake and buses, Dominican baseball coverage punctuates this with advertising.

I don’t know if there is some sort of financial crisis in the Dominican broadcasting sector (there probably is, as everything else here is in financial crisis), but they seem determined to cram in as much advertising as possible. Not content with billboards, sponsorship and adverts in the breaks in play, as is present in every other sport, the advertising permeates the commentary, as the TV announcers are paid to read out commercial messages as they describe the action. What makes this even more bizarre is firstly the variety of messages, as household products are endorsed in the same sentence as presidential candidates, but also the way that the commentators don’t draw breath between describing the action and describing the new, improved variety of ketchup.

A section of play might be go as such:

“Well Jose, here comes Fernandez up to the plate in the 4^th innings. Buy Rica milk, for quality and value. He has a good average against the Tigers, of 0.324. The all new 2007 model Toyota is now available with generous financing from Santo Domingo Motors”

“Yes, that’s right. Remember, don’t drink and drive, it’s not just your life you are playing with. Of course, his career average is 0.267, although this season he has been batting at nearer 0.3. Vote Danilo 2007, a better life for everybody.”

“And here comes the pitch. Oh, and it is a strike. Ask for new formula whiten toothpaste from your local corner shop. He was miles from hitting that.”

“Presidente beer, ask for your cold one. He hit that great home run in the 2^nd innings, he just needs to get that kind of rhythm going. Miguel Vargas, a president for everyone. The interesting thing is that 64% of his runs come in the first 4 innings, so he starts well and fades. Tropicala paint, brighten up your life”

And so on, advert nauseum

Can’t see that on Match of the Day for quite some time.

Living within a community whilst simultaneously researching it creates a huge and complex variety of emotions. The research subject becomes a friend, neighbour and confidant to someone who is also the object of the research, creating a contradictory, schizophrenic and thoroughly uncomfortable situation. This is always compounded by the claustrophobia that is an unavoidable part of living in a small, remote, close knit mountain village. Today I have been feeling mainly guilt.

Of course, I am in close contact with the population of the village I live, and this means that I share friendships, conversations, jokes and secrets with them. At the same time as participating in this, I also listen with a professional ear to these conversations, jokes and secrets as a way of understanding how life in the village works. This is not a problem when one is discussing agricultural seasons or other light subjects, but when one comes to investigate social relations and divisions, it becomes a more painful matter. People tell me all sorts of negative things about other people in the village that I don’t want to hear on a personal level, yet are a central part of my professional project. I begin to see the cracks in the community, the dark sides to everyone that I know here, their scandal ridden past, their controversial and hypocritical acts, and their crimes. Of course, when one knows someone for long enough then their more human side becomes apparent, and one must deal with this, but the problem that I am currently grappling with is that whilst I am learning all this I am taking notes.

In any other walk of life, I could ignore, purposefully forget or skirt round these areas. I have always believed the vast majority of people are fundamentally good at heart, and so in everyday life I can justify underplaying the negative aspects of people’s character in favour of the parts that I like. However I find myself pushed by my research objectives to delve deeper into the dark side of people’s characters, because from this perspective they are more important that the positive elements. As a sign of how cynical social researchers are about human nature, we are always far more interested in discord, divisions and conflict than in friendships, closeness and harmony. A book on why and how people disagree and fight will always be better received than one exploring the nature of cooperation and understanding. Many universities, my own department included, teach courses on conflict, but much rarer is the class that studies peace. Ostensibly we are more interested in the negative side of life because we would like to solve the world’s problems, but I am not sure there isn’t an aspect of schadenfreude to our curiousity.

I am not sure how easy it would be to justify my actions to these people if they were to truly discover what I was doing. I have long since abandoned any notion that my research will have a significant direct impact on the life of anyone but myself, and that the best I can hope for is that the community I work in, and others like it, feel a subtle change for the better in the distant future, but nothing earth-shattering. I feel that I am spying on an innocent group for my own personal benefit. Many people are critical of the depths that gutter journalists plumb in order to rake up dirt on the private lives of politicians and the mildly famous, yet when an academic does the same thing but in more lengthy and less comprehensible prose, it becomes an important and masterly work of scholarship. There is very little difference between those nosy people who pry at the secrets of unsuspecting members of the public, and social researchers. I feel part spy, actor, tabloid investigative journalist, liar, mud-raker, hypocrite, and only partly like an academic researcher.

Today I stumbled across the skeletons in the cupboards of people I know, like and respect. I now look at them in a new light, but tomorrow I will have attempt to deal with them in the same friendly way, making me feel guilty and schizophrenic