By Coltrane Joseph, Youth Development Fellow, DREAM Project on
By Coltrane Joseph
The last time I took a plane, I landed on a frozen tarmac in Connecticut without a coat for the winter holidays. This time was very different. I arrived in Asunción past midnight, heavy-eyed from the flight, but instantly grounded by the thick humid air that met me outside the plane door. It smelled warm and familiar—not quite the Dominican breeze that now greets me daily where I live by the beach, but something just as comforting and friendly.
Before when I first traveled in Latin America, the first thing I’d notice was how different the air smells from New England air and how I thought everything smelled vaguely like Florida. But now, Latin America no longer feels like one, singular place to me. After months as a Youth Development Fellow with the DREAM Project in the Dominican Republic, I can tell the difference. There’s a scent of salt and song in the DR that’s not quite like the earthier calm of Paraguay, where I recently returned over spring break for Team Tobatí, a community service trip I’ve been part of since 2019.
It felt surreal leaving one country that has shaped my present to return to another that helped shape my path here in the first place. If the Dominican Republic is the current chapter of my journey, Paraguay is the prologue. I’m deeply grateful that I was able to take time during my fellowship to give back to the place that first sparked my interest in the region. So much of my growth as a PiLA Fellow traces back to those early mornings in Tobatí—dusty, hot, and full of purpose—which set me on this road.
Halfway through the fellowship, DREAM took us to Carnaval Vegano, the most renowned festival of its kind in the country, as part of our cultural programming. The town where it takes place, La Vega, is a small sized city nestled in a valley on the backside of the country’s Cordillera Central mountain range on the route between Santiago and Santo Domingo. On the ride from the coast it was stunning to see the landscape change from palm trees and sand to evergreens and hills. The DR is a surprisingly biodiverse country and the pines reminded me of the Bowdoin Pines in Maine where I went to college. Carnaval Vegano is colorful, bright, and loud, and during the festival I danced to bachata, ate tres golpes (a breakfast of mashed plantains, eggs, and fried salami and cheese), and enjoyed a moment to simply relax with my coworkers.
By contrast, our arrival in Paraguay coincided with the Festival de San Juan, a celebration for the patron saint of Tobatí. It’s much smaller than Carnaval Vegano, but the community energy is just as strong. This year there was a full band with three trumpets, a trombone, and percussion, and we danced polka and cumbia all night. Parents of the students we work with sold asado (barbecued meat), sopa paraguaya (a cornbread-like dish), and chipa (a Guaraní baked good). The night’s highlight was the infamous Toro Candil: a wooden frame dressed like a bull with flaming horns that chases around a performer in campesino clothing. Afterwards the bull chases the kids in the crowd. It's said to reenact a countryside folk legend, and while it’s playful, it’s wise to stay alert—I’ve seen shirts singed before!
Having visited Paraguay multiple times, it’s always interesting to see how things have changed. Strangely, it felt like more had shifted this year than between 2019-2023 during the pandemic. The church is now painted purple instead of yellow and there’s a new monument in the town square commemorating the “founder” of Tobatí, who arrived in 1539. Amandau, the local ice cream shop, now takes credit cards—as do all three supermarkets. The newest one, Irene, has air conditioning and the Paraguayan students from the Macchi school where we work were so excited to take me there. There's even a gym down the street from the pizzeria where I stay with a host family and the American students I work with. My host family keeps photos from previous years, and they’ve shown me pictures of myself from 2019 back when I was still a senior in high school. Then, I was a mentor to sixth graders and now, those kids are seniors themselves. Two of my former advisees were on the trip this year. That was fun and a little bit jarring.
Experiencing two distinct festivals back to back made me think about other similarities and contrasts between the two countries. For example, in the DR it’s all about pelota which references baseball whereas if you say that you want to play pelota in Paraguay they would probably assume you are talking about fútbol. Economically, the DR leans on tourism and its cacao and tobacco agriculture. In contrast, Paraguay is largely landlocked and isolated, with few tourists. Instead, it exports cattle and soy, and towns like Tobatí rely heavily on brick production—ranging from large factories to backyard kilns. Both countries are predominantly Catholic and both are extremely prideful of their country and cultural customs.
Lately, I’ve been talking with a friend about the power of myth—how it shapes identity, both personal and national, and offers emotional narratives we return to for meaning. In the Dominican Republic, much of what I hear is relatively recent, stemming from the era when the country was under the Trujillo dictatorship, but there’s also deep richness in the syncretism between Indigenous, African, and European cultures that have been blending here for centuries. In Paraguay, national memory is steeped in the trauma of the War of the Triple Alliance, when the country lost an estimated 90% of its male population, with conservative estimates putting the total loss at over 50% of the general pre-war population. Despite this devastation, Paraguayans maintain a strong connection to their ancient Guaraní roots and hold their indigenous language and myths dearly. Though nations and cultures often understand themselves through myth, I wonder whether this kind of collective narrative exists in the same way in the United States—and if so, whether it might serve a greater purpose as a unifying force rather than a divisive one.
I don’t know how often life unfolds according to plan, but it’s clear that Paraguay had a profound influence on my path to the Dominican Republic. Both places are tied to my identity through service and self-growth. It’s funny because in many ways, they are polar opposites: one an island, the other landlocked; one loud and outgoing, the other quiet and reserved; one fueled by tourism, the other barely touched by it. I’ve experienced a longing for both cultures and I’m deeply grateful for the chance to travel and experience life between both. As any caribeño in the U.S. will tell you, nothing beats going back home. We appreciate what we have, but deep down, we want to return. I’ve seen that in others and felt it myself—whether in Paraguay, the Dominican Republic, or back in the States.
When I talked with my friend we agreed that though the world often asks us to be rational, we understand our lives most deeply through emotional stories. That’s what I feel when I return to Paraguay and see how it’s changed or when I live out a yearlong fellowship in the DR. These experiences are valuable and have shaped me profoundly. I’m very thankful to have the opportunity to be connected to both countries and to PiLA for making this chapter possible.
