The lifestyle that Peace Corps volunteers lead, by default, has great potential to make us healthier. That is to say, there are lots of things we do (or don't do) differently than we have in the past out of current necessity or practicality. A few examples:
- I now go jogging, admittedly not really because it's good for me, but mostly because it reduces the amount of shock I experience when partaking in my ice cold shower. Did they have to place my water tank in the most sinisterly shady area of the property?
- We don't snack nearly as much (a ripe banana is a treat), and consume relatively little processed foods. Favorites such as macaroni and cheese and Dr. Pepper are merely a pipedream.
- Further, even if our favorite American foods and beverages were available in our sites, we couldn't afford them!
So that's why I'm skinny. Don't make fun of me when I come home. Just remember, I can get a tan in winter, and you can't.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Breaking and Entering
For all we try to give as Peace Corps volunteers, we'd be lying to say that we didn't take a lot in return. Some of it is just and expected: language acquisition, cultural awareness, and more specific rewards, such as the gratification we get when children display their new knowledge about the environment. On the other hand, we take things that are not rightfully ours as well, specifically free days at all-inclusive resorts, justifying it by acting disgusted with uncontrolled development that only marginally benefits a small number of Dominicans…while sipping our Mojitos and luxuriating by a pristine Caribbean beachscape.
This entry is a confession. We're not proud, but I do this for your entertainment.
New volunteers, like myself 6 months ago, are overwhelmed by more experienced volunteers' stories of walking into a beachside all inclusive resort, eating, drinking, and making merry for free, and not a single eye batted by the staff. After all, as long as you tip, they have nothing invested in kicking you out. They all made it sound so easy and normal, that on our first trip to a popular resort beach, we though we couldn't go wrong. We walked straight in, beachside, and hung out by the pool for a few hours, albeit unable to get free drinks because we didn't have the required wristband, but still energized by our smooth entry. After swimming in the pool, we were unable to ignore our grumbling bellies, and thought we would try our luck at the open buffet. Rolling our sleeves down, we sat and feasted on mediocre cruise-style food, happy as pigs in mud, until a server appeared and asked to see our wristbands. Gulp.
One of the people in our group, smooth as always, quickly, oh, we thought this was a restaurant and heard the food was good, but we'll gladly pay. Taking full advantage of our mistake, the waiters escorted us to the front desk and charged us an arm and a leg, and another arm, for our meal. I won't say the price out of embarrassment, but I will say that it was a sickeningly large portion of my monthly Peace Corps salary.
Second time's a charm, right? No, that's the third time, coming up next paragraph. So the second time we tried to stick it to the resort-man, several of my volunteer friends were staying legally at a resort for a conference, and tried to sneak a few of us in the front door to pass the evening, prepared with the story that we were guest speakers for the conference and that we needed just a few hours to prepare. That went over poorly. The end.
And finally! Down on my luck, wondering why the older volunteers told us these glittering stories of free food and drink at resorts if it was harder to get in them that it is to break into the Louvre, we finally struck gold. Discovering a resort that, for whatever poorly planned reason, does not provide its guests with mandatory wristbands, we were able, on our second try (can't keep a good volunteer down!) to walk right in beachside, and enjoy the fruit bar, food bar, and bar bar for hours, laying in the sun, swimming in the pool, and feeling less sad every minute about our previous failures.
So what has Peace Corps taught us? If you don't succeed, try try again! And also, dignity may get you respect, but it sure doesn't get you into an all inclusive resort.
This entry is a confession. We're not proud, but I do this for your entertainment.
New volunteers, like myself 6 months ago, are overwhelmed by more experienced volunteers' stories of walking into a beachside all inclusive resort, eating, drinking, and making merry for free, and not a single eye batted by the staff. After all, as long as you tip, they have nothing invested in kicking you out. They all made it sound so easy and normal, that on our first trip to a popular resort beach, we though we couldn't go wrong. We walked straight in, beachside, and hung out by the pool for a few hours, albeit unable to get free drinks because we didn't have the required wristband, but still energized by our smooth entry. After swimming in the pool, we were unable to ignore our grumbling bellies, and thought we would try our luck at the open buffet. Rolling our sleeves down, we sat and feasted on mediocre cruise-style food, happy as pigs in mud, until a server appeared and asked to see our wristbands. Gulp.
One of the people in our group, smooth as always, quickly, oh, we thought this was a restaurant and heard the food was good, but we'll gladly pay. Taking full advantage of our mistake, the waiters escorted us to the front desk and charged us an arm and a leg, and another arm, for our meal. I won't say the price out of embarrassment, but I will say that it was a sickeningly large portion of my monthly Peace Corps salary.
Second time's a charm, right? No, that's the third time, coming up next paragraph. So the second time we tried to stick it to the resort-man, several of my volunteer friends were staying legally at a resort for a conference, and tried to sneak a few of us in the front door to pass the evening, prepared with the story that we were guest speakers for the conference and that we needed just a few hours to prepare. That went over poorly. The end.
And finally! Down on my luck, wondering why the older volunteers told us these glittering stories of free food and drink at resorts if it was harder to get in them that it is to break into the Louvre, we finally struck gold. Discovering a resort that, for whatever poorly planned reason, does not provide its guests with mandatory wristbands, we were able, on our second try (can't keep a good volunteer down!) to walk right in beachside, and enjoy the fruit bar, food bar, and bar bar for hours, laying in the sun, swimming in the pool, and feeling less sad every minute about our previous failures.
So what has Peace Corps taught us? If you don't succeed, try try again! And also, dignity may get you respect, but it sure doesn't get you into an all inclusive resort.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
How's the Weather? (written 11.20.08)
In my nearly 9 months in this country, I cannot recall a single time that I've heard a Dominican voice contentment regarding the weather. And we talk a lot about the weather. Usually it's unbearably hot, but as we're entering "winter", and it's been a rainy week, it's been atypically chilly, if there is such a thing in the tropics. It's been nice to actually need the beautiful afghan my cousin made me at night, but as for the rest of my community…I'm not sure they'll make it out alive. Everyone has donned their beanies and jean jackets, looking like something straight out of Grease, and the first thing mentioned in any conversation I've had over the past few days is how cold it is. Yesterday, as I sat in outdoor conversation with a t-shirted young man, he was visibly shivering!
We're talking, bottoms, 55 degrees here, at 4 AM when it's at its coldest. Maybe it's ME that won't make it out alive, as I'll be in TN for Christmas where I'm sure 55 is the high… Guess I'll just have to stay indoors and eat a lot and take a lot of hot showers. Darn.
We're talking, bottoms, 55 degrees here, at 4 AM when it's at its coldest. Maybe it's ME that won't make it out alive, as I'll be in TN for Christmas where I'm sure 55 is the high… Guess I'll just have to stay indoors and eat a lot and take a lot of hot showers. Darn.
Growth and Progress (written 11.19.08)
With the slow pace of my life here in the campo, I've been able to pay more attention to the way things grow. My cat changes from kitten to lioness more every day, the cucumber and tomato seeds I planted have sprouted up perkily, and even the hair in my armpits I document more closely. I've learned to sit and watch and be patient, although the progress part of it all is less forthcoming. I still hold out hope that my money will be here by January to start construction on fuel efficient cook stoves, but the Dominicans are much more patient that I, with their perpetual response of "si Dios quiere" - if God wills it. There's only so much creative work I can do in the community, with youth groups and the like, without a large chunk of change to back me up.
For all their talent at waiting and putting things off for another day (Scarlet O'Hara style, they'll "think about that tomorrow"), Dominicans are a very loud bunch. I wake several days every week to my neighbor screaming, about what I have still yet to determine. Children way beyond the age, in my opinion, where crying to get what you want is excusable, emit blood-curdling, through rattling screams with alarming regularity; students constantly try to outdo one another, as well as their teachers, in classroom volume; and teenagers who wish for a free ride from a passing truck don't merely sport a smile and an upturned thumb - they cry like banshees until the driver takes notice, at which point they scuttle around the vehicle, suddenly undecided of whether or not they wish to hop aboard.
It's amazing the amount of noise that can come out of such a seemingly calm location. If we could just get the motorcyclists to take advantage of modern day science - anyone heard of a muffler? - our lives would be completely different. Peace Corps project, anyone?
For all their talent at waiting and putting things off for another day (Scarlet O'Hara style, they'll "think about that tomorrow"), Dominicans are a very loud bunch. I wake several days every week to my neighbor screaming, about what I have still yet to determine. Children way beyond the age, in my opinion, where crying to get what you want is excusable, emit blood-curdling, through rattling screams with alarming regularity; students constantly try to outdo one another, as well as their teachers, in classroom volume; and teenagers who wish for a free ride from a passing truck don't merely sport a smile and an upturned thumb - they cry like banshees until the driver takes notice, at which point they scuttle around the vehicle, suddenly undecided of whether or not they wish to hop aboard.
It's amazing the amount of noise that can come out of such a seemingly calm location. If we could just get the motorcyclists to take advantage of modern day science - anyone heard of a muffler? - our lives would be completely different. Peace Corps project, anyone?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Guagua Diaries (written 11.11.08)
I never feel more like I live in developing Latin America than when I'm riding along in a guagua, headed to my site. I look out the window and see Haitian workers chopping weeds, Doñas carrying buckets of water, and trash fires at every glance, all to a background of merengue tipico. I feel as if I am simultaneously in a movie and observing one. I could be filming these scenes, or be the one on film from the outside of the bus, my head pressed against the smudgy glass. It is a serene and beautiful experience.
The Shampoo Thief (written 11.11.08)
I believe I mentioned in my last blog that I felt no bitterness toward my community due to my house situation (clearly I'm too lazy to check my last entry to verify this) and that although I felt taken advantage of, I didn't feel that way toward my neighbors. Last Thursday night changed that.
Michal and I arrived late at my site, took showers by candlelight (note: my bathroom is separate from my house, but only about 3 feet away, and the electricity was out) and cooked dinner at almost midnight. Before we were sitting down to eat, I went out to the bathroom to blow out the candle we had left while bathing; everything seemed normal. After dinner, I went out to the restroom again and what to my wondering eyes should appear? NOT my shampoo, conditioner, facewash, bodywash, and baby wipes! Someone had managed to get into the bathroom in the dark and take all of these things without making a noise. They left my towels and toothbrush, which led me to believe it was a kid or at least someone I know, but NO ONE I know walks around at midnight. It's just not done here. We went to bed a bit weirded out, and the next morning I noticed that my gate was still closed, in the exact position I had left it (it's kinda flimsy, so you can tell when it's been opened and closed).
Obviously, this is a mild offense and no real harm was done; the real issue is my comfort, because I am made very uneasy by the idea that someone is creeping around my house at night, arriving through the woods, most likely expecting that I am asleep. That is NOT ok.
Like a good PCV, I called our safety and security coordinator to tell her the news, being sure to mention that I will be moving soon to a house that includes an INDOOR bathroom. I'm less upset about this move every day, and I may even get money from Peace Corps to replace my bathroom potions!
Michal and I arrived late at my site, took showers by candlelight (note: my bathroom is separate from my house, but only about 3 feet away, and the electricity was out) and cooked dinner at almost midnight. Before we were sitting down to eat, I went out to the bathroom to blow out the candle we had left while bathing; everything seemed normal. After dinner, I went out to the restroom again and what to my wondering eyes should appear? NOT my shampoo, conditioner, facewash, bodywash, and baby wipes! Someone had managed to get into the bathroom in the dark and take all of these things without making a noise. They left my towels and toothbrush, which led me to believe it was a kid or at least someone I know, but NO ONE I know walks around at midnight. It's just not done here. We went to bed a bit weirded out, and the next morning I noticed that my gate was still closed, in the exact position I had left it (it's kinda flimsy, so you can tell when it's been opened and closed).
Obviously, this is a mild offense and no real harm was done; the real issue is my comfort, because I am made very uneasy by the idea that someone is creeping around my house at night, arriving through the woods, most likely expecting that I am asleep. That is NOT ok.
Like a good PCV, I called our safety and security coordinator to tell her the news, being sure to mention that I will be moving soon to a house that includes an INDOOR bathroom. I'm less upset about this move every day, and I may even get money from Peace Corps to replace my bathroom potions!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Addition to "You Know You're In the Peace Corps When..." list
- You wake in the night to find a 6 foot snake as thick as your arm dangling on the wall behind the head of your bed. Then, 2 days later, on the side of your fridge.
- You lunch on prime rib at a resort with the ambassador to the U.S., and then cook by lamplight over a gas stove, within a 6 hour period
- You see a skinny horse running down the street, it's neck attached by rope to the back of a motorcycle.
- You lunch on prime rib at a resort with the ambassador to the U.S., and then cook by lamplight over a gas stove, within a 6 hour period
- You see a skinny horse running down the street, it's neck attached by rope to the back of a motorcycle.
A Thicker Skin (written 11.1.08)
Growing up, I was always told it would come in handy, and it certainly would have yesterday. To add onto my last entry, another hard thing about being in the Peace Corps is that the effect of being away from your friends, family, and every other familiar thing you've ever known is compacted by the feeling that you are often times taken advantage of by the exact people you are here to teach and learn from. Although I've calmed my thoughts about the owners of my house by reminding myself that they are not actually part of my community, there's no denying that my Brigada Verde kids are, and that yesterday, a group of them lied to me.
It wasn't a big lie, but after all I've done for them, it shocked and appalled me that they could even think about being dishonest with me. Last week, I gave a young girl some candy for her birthday, so yesterday a group showed up, mid-birthday song, claiming that it was someone else's birthday. Although I was suspicious, they came singing his praise, and had given him the customary water bottle bath that seems to be a tradition among the 12 and unders. So I gave him sweets, and even some old Christmas decorations that had heretofore adorned my porch. (Truthfully, I was ready to part with the latter, but these same kids had been my decorators and I wasn't willing to simply trash their work.) They were on their way, singing and display their sweet and shiny winnings, and I didn't think twice about it, until I found out later that it wasn't actually said-boy's birthday…
Irrationally angry - how could my OWN kids, because that's how I think of them, take advantage of me, even in this silliest of ways! - I fumed for a while, and decided I would not let this go unaddressed. Several hours later, the oldest boy and ringleader of this deceitful plan passed by my house on the way to church (how could he even live with himself! Indignation!) so I called him in for a chat. I felt very motherly, giving him the I'm-hurt-and-disappointed,-how-could-you-lie-to-me-just-to-get-candy,-how-can-I-ever-trust-you-again-speech, but it seemed to get the point across. Don't worry, I wasn't too harsh. He and his sister left smiling, but I'm sure they'll think twice before lying to me again.
It wasn't a big lie, but after all I've done for them, it shocked and appalled me that they could even think about being dishonest with me. Last week, I gave a young girl some candy for her birthday, so yesterday a group showed up, mid-birthday song, claiming that it was someone else's birthday. Although I was suspicious, they came singing his praise, and had given him the customary water bottle bath that seems to be a tradition among the 12 and unders. So I gave him sweets, and even some old Christmas decorations that had heretofore adorned my porch. (Truthfully, I was ready to part with the latter, but these same kids had been my decorators and I wasn't willing to simply trash their work.) They were on their way, singing and display their sweet and shiny winnings, and I didn't think twice about it, until I found out later that it wasn't actually said-boy's birthday…
Irrationally angry - how could my OWN kids, because that's how I think of them, take advantage of me, even in this silliest of ways! - I fumed for a while, and decided I would not let this go unaddressed. Several hours later, the oldest boy and ringleader of this deceitful plan passed by my house on the way to church (how could he even live with himself! Indignation!) so I called him in for a chat. I felt very motherly, giving him the I'm-hurt-and-disappointed,-how-could-you-lie-to-me-just-to-get-candy,-how-can-I-ever-trust-you-again-speech, but it seemed to get the point across. Don't worry, I wasn't too harsh. He and his sister left smiling, but I'm sure they'll think twice before lying to me again.
Why Peace Corps is Hard (written 10.30.08)
I live in a lawless land. This was further proven to me by a recent situation regarding my house, about which I must laugh and blog to keep from crying and screaming.
I moved into my lucky find about 2 months ago before the owners had signed the promised contract, feeling a little nervous, but very Dominican about the whole thing. I constantly have to remind myself not to be so American about certain things, and I thought maybe this was one of them. Wrong. Now, the owners have decided they want the house back (although it's stood empty and abandoned for over two years) just when I've gotten it clean and nesty. Fishy, if you ask me. But after exercising all my options, including recruiting the help of my Dominican male Peace Corps boss, there's nothing left but to find another place to live. Easier said than done. My boss was at least able to extract from the rich, city dwelling owner (whom I've never met in person but who has been nasty, to say the least, to me on the phone) an agreement that I won't be made to leave until another house is available, and who knows how long that will be. Plus, this house was furnished, so I have to start saving my pesos for basic things: a small gas stove, a table, chairs.
All of this, plus the fact that the hardware store refused to lend me materials until my grant comes in, has basically made my decision for me: now is not the right time for my stove practice. I was relieved to find out that, so far, those I've told in my community do not hate me for this. In fact, they seem more at peace than I, making comments such as "God will send the money in time". If I breathe deeply, and once again try to leave out some of my American expectations, I'm sure I'll be fine. Plus, I have very supportive Peace Corps friends. News travels fast between 200 volunteers on an island the size of 2 New Hampshires, so I've already received several encouraging messages.
On the bright side, my next house cannot possibly have as many snakes. (Up to 3 now…)
I moved into my lucky find about 2 months ago before the owners had signed the promised contract, feeling a little nervous, but very Dominican about the whole thing. I constantly have to remind myself not to be so American about certain things, and I thought maybe this was one of them. Wrong. Now, the owners have decided they want the house back (although it's stood empty and abandoned for over two years) just when I've gotten it clean and nesty. Fishy, if you ask me. But after exercising all my options, including recruiting the help of my Dominican male Peace Corps boss, there's nothing left but to find another place to live. Easier said than done. My boss was at least able to extract from the rich, city dwelling owner (whom I've never met in person but who has been nasty, to say the least, to me on the phone) an agreement that I won't be made to leave until another house is available, and who knows how long that will be. Plus, this house was furnished, so I have to start saving my pesos for basic things: a small gas stove, a table, chairs.
All of this, plus the fact that the hardware store refused to lend me materials until my grant comes in, has basically made my decision for me: now is not the right time for my stove practice. I was relieved to find out that, so far, those I've told in my community do not hate me for this. In fact, they seem more at peace than I, making comments such as "God will send the money in time". If I breathe deeply, and once again try to leave out some of my American expectations, I'm sure I'll be fine. Plus, I have very supportive Peace Corps friends. News travels fast between 200 volunteers on an island the size of 2 New Hampshires, so I've already received several encouraging messages.
On the bright side, my next house cannot possibly have as many snakes. (Up to 3 now…)
Notes from a Tarantula Killer (written 10.30.08)
We're up to at least 6 now, since the passing of the serpent. I think I'll christen these my lucky red flip-flops.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Time Rolls On
November brings a stove practice in my site - we'll be building the first of 21 stoves (fingers crossed), the rest of which are awaiting the arrival of government funds. I wrote a grant proposal, only to find out that the form has changed for 2009 and that all of us over-achiever-early-submitters will be asked to rewrite when the form comes in. Hurry up and wait, that's the name of the game!
Thanks to everyone who has been sending me all these lovely packages! I now have a lifetime (or at least 2 year) supply of tea, tissues, and baby wipes, all useful items that will not go to waste between myself and other Peace Corps buddies. We rely so much on the love and support from family and friends at home, and you all have definitely shown me that your thoughts are with me! Gracias!!!
Thanks to everyone who has been sending me all these lovely packages! I now have a lifetime (or at least 2 year) supply of tea, tissues, and baby wipes, all useful items that will not go to waste between myself and other Peace Corps buddies. We rely so much on the love and support from family and friends at home, and you all have definitely shown me that your thoughts are with me! Gracias!!!
Friday, September 26, 2008
Comfort Food (written 9.25.08)
I hear that snakes are a favored dish of some. Although it's not my cousine of choice, it's been in abundance around here lately.
So when I joked about it coming back in my last entry, I didn't think it actually would. But it did. And it was definitely not funny.
The day after the sighting of the beast in my room, a comparatively small snake appeared in the rafters. As I had a friend visiting, news quickly spread, and within 10 minutes it had been machete chopped, with the snake blood on my box-springs (luckily I was able to halt the machete wielding woman long enough to move my mattress) to tell the story. Word quickly spread that Mica lives in a casa de culebras (snake house), and because people now have an actual reason to attach to their claims that I absolutely mustn't live alone, I was all the more determined to continue to do so.
That night, after my early evening visitors left, I walked into my dark kitchen to get some water, not at all expecting (who knows why) to see the serpent. As I opened the fridge door (electricity out, no light…just setting the scene), a movement and slithering, hissing noise to my immediate left called my attention, and low and behold there she was, chillin (ha) on the side of my fridge. Because there's no back cover, she immediately slithered inside the fridge behind, and I immediately went to look for help. By the time I returned, I had 7 Dominicans in tow, 3 machete wielding men, and 4 women who came for the drama that was in it. Campesinos are constantly looking for something out of the ordinary to break the cycle of boredom, and although I don't blame them, these women fluttering about, clinging to me and lighting up the kitchen with their cell phones was almost more difficult for me than the snake itself. After breaking my counter top (old crumbly cement) and making such a ruckus that I was sure the snake was nowhere near, they found it, just as I said, hiding underneath the fridge. I wasn't eyewitness to the hunt (hiding inside the house, separate from the kitchen) but somehow they managed to rile it up enough so it stuck out it's head and then, wham! But wait, another wham! And another and another for several minutes until it was good and dead, snake blood covering the kitchen floor. It truly was a monster.
Completely scarred by the entire incident, there was nothing to do but splurge on comfort foods. Last night I made a big pot of chili, and today I had a Milky Way and Velveeta shells and cheese, both of which were bought in a fit of frivolity while I was in the city trying to print fliers and tickets, another nightmare, for our upcoming talent show. Short of someone I really care about showing up for a surprise visit this evening, the Mac n' Cheese was the best thing I could have possibly hoped for. The chili I shared with a couple Dominican girls that had helped me clean my house, and I was pleasantly surprised at their positive responses. They even put in extra cayenne pepper, and Dominicans are not known for their fondness of spice. Cooking has long been a source of relaxation for me, and it's good to have it as an outlet, even if complicated dishes must be planned around trips to the city, or the arrival of packages from the U.S.
So when I joked about it coming back in my last entry, I didn't think it actually would. But it did. And it was definitely not funny.
The day after the sighting of the beast in my room, a comparatively small snake appeared in the rafters. As I had a friend visiting, news quickly spread, and within 10 minutes it had been machete chopped, with the snake blood on my box-springs (luckily I was able to halt the machete wielding woman long enough to move my mattress) to tell the story. Word quickly spread that Mica lives in a casa de culebras (snake house), and because people now have an actual reason to attach to their claims that I absolutely mustn't live alone, I was all the more determined to continue to do so.
That night, after my early evening visitors left, I walked into my dark kitchen to get some water, not at all expecting (who knows why) to see the serpent. As I opened the fridge door (electricity out, no light…just setting the scene), a movement and slithering, hissing noise to my immediate left called my attention, and low and behold there she was, chillin (ha) on the side of my fridge. Because there's no back cover, she immediately slithered inside the fridge behind, and I immediately went to look for help. By the time I returned, I had 7 Dominicans in tow, 3 machete wielding men, and 4 women who came for the drama that was in it. Campesinos are constantly looking for something out of the ordinary to break the cycle of boredom, and although I don't blame them, these women fluttering about, clinging to me and lighting up the kitchen with their cell phones was almost more difficult for me than the snake itself. After breaking my counter top (old crumbly cement) and making such a ruckus that I was sure the snake was nowhere near, they found it, just as I said, hiding underneath the fridge. I wasn't eyewitness to the hunt (hiding inside the house, separate from the kitchen) but somehow they managed to rile it up enough so it stuck out it's head and then, wham! But wait, another wham! And another and another for several minutes until it was good and dead, snake blood covering the kitchen floor. It truly was a monster.
Completely scarred by the entire incident, there was nothing to do but splurge on comfort foods. Last night I made a big pot of chili, and today I had a Milky Way and Velveeta shells and cheese, both of which were bought in a fit of frivolity while I was in the city trying to print fliers and tickets, another nightmare, for our upcoming talent show. Short of someone I really care about showing up for a surprise visit this evening, the Mac n' Cheese was the best thing I could have possibly hoped for. The chili I shared with a couple Dominican girls that had helped me clean my house, and I was pleasantly surprised at their positive responses. They even put in extra cayenne pepper, and Dominicans are not known for their fondness of spice. Cooking has long been a source of relaxation for me, and it's good to have it as an outlet, even if complicated dishes must be planned around trips to the city, or the arrival of packages from the U.S.
Anaconda (written 9.21.08)
So last night I discovered the best reason to date for diligently tucking-in one's mosquito net. It was at least 8 feet long, as thick as my arm, and hung suspended in the dark about 7 inches from my pillow when discovered. Never in my life have I seen a snake so big that wasn't on the other side of 4 inches of glass - mosquito netting, somehow, does not provide the same feeling of security. I had just returned from the bathroom (outdoor) headlamp ablaze, and before lying down, I saw a dark contrast against the white wall at the head of my bed in the periphery of the lamplight. My first thought was, wow, that's quite the large termite tunnel, and it just popped up out of nowhere! My second thought was, um, do I really want to shine the light full on to find out what this is? After doing so, I learned the true meaning of frozen with fear. Sitting curled into a ball in the middle of my bed, I stared at the long, slimy black body for what must have been 5 minutes before gathering the courage to slither (ha) out of my mosquito net, gather up my cat, and turn on the overhead light (if there was EVER an appropriate time for electricity…)
Standing in my doorway, watching the snake move about along the wall and head of my bed, I was refrozen to my place, hands to mouth, begging it in the most pathetic little squeaky voice to please leave. It was past midnight, and I knew if I went to my host parents' house in fear in the middle of the night (which I was more than tempted to do), I would NEVER be allowed to leave again. A day doesn't go by when someone doesn't warn me against living alone, and this would absolutely be the nail in the coffin. Imagine an entire community of well intended meddlers saying "I told you so" for two years. As petrified as I was (couldn't even make myself get the camera and take a picture), I elected to tough it out.
The snake soon enough decided my room was not the place it wanted to be, and slowly slithered back up to the rafters, where I could see it lying still above my bed. I'm sure it was harmless, a corn-snake or blacksnake that probably eats rats, but I have a cat for that, who is significantly cuter. Needless to say, I had a difficult time sleeping, and turned on my headlamp to check the perimeter at least 10 times. Although I'm dead tired today, I'm foregoing a nap in the hopes that I will sleep better tonight.
It would have been different if the snake had shown itself during the day, in the rafters, on the porch…something a little less aggressive. As it was, I found myself face to face, in the middle of the night, with a slithering black body so close I could see all the intricacies of its pattern. I told my host dad about this today (soliciting a promise that he would not tell my host mom). His response, eyes as big as saucers…
Wow, you're brave! You need to get a machete…
Me: I'm not going to attack an 8 foot long snake with a machete!
Him: (puzzled) Because you're scared or because you don't want to hurt it?
Me: I guess both. Mostly because I think I would miss, and then…
Can't wait to talk to someone from home on the phone and solicit the terror and pity that I feel this experience deserves! I've decided if it comes back, there's nothing to do but give it a silly name for comic relief. I'll say, aloud to no one, with a sigh of exasperation, "Oh Maude. It's you again." Maybe that will help.
Standing in my doorway, watching the snake move about along the wall and head of my bed, I was refrozen to my place, hands to mouth, begging it in the most pathetic little squeaky voice to please leave. It was past midnight, and I knew if I went to my host parents' house in fear in the middle of the night (which I was more than tempted to do), I would NEVER be allowed to leave again. A day doesn't go by when someone doesn't warn me against living alone, and this would absolutely be the nail in the coffin. Imagine an entire community of well intended meddlers saying "I told you so" for two years. As petrified as I was (couldn't even make myself get the camera and take a picture), I elected to tough it out.
The snake soon enough decided my room was not the place it wanted to be, and slowly slithered back up to the rafters, where I could see it lying still above my bed. I'm sure it was harmless, a corn-snake or blacksnake that probably eats rats, but I have a cat for that, who is significantly cuter. Needless to say, I had a difficult time sleeping, and turned on my headlamp to check the perimeter at least 10 times. Although I'm dead tired today, I'm foregoing a nap in the hopes that I will sleep better tonight.
It would have been different if the snake had shown itself during the day, in the rafters, on the porch…something a little less aggressive. As it was, I found myself face to face, in the middle of the night, with a slithering black body so close I could see all the intricacies of its pattern. I told my host dad about this today (soliciting a promise that he would not tell my host mom). His response, eyes as big as saucers…
Wow, you're brave! You need to get a machete…
Me: I'm not going to attack an 8 foot long snake with a machete!
Him: (puzzled) Because you're scared or because you don't want to hurt it?
Me: I guess both. Mostly because I think I would miss, and then…
Can't wait to talk to someone from home on the phone and solicit the terror and pity that I feel this experience deserves! I've decided if it comes back, there's nothing to do but give it a silly name for comic relief. I'll say, aloud to no one, with a sigh of exasperation, "Oh Maude. It's you again." Maybe that will help.
Gusanos (written 9.17.08)
That'd be worms in Spanish.
I was proud of myself today, and it was directly connected to me finding these fun little guys in my spaghetti noodles. Don't worry, this isn't Fear Factor, so you're safe to read on.
I started cooking early (which was to save me later) and made a delicious spaghetti sauce, complete with ground soy that I made a point to seek out last time I was in the capital. As you can see, this dish has been pre-meditated for quite some time. I was even lucky enough to time it perfectly, putting the noodles on to cook at just the right moment so the sauce would be thickened but still hot. Since I had deviled eggs and cheetos for lunch (how American of me!), I was pretty excited about a big, early spaghetti dinner. I took off the lid to the noodles, preparing myself to drain them sans-collander, when what to my wondering eyes did appear but 10 worms here and another 20 there! Obviously they were dead, and I have to confess that I did momentarily consider picking out the "good" noodles (the sauce was so tasty!) but there were just too many, so I refrained and begrudgingly set out to look for more noodles. Of course, the nearest colmado was closed, for the first time in the history of the world, at 6:00, so I trudged on to the colmado where I had bought noodles earlier this morning.
After making my purchase, I set out toward the house again, pausing about 50 feet away from the store to check out the noodles. I expected them to be fine (I assumed the worm host had been the noodles that I had had in the fridge for a while. I had bought extra this morning to make a big dinner to share with my handyman helper), but low and behold! More worms!!!!
I immediately marched back to the colmado (enter the part where I'm proud of myself) and all but demanded (ever so politely) that the owner replace not only the noodles I had just purchased, but the ones from this morning as well. This seems like a given, but it's a bigger deal here than one might think, especially for a non-partisan volunteer, to hold someone accountable like that. Or maybe it's not a big deal at all, but I was still proud that I got my pound and a half of noodles, sans maggots.
I was proud of myself today, and it was directly connected to me finding these fun little guys in my spaghetti noodles. Don't worry, this isn't Fear Factor, so you're safe to read on.
I started cooking early (which was to save me later) and made a delicious spaghetti sauce, complete with ground soy that I made a point to seek out last time I was in the capital. As you can see, this dish has been pre-meditated for quite some time. I was even lucky enough to time it perfectly, putting the noodles on to cook at just the right moment so the sauce would be thickened but still hot. Since I had deviled eggs and cheetos for lunch (how American of me!), I was pretty excited about a big, early spaghetti dinner. I took off the lid to the noodles, preparing myself to drain them sans-collander, when what to my wondering eyes did appear but 10 worms here and another 20 there! Obviously they were dead, and I have to confess that I did momentarily consider picking out the "good" noodles (the sauce was so tasty!) but there were just too many, so I refrained and begrudgingly set out to look for more noodles. Of course, the nearest colmado was closed, for the first time in the history of the world, at 6:00, so I trudged on to the colmado where I had bought noodles earlier this morning.
After making my purchase, I set out toward the house again, pausing about 50 feet away from the store to check out the noodles. I expected them to be fine (I assumed the worm host had been the noodles that I had had in the fridge for a while. I had bought extra this morning to make a big dinner to share with my handyman helper), but low and behold! More worms!!!!
I immediately marched back to the colmado (enter the part where I'm proud of myself) and all but demanded (ever so politely) that the owner replace not only the noodles I had just purchased, but the ones from this morning as well. This seems like a given, but it's a bigger deal here than one might think, especially for a non-partisan volunteer, to hold someone accountable like that. Or maybe it's not a big deal at all, but I was still proud that I got my pound and a half of noodles, sans maggots.
The Sex of Cats (9.16.08)
Today I found out my cat is female. That was weird. I could have sworn the previous owner told me my Chinola was a "he", but when she came over today for a coffee and inquired as to the sex of little Chinola, I decided to do some investigating of my own. Now I'm no expert on cat genitalia, but let it suffice to say that there was something…missing. Now at least the feminine ending to her name (Spanish and Portuguese words have gender. This is the bane of my trilingual existence) is befitting.
So just when I thought Chinola couldn't possibly confound me any more - I finally took pity on her (HER) last night and climbed atop the termite riddled furniture to get her down from the roof - she does! Even though she makes it difficult to work, biting my fingers as they move across the keyboard, running around under my feet in the kitchen, she definitely makes life a lot more interesting.
I started, and nearly finished, a grant proposal for stoves today. I can ask for up to 3,000 American dollars at one time, and this goes a long way…20 stoves long to be exact. It's a complicated process of training masons, getting materials, and finding people willing to work or pay for labor, but I'm eager to get started. We have an interest meeting this Saturday in fact and I plan to clear up a few questions that are keeping me from turning in the grant tomorrow: how much does a wheelbarrow cost? A day's worth of labor? How many of you are SERIOUSLY interested? That sort of thing. Hopefully by March of 2009, the community will have at least 20 new stoves, and more importantly, a group of individuals who are competent enough to keep making them after I leave.
My bathroom, although still a work in progress, is getting there. A friendly, helpful señor who lives a few houses down came by to install a new hose under my sink, check out the toilet's many leaks, and finally tell me what I need to get on round 2 to the hardware store (I knew 1 trip was just too good to be true). As he was preparing to leave, we had that awkward moment that usually accompanies compensation. I offered to pay him, but he flat out refused, saying he does things for people, that everything isn't about money. He wasn't lecturing, but I felt a bit ashamed for evening bringing it up. But then again, I would have felt ashamed if I hadn't. What can you do?
I think I'll make him spaghetti.
So just when I thought Chinola couldn't possibly confound me any more - I finally took pity on her (HER) last night and climbed atop the termite riddled furniture to get her down from the roof - she does! Even though she makes it difficult to work, biting my fingers as they move across the keyboard, running around under my feet in the kitchen, she definitely makes life a lot more interesting.
I started, and nearly finished, a grant proposal for stoves today. I can ask for up to 3,000 American dollars at one time, and this goes a long way…20 stoves long to be exact. It's a complicated process of training masons, getting materials, and finding people willing to work or pay for labor, but I'm eager to get started. We have an interest meeting this Saturday in fact and I plan to clear up a few questions that are keeping me from turning in the grant tomorrow: how much does a wheelbarrow cost? A day's worth of labor? How many of you are SERIOUSLY interested? That sort of thing. Hopefully by March of 2009, the community will have at least 20 new stoves, and more importantly, a group of individuals who are competent enough to keep making them after I leave.
My bathroom, although still a work in progress, is getting there. A friendly, helpful señor who lives a few houses down came by to install a new hose under my sink, check out the toilet's many leaks, and finally tell me what I need to get on round 2 to the hardware store (I knew 1 trip was just too good to be true). As he was preparing to leave, we had that awkward moment that usually accompanies compensation. I offered to pay him, but he flat out refused, saying he does things for people, that everything isn't about money. He wasn't lecturing, but I felt a bit ashamed for evening bringing it up. But then again, I would have felt ashamed if I hadn't. What can you do?
I think I'll make him spaghetti.
Handyman (written 9.15.08)
Today I installed a toilet seat. That is, after riding a motorcycle 30 minutes both ways to the nearest hardware store where I could first buy a toilet seat. Some might say this is a small task, but it was a proud moment for me. Handyman Mica!
Once I was in fix-up-the-house mode, I decided to take the scary couch cushions outside for a beating as well. A clean-crazy friend of mine (you know who you are) sent me a package with travel size Febreeze, among other cleaning supplies (spray on wrinkle release - really!), so I decided to deodorize the cushions. Seriously, it could only help. I mostly refuse to even sit on the cushions. Thanks a bunch to my ultra hygienic friend!
Finally, the cat has trumped his own stupidity. As I type, he is wandering among the wooden rafters and zinc sheets of my roof, crying and pretending he can't get down. He must be able to - he got up after all! - and as it is raining and dark, I really have no other option than to sit and wait. It would be ridiculous to ask my senior neighbors to come out in the wet dark with a ladder to retrieve my cat, especially in a country where the majority sees our feline friends as little more than rat traps. Sorry Chinola! Get comfy, it may be a long night…
Once I was in fix-up-the-house mode, I decided to take the scary couch cushions outside for a beating as well. A clean-crazy friend of mine (you know who you are) sent me a package with travel size Febreeze, among other cleaning supplies (spray on wrinkle release - really!), so I decided to deodorize the cushions. Seriously, it could only help. I mostly refuse to even sit on the cushions. Thanks a bunch to my ultra hygienic friend!
Finally, the cat has trumped his own stupidity. As I type, he is wandering among the wooden rafters and zinc sheets of my roof, crying and pretending he can't get down. He must be able to - he got up after all! - and as it is raining and dark, I really have no other option than to sit and wait. It would be ridiculous to ask my senior neighbors to come out in the wet dark with a ladder to retrieve my cat, especially in a country where the majority sees our feline friends as little more than rat traps. Sorry Chinola! Get comfy, it may be a long night…
A lack of light and firemen (written 9.13.08)
I like having time to myself in my new house, but it's infinitely more enjoyable at night when there is electricity. Otherwise, I wander around with my wind-up flashlight or headlamp that only works in fits and spurts. When there's electricity, I can sit on the porch and read, write blog entries, make bracelets, or chat with friends. When there's no electricity, my activities are limited to talking to my cat, who's afraid of the headlamp, so that doesn't work out too well.
Speaking of little Chinola, he pulled a fast one on me tonight. After several days of letting him outside for only a few minutes at a time, we've established a strong enough relationship that I'm confident he won't run away. So when there was tonight electricity, I let him out, and although he didn't run away, he did run up a tree. And get stuck. Oops. After listening to him cry long enough that I was sure he wasn't coming down unassisted, I donned my headlamp (the porch light only reaches so far) and climbed an orange tree to pull the feline fool to safety by the scruff of his neck. Hair thicker by several cobwebs and still more leaves, I shut him in the house and did not feel the least bit guilty when he cried to be let out again.
Dummy.
Speaking of little Chinola, he pulled a fast one on me tonight. After several days of letting him outside for only a few minutes at a time, we've established a strong enough relationship that I'm confident he won't run away. So when there was tonight electricity, I let him out, and although he didn't run away, he did run up a tree. And get stuck. Oops. After listening to him cry long enough that I was sure he wasn't coming down unassisted, I donned my headlamp (the porch light only reaches so far) and climbed an orange tree to pull the feline fool to safety by the scruff of his neck. Hair thicker by several cobwebs and still more leaves, I shut him in the house and did not feel the least bit guilty when he cried to be let out again.
Dummy.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Home Sweet Home (written 9.2.08)
It has scorpions, it has leaks, it has termites and a cat that's not quite a fan of me…but hey! It's home!
After cleaning 50 years worth of old people junk out of a house that hadn't been lived in in over 2 years, with much help from friends, I moved all of my things into my new old home. Perhaps a little prematurely, I got a kitten on the same day, thinking we could keep one another company. He actually hid under my bed for most of the first day (who can blame him after riding to his new home inside an old rice sack on the back of a motorcycle?) but has gotten continually braver, and is definitely showing an interest in getting to know me. He's an orange tabby (is there any other kind?) and I call him Chinola - a yellowish, bittersweet fruit that makes great smoothies!
After a tiring weekend of diversity camp, run by Peace Corps volunteers and to which I took two girls from my community, I returned home on Sunday and set about making house into home. After waking up luxuriously at 9 (it's hard to drag oneself out of bed when it hasn't stopped raining in about 24 hours), I cooked an American breakfast, finished a book, and made fresh squeezed orange juice out of 20 oranges a neighbor brought me (I'm pretty sure they came off the back of "my" property somewhere). Although the streets have turned to mud, I eventually made my way down to my host parents for a late lunch, where there sat awaiting me on the dining room table a heaping portion of pig intestines. Sure, it sounds exotic when you call it "mondongo", but that doesn't make it any more digestible. I managed to swallow one piece, discreetly fed the rest of what was on my plate to the ugly turkey that hangs around out back, and managed to get out of the house about 30 minutes later without my host mom saying something about how little I had eaten. Crisis averted! I had heard tales of this mondongo, and even seen it transported in buckets on buses, but until this rainy Tuesday afternoon, had never been presented with it as a solitary lunch option (with rice, of course). It kinda looked like large, grey, floppy cheerios in a red sauce. The texture, rubber tire. The flavor….let's not go there. Luckily I wasn't that hungry, and I have an assortment of vegetables to cook for dinner tonight (if I can find a cooking pot in my decrepit kitchen) as well as fresh squeezed orange juice.
After cleaning 50 years worth of old people junk out of a house that hadn't been lived in in over 2 years, with much help from friends, I moved all of my things into my new old home. Perhaps a little prematurely, I got a kitten on the same day, thinking we could keep one another company. He actually hid under my bed for most of the first day (who can blame him after riding to his new home inside an old rice sack on the back of a motorcycle?) but has gotten continually braver, and is definitely showing an interest in getting to know me. He's an orange tabby (is there any other kind?) and I call him Chinola - a yellowish, bittersweet fruit that makes great smoothies!
After a tiring weekend of diversity camp, run by Peace Corps volunteers and to which I took two girls from my community, I returned home on Sunday and set about making house into home. After waking up luxuriously at 9 (it's hard to drag oneself out of bed when it hasn't stopped raining in about 24 hours), I cooked an American breakfast, finished a book, and made fresh squeezed orange juice out of 20 oranges a neighbor brought me (I'm pretty sure they came off the back of "my" property somewhere). Although the streets have turned to mud, I eventually made my way down to my host parents for a late lunch, where there sat awaiting me on the dining room table a heaping portion of pig intestines. Sure, it sounds exotic when you call it "mondongo", but that doesn't make it any more digestible. I managed to swallow one piece, discreetly fed the rest of what was on my plate to the ugly turkey that hangs around out back, and managed to get out of the house about 30 minutes later without my host mom saying something about how little I had eaten. Crisis averted! I had heard tales of this mondongo, and even seen it transported in buckets on buses, but until this rainy Tuesday afternoon, had never been presented with it as a solitary lunch option (with rice, of course). It kinda looked like large, grey, floppy cheerios in a red sauce. The texture, rubber tire. The flavor….let's not go there. Luckily I wasn't that hungry, and I have an assortment of vegetables to cook for dinner tonight (if I can find a cooking pot in my decrepit kitchen) as well as fresh squeezed orange juice.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The day Mica got a fungus
Being as it's an itchless, painless fungus, I actually don't know exactly what day that was. I thought it was just a few little sunspots on my shoulders, but after inspecting my back, my doctor informed me it's in fact a benign fungus growing on me. Even if I had mirrors, I wouldn't be able to see my back, so I had no idea what was going on back there! She gave me a cream, which strangely consists of the same ingredients as dandruff shampoo, so hopefully that will take care of it.
So I moved into my new house yesterday, and what an adventure it was. I spent the entire day Saturday cleaning out 50 years worth of the former owners' belongings (no matter what country they are from, old people sure do like to collect junk), not to mention 2 years worth of dust, cobwebs, and insect corpses. It's quite the interesting house, part cement, with the wooden parts infested with termites. 3 bedrooms, a breezeway type area, and a separate kitchen, with the bathroom outside the house, albeit tile with running water! It was a lucky find, even if it is a fixer upper, much like the house I grew up in and will always love. Old house charm, old house problems... Nothing a brand new bed, a teflon pan, and an orange tabby cat can't cure! I'm going to pick him up in a few days, and his name will be Chinola: a yellow, tart fruit that makes delicious smoothies!
So I moved into my new house yesterday, and what an adventure it was. I spent the entire day Saturday cleaning out 50 years worth of the former owners' belongings (no matter what country they are from, old people sure do like to collect junk), not to mention 2 years worth of dust, cobwebs, and insect corpses. It's quite the interesting house, part cement, with the wooden parts infested with termites. 3 bedrooms, a breezeway type area, and a separate kitchen, with the bathroom outside the house, albeit tile with running water! It was a lucky find, even if it is a fixer upper, much like the house I grew up in and will always love. Old house charm, old house problems... Nothing a brand new bed, a teflon pan, and an orange tabby cat can't cure! I'm going to pick him up in a few days, and his name will be Chinola: a yellow, tart fruit that makes delicious smoothies!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Back to the Campo…which is the exact opposite of Back to the Future (written 8.21.08)
Upon my return yesterday from a somewhat extended leave (necessitated by training and meetings, elongated by a desire to spend time with friends), I was met by the distinct feeling that someone has been sleeping in my bed.
My host parents have had lots of visitors in the past week (including their grandson who has doubled in size since the last time I saw him, which makes a strange kind of sense since he has also doubled in age: from 2 months to 4 months), and as my sheets were tucked in very differently than when I left, I have no choice but to believe someone slept there. I hope they at least washed the sheets afterward, but I kinda doubt it…
Coming home this evening (after a long but productive first day back) when the electricity had been out almost the entire day meant coming home to no running water as well, since the loss of power kills our aqueduct. In desperate need of a shower (bucket bath, whatever), there I went, out the back door to fill a bucket with water from our plastic storage bins. Our bathing buckets are heavy once filled with storage water, which is less than crystal clean - the lid doesn't quite keep out all the bugs and dirt. Without electricity, however, I can't really see what I'm doing in the bathroom, let alone what might be lurking in my bathwater. So I clumsily lugged the bucket into the bathroom, ignored the creepy crawlies I had seen floating by light of headlamp, and enjoyed the cool water.
Things always work out in this country somehow…
My host parents have had lots of visitors in the past week (including their grandson who has doubled in size since the last time I saw him, which makes a strange kind of sense since he has also doubled in age: from 2 months to 4 months), and as my sheets were tucked in very differently than when I left, I have no choice but to believe someone slept there. I hope they at least washed the sheets afterward, but I kinda doubt it…
Coming home this evening (after a long but productive first day back) when the electricity had been out almost the entire day meant coming home to no running water as well, since the loss of power kills our aqueduct. In desperate need of a shower (bucket bath, whatever), there I went, out the back door to fill a bucket with water from our plastic storage bins. Our bathing buckets are heavy once filled with storage water, which is less than crystal clean - the lid doesn't quite keep out all the bugs and dirt. Without electricity, however, I can't really see what I'm doing in the bathroom, let alone what might be lurking in my bathwater. So I clumsily lugged the bucket into the bathroom, ignored the creepy crawlies I had seen floating by light of headlamp, and enjoyed the cool water.
Things always work out in this country somehow…
Friday, August 15, 2008
Today
Today I realized that the kids I'm teaching to read may have a hard time retaining information because they're not getting the majority of the vitamins and minerals that they need for mental and physical development. Anyone wanna send some Flinstone vitamins?
Today I laughed at the sight of two motorcyclists with used rice sacks mounted on their bikes as if they were saddlebags, each stuffed with live, medium size, fuzzy pigs.
Today I said no to a ride on a motorcycle (with my bag) in which I was expected to ride squished in between a preteen boy and snaggle-tooth the motorcycle driver. Sometimes, you just have to be a little bit picky. And when I did get on a different motorcycle, I was distracted by the weird but common stickers: one yellow sick-face, and one angry black skull with a third red eye. Strange.
Today I realized that taking these motorcycle rides is like watching a movie of the DR. All the bits and pieces of the view that I see, like someone carrying buckets to a water source or a doña sweeping her dirt yard, seem much less like a part of my life when I'm zooming by and headed to the city.
Today I did NOT smack the man sitting next to me on a bus, as he noisily rearranged his mucus, sucked his teeth, and readjusted his crotch, all the way to the capital. But I really wanted to.
Today, on this same bus, I recognized a sweets-seller who had ridden with me the last time I made this journey to the capital. This really is a small country.
Today I laughed at the sight of two motorcyclists with used rice sacks mounted on their bikes as if they were saddlebags, each stuffed with live, medium size, fuzzy pigs.
Today I said no to a ride on a motorcycle (with my bag) in which I was expected to ride squished in between a preteen boy and snaggle-tooth the motorcycle driver. Sometimes, you just have to be a little bit picky. And when I did get on a different motorcycle, I was distracted by the weird but common stickers: one yellow sick-face, and one angry black skull with a third red eye. Strange.
Today I realized that taking these motorcycle rides is like watching a movie of the DR. All the bits and pieces of the view that I see, like someone carrying buckets to a water source or a doña sweeping her dirt yard, seem much less like a part of my life when I'm zooming by and headed to the city.
Today I did NOT smack the man sitting next to me on a bus, as he noisily rearranged his mucus, sucked his teeth, and readjusted his crotch, all the way to the capital. But I really wanted to.
Today, on this same bus, I recognized a sweets-seller who had ridden with me the last time I made this journey to the capital. This really is a small country.
A Measure of Intensity ( 8.3.08)
In conversation with a friend today, he voiced the opinion that he was a little disappointed because Peace Corps Dominican Republic is not as "intense" as Peace Corps in some other countries, and therefore not as challenging/rewarding for him. I'm of a different school of thought - one that says it's all relative, and it doesn't matter that I don't live among loin-cloth-wearing, teeth-sharpening-aborigines (my anthropology professors will surely kill me after reading this), because I still work hard and do my best to meet adversity head-on every day. Little did I know what THIS day had in store for me.
I had to go to Santiago today, about an hour away, for a meeting about a youth conference that we're planning in my region. Although most of the volunteers at the meeting had planned to stay the night in Santiago, I headed back to my site around 6:00 because I have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning. About 15 minutes into my trip, it started to rain.
We climbed the mountain in a bus. It rained harder. It got a little darker. When I arrived to the point in my journey where I have to switch from bus to motorcycle (really, there's no other way to get home), the sun was setting and the rain was hard and steady. I took shelter under a little palm shack with other travelers and motorcycle drivers, and prepared to wait out the storm. An hour later, in the complete darkness (even summer light doesn't last past 8:00), fully aware that there is a hurricane off the northwest cost of the island that would probably mean steady rain for the rest of the evening, I took the plunge. In a light cotton dress (clearly), with my computer (of course) wrapped in a plastic bag, I set off on the most miserable 15 minute trip of my life. Barreling up and down the mountain-side, soaked to the bone, clutching my bad in complete darkness, I thought about all the other volunteers in the country and what they might be doing at that moment. I happened to be aware that at least 15 were staying the night together in Santiago, and another 15 or so were hanging out and working together in the capital, so I couldn't help but think: dang, somewhere along the way, I made a wrong turn.
When we got to the bottom of the hill where I live, the motorcycle driver left me to complete the rest of the journey on foot. (He wasn't being a jerk - even on sunny days, it's nearly impossible for them to get all the way to my house.) Praying for lightning to light my way with every step, I talked myself home through the pitch-black puddles, calf deep in muddy water. "You're almost there. Come on lightning. I can see the house now." That sort of thing. In the final crossing of the street-turned-river in front of my house, I lost both of my flip-flops.
Well. That was just more than I could take. I stormed (ha) barefoot and dripping wet into the house, put down my soggy belongings, grabbed my headlamp and headed back out the door. I found one flop immediately, and although the other had been carried quite a ways by the raging mud stream, I let out a triumphant "aha!" when I saw the red straps ahead lit up by my headlamp.
The rest is details. Showered quickly, set things out to dry on every surface in the house, ate dinner and talked a bit with my host parents. Unfortunately, in the hustle and bustle of mounting the motorcycle, the books in my backpack did not get covered by a plastic bag. Oh well, they'll dry in the sun.
Moral of the story: it's impossible, and even dangerous to one's stability, to try to compare one's Peace Corps experience to that of anyone else's, in the same country or otherwise. There are good days, and there are bad days. We count our losses and hope for the best. In my case, it was worth it to take the plunge, and the right decision, because had I waited until just this moment, the rain would have still been steadily coming down.
I had to go to Santiago today, about an hour away, for a meeting about a youth conference that we're planning in my region. Although most of the volunteers at the meeting had planned to stay the night in Santiago, I headed back to my site around 6:00 because I have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning. About 15 minutes into my trip, it started to rain.
We climbed the mountain in a bus. It rained harder. It got a little darker. When I arrived to the point in my journey where I have to switch from bus to motorcycle (really, there's no other way to get home), the sun was setting and the rain was hard and steady. I took shelter under a little palm shack with other travelers and motorcycle drivers, and prepared to wait out the storm. An hour later, in the complete darkness (even summer light doesn't last past 8:00), fully aware that there is a hurricane off the northwest cost of the island that would probably mean steady rain for the rest of the evening, I took the plunge. In a light cotton dress (clearly), with my computer (of course) wrapped in a plastic bag, I set off on the most miserable 15 minute trip of my life. Barreling up and down the mountain-side, soaked to the bone, clutching my bad in complete darkness, I thought about all the other volunteers in the country and what they might be doing at that moment. I happened to be aware that at least 15 were staying the night together in Santiago, and another 15 or so were hanging out and working together in the capital, so I couldn't help but think: dang, somewhere along the way, I made a wrong turn.
When we got to the bottom of the hill where I live, the motorcycle driver left me to complete the rest of the journey on foot. (He wasn't being a jerk - even on sunny days, it's nearly impossible for them to get all the way to my house.) Praying for lightning to light my way with every step, I talked myself home through the pitch-black puddles, calf deep in muddy water. "You're almost there. Come on lightning. I can see the house now." That sort of thing. In the final crossing of the street-turned-river in front of my house, I lost both of my flip-flops.
Well. That was just more than I could take. I stormed (ha) barefoot and dripping wet into the house, put down my soggy belongings, grabbed my headlamp and headed back out the door. I found one flop immediately, and although the other had been carried quite a ways by the raging mud stream, I let out a triumphant "aha!" when I saw the red straps ahead lit up by my headlamp.
The rest is details. Showered quickly, set things out to dry on every surface in the house, ate dinner and talked a bit with my host parents. Unfortunately, in the hustle and bustle of mounting the motorcycle, the books in my backpack did not get covered by a plastic bag. Oh well, they'll dry in the sun.
Moral of the story: it's impossible, and even dangerous to one's stability, to try to compare one's Peace Corps experience to that of anyone else's, in the same country or otherwise. There are good days, and there are bad days. We count our losses and hope for the best. In my case, it was worth it to take the plunge, and the right decision, because had I waited until just this moment, the rain would have still been steadily coming down.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
American Dinner (written 8.1.08)
Tonight I had my second exhausting but rewarding literacy class. There's a family that lives near me in a dirt-floored, small house with 5 kids ranging from ages 9-23, none of whom can read. They all failed school this year and will be held back a grade, but they're not getting any of the individual attention they need to move forward. How can they be expected to pass if they don't know the alphabet? Dominican "chisme" (gossip) is an ugly thing, and I've already been told by more than one person that these kids have trouble with information "entering their minds". This, clearly, makes me even more determined to help in whatever way I can, to show the community that they're NOT stupid, and that everyone deserves a chance.
After traveling to the "city" today (the closest community with a paved road and pharmacy), I returned with a laminated copy of the alphabet which I presented to a family of eager students. When I arrived at their house, they were all working together to build a pig sty, but immediately sat down with me, mom and dad included, to practice letters, common sounds, and small words (I actually have no idea how to teach someone to read, so I'm learning right along with them). Mom pretended to be sitting in as disciplinarian, but soon indirectly revealed to me that she doesn't know how to read either. I can already tell this is going to be a difficult, tiring, but extremely satisfying endeavor. I need to get some beginner Spanish books ASAP!
My host dad's mother, who is surprisingly lucid at her age, is currently visiting from the capital. She came bearing gifts (a common custom to which I've quickly learned to adhere), one of which couldn't have been more American if you slapped it with the Star-Spangled Banner and wrapped it in the ole red white and blue: an oversized can of chunky beef stew. My host parents were puzzled, my host mom actually thinking it was a can of juice at first, and then thrilled when they realized it was an American food item, with an English label, that I would be familiar with. My host dad shared it with me for dinner tonight, amidst questions like "so how does it not go bad in the can?" I finished off the meal with a mental note of yet another item that I can add to the list of things to bring as a gift from the city; of things that thrill them and that I would never think twice about.
After traveling to the "city" today (the closest community with a paved road and pharmacy), I returned with a laminated copy of the alphabet which I presented to a family of eager students. When I arrived at their house, they were all working together to build a pig sty, but immediately sat down with me, mom and dad included, to practice letters, common sounds, and small words (I actually have no idea how to teach someone to read, so I'm learning right along with them). Mom pretended to be sitting in as disciplinarian, but soon indirectly revealed to me that she doesn't know how to read either. I can already tell this is going to be a difficult, tiring, but extremely satisfying endeavor. I need to get some beginner Spanish books ASAP!
My host dad's mother, who is surprisingly lucid at her age, is currently visiting from the capital. She came bearing gifts (a common custom to which I've quickly learned to adhere), one of which couldn't have been more American if you slapped it with the Star-Spangled Banner and wrapped it in the ole red white and blue: an oversized can of chunky beef stew. My host parents were puzzled, my host mom actually thinking it was a can of juice at first, and then thrilled when they realized it was an American food item, with an English label, that I would be familiar with. My host dad shared it with me for dinner tonight, amidst questions like "so how does it not go bad in the can?" I finished off the meal with a mental note of yet another item that I can add to the list of things to bring as a gift from the city; of things that thrill them and that I would never think twice about.
Friday, August 1, 2008
A Day for the Records (7.31.08)
The fact that I'm too brain-dead to write is probably a good sign that I should. An epic day such as this need not go undocumented! It all started with an extended stay at the poop farm…
Let me back up. It started with hot-dog buns and hot chocolate for breakfast. THEN it proceeded to the poop farm. I was standing on the side of the road in one of my favored cell phone spots when a friend drove by in a pick-up truck and informed me that he was going to a cow farm to pick up manure. That stuff is like gold around here, especially to an environmental volunteer who constantly needs it for compost piles, so I happily hopped aboard, gleeful that mounds and mounds of drying dung was in my immediate future.
We got to the farm, upon which sits a beautifully renovated colonial ranch house, and approximately 36 enormous milk cows. If you remember that I had been picked up unprepared on the side of the road, my apparel of tank-top and flip-flops doesn't seem quite so ridiculously inappropriate for the task at hand. Be that as it may, I was ill-equipped, and content to sit and watch as my friends shoveled load after load into old rice sacks.
When they were done filling the sacks, we loaded up the bright green pick-up, prettily perched atop the steep hills of the poop farm, and were preparing to leave, when a turn of the key in the ignition produced a stomach-wrenching "click-click-click". This went on for entirely too long, accompanied by some very uninformed tinkering under the hood, and finally they decided the most intelligent solution was to push the loaded vehicle tail first down a muddy hill, lined on both sides by chicken-wire fencing and grasses taller than me, intended to feed work animals. Everyone, including myself, was surprisingly resigned to this idea, which made precious little sense when you consider other options (anyone ever heard of jumper cables?), and until the truck began rolling as a result of vein-splitting pushes, we were all cheering for motion. When the pick-up finally made it over the mini-manure mounds that stood in its way, however, we all realized our error. Too late to do anything but stand dumbly, jaws agape, as the truck plunged its appropriately poop-filled tail-end through the fence and into the tall grasses. I'm still not sure what happened, maybe the brakes went out or the driver couldn't control it without power-steering, but there it was, butt first into the bushes on a mean slope of cow poo.
The rest of the activities that relate to this event were peripheral. In waiting for the "mechanic" to try to start the truck with jumper cables (so they DO exist here!), I walked down to the house and met the owners, and possibly my future kittens. She had the sweetest litter, and I'm going to have a hard time choosing between the classic orange tabby, and the black and grey tabby with white paws. They're by far the healthiest cats I've seen in this country, as Dominicans tend to think of them as either rat traps or food. Unable to get the vehicle moving, we returned to the community by motorcycle, hereby ending my involvement in the poop-capades.
After returning home famished and caught by the rain, I devoured my late lunch and took a bucket bath, which took ages longer than usual because something is up with our aqueduct that has reduced available water to a trickle. Still, I felt like a new person afterward, and decided to start on a fundraiser for a camp to which I'm taking 2 teens. To raise the money we need in part, we're going to sell bracelets made from recycled plastic bags. I was cutting up the bits on my front porch, and on a whim, sent for Alex, a girlfriend who lives nearby, to help me. Alex arrived alright - and with 10 kids in tow. I took a deep breath and prepared for this activity to turn into yet another in which I feel more like a babysitter than a development worker. At least they cranked out a ton of bracelets!
Energy completely destroyed, I prepared for my 5:30 meeting of Brigada Verde, which actually went surprisingly well. We wrote thank-you cards to the hardware stores that have donated materials, planned fundraisers for the camp (because selling 15 cent bracelets just isn't going to cut it), and played dominoes with painted river rocks. Dragging myself home, tired but content, I was greeted happily by my neighbors. My heart was unexpectedly touched by a father son pair who sat on their front porch working on a faulty moped, the former instructing the latter in mechanics; I'm constantly surprised by the comfort I receive from little things.
Let me back up. It started with hot-dog buns and hot chocolate for breakfast. THEN it proceeded to the poop farm. I was standing on the side of the road in one of my favored cell phone spots when a friend drove by in a pick-up truck and informed me that he was going to a cow farm to pick up manure. That stuff is like gold around here, especially to an environmental volunteer who constantly needs it for compost piles, so I happily hopped aboard, gleeful that mounds and mounds of drying dung was in my immediate future.
We got to the farm, upon which sits a beautifully renovated colonial ranch house, and approximately 36 enormous milk cows. If you remember that I had been picked up unprepared on the side of the road, my apparel of tank-top and flip-flops doesn't seem quite so ridiculously inappropriate for the task at hand. Be that as it may, I was ill-equipped, and content to sit and watch as my friends shoveled load after load into old rice sacks.
When they were done filling the sacks, we loaded up the bright green pick-up, prettily perched atop the steep hills of the poop farm, and were preparing to leave, when a turn of the key in the ignition produced a stomach-wrenching "click-click-click". This went on for entirely too long, accompanied by some very uninformed tinkering under the hood, and finally they decided the most intelligent solution was to push the loaded vehicle tail first down a muddy hill, lined on both sides by chicken-wire fencing and grasses taller than me, intended to feed work animals. Everyone, including myself, was surprisingly resigned to this idea, which made precious little sense when you consider other options (anyone ever heard of jumper cables?), and until the truck began rolling as a result of vein-splitting pushes, we were all cheering for motion. When the pick-up finally made it over the mini-manure mounds that stood in its way, however, we all realized our error. Too late to do anything but stand dumbly, jaws agape, as the truck plunged its appropriately poop-filled tail-end through the fence and into the tall grasses. I'm still not sure what happened, maybe the brakes went out or the driver couldn't control it without power-steering, but there it was, butt first into the bushes on a mean slope of cow poo.
The rest of the activities that relate to this event were peripheral. In waiting for the "mechanic" to try to start the truck with jumper cables (so they DO exist here!), I walked down to the house and met the owners, and possibly my future kittens. She had the sweetest litter, and I'm going to have a hard time choosing between the classic orange tabby, and the black and grey tabby with white paws. They're by far the healthiest cats I've seen in this country, as Dominicans tend to think of them as either rat traps or food. Unable to get the vehicle moving, we returned to the community by motorcycle, hereby ending my involvement in the poop-capades.
After returning home famished and caught by the rain, I devoured my late lunch and took a bucket bath, which took ages longer than usual because something is up with our aqueduct that has reduced available water to a trickle. Still, I felt like a new person afterward, and decided to start on a fundraiser for a camp to which I'm taking 2 teens. To raise the money we need in part, we're going to sell bracelets made from recycled plastic bags. I was cutting up the bits on my front porch, and on a whim, sent for Alex, a girlfriend who lives nearby, to help me. Alex arrived alright - and with 10 kids in tow. I took a deep breath and prepared for this activity to turn into yet another in which I feel more like a babysitter than a development worker. At least they cranked out a ton of bracelets!
Energy completely destroyed, I prepared for my 5:30 meeting of Brigada Verde, which actually went surprisingly well. We wrote thank-you cards to the hardware stores that have donated materials, planned fundraisers for the camp (because selling 15 cent bracelets just isn't going to cut it), and played dominoes with painted river rocks. Dragging myself home, tired but content, I was greeted happily by my neighbors. My heart was unexpectedly touched by a father son pair who sat on their front porch working on a faulty moped, the former instructing the latter in mechanics; I'm constantly surprised by the comfort I receive from little things.
The Plight of the Thumbless (written 7.25.08)
You can't eat mangos with just one thumb. Maybe you can if you're a Dominican, or a primate, but not if you're an inexperienced mango-eating American…like me. So when I got back to my site today after a few days in the capital, craving the end of season mangos, I paid no mind to my band-aid covered appendage and dug right in to the sweet fruit that will be out of season all too soon.
My thumb was covered with this "curativa" because last week, in an effort to peel an eggplant with a machete posing as a kitchen knife, I clumsily cut myself. I was using my vegetable peeler, but when my host mom decided it was taking off too much of the inner vegetable, she replaced it with this huge blade. Just as I was thinking, "this is ridiculous, I have no idea how to use this and am going to cut myself", that's exactly what happened. I cut a deep gash in my left (lucky!) thumb, which would not stop bleeding and scared my poor host mom even more than me. I held it over my head, pressed against a piece of paper until it was numb and only slowly bleeding, while simultaneously talking Mamín (host mom) off a ledge - she felt responsible for giving me the knife, and I spent the rest of the day convincing her that the fault was mine. We finally met in the middle and agreed the knife (machete) was the guilty party.
After a trip to the capital to see friends and use the internet (and even steal a dip in the embassy pool!), it's always a bit hard to begin the 4 ½ hour voyage back to my site. Less than an hour into my return, however, my comfortable campo life came back to me and I was glad to be home. Today I did a few interviews, met some new people that live at the other end of my community (which is quite the hike), and after a conversation with a young girl who very much enjoys caring for all the plant-life on her patio, was gifted some lemongrass roots to plant at my house. I told her I had been looking for it for several months and was so excited to be able to grow and make my own tea! I was also gifted some oranges (the people in my community are really generous) which Mamín made into an excellent juice to accompany my dinner. It's so neat to bring things home from surrounding plant-life and watch her turn them into a staple of our diet. As for the lemongrass, we planted it using compost from our pile (hard-work pays off!) and chopped off the tall leaves to make tea, which I can smell drifting my way from the kitchen as I write.
My thumb was covered with this "curativa" because last week, in an effort to peel an eggplant with a machete posing as a kitchen knife, I clumsily cut myself. I was using my vegetable peeler, but when my host mom decided it was taking off too much of the inner vegetable, she replaced it with this huge blade. Just as I was thinking, "this is ridiculous, I have no idea how to use this and am going to cut myself", that's exactly what happened. I cut a deep gash in my left (lucky!) thumb, which would not stop bleeding and scared my poor host mom even more than me. I held it over my head, pressed against a piece of paper until it was numb and only slowly bleeding, while simultaneously talking Mamín (host mom) off a ledge - she felt responsible for giving me the knife, and I spent the rest of the day convincing her that the fault was mine. We finally met in the middle and agreed the knife (machete) was the guilty party.
After a trip to the capital to see friends and use the internet (and even steal a dip in the embassy pool!), it's always a bit hard to begin the 4 ½ hour voyage back to my site. Less than an hour into my return, however, my comfortable campo life came back to me and I was glad to be home. Today I did a few interviews, met some new people that live at the other end of my community (which is quite the hike), and after a conversation with a young girl who very much enjoys caring for all the plant-life on her patio, was gifted some lemongrass roots to plant at my house. I told her I had been looking for it for several months and was so excited to be able to grow and make my own tea! I was also gifted some oranges (the people in my community are really generous) which Mamín made into an excellent juice to accompany my dinner. It's so neat to bring things home from surrounding plant-life and watch her turn them into a staple of our diet. As for the lemongrass, we planted it using compost from our pile (hard-work pays off!) and chopped off the tall leaves to make tea, which I can smell drifting my way from the kitchen as I write.
Monday, July 21, 2008
El Mundo Pequeño (written 7.18.08)
This really is a small country. So small that I randomly met the father of some friends from the next community over, a craft vendor, on a beach an hour and a half away from here today. (Upon learning where I live, he pulled a picture from his wallet to show me his daughter. My response: Oh yea, I know her. She lent me a coffee thermos the other day.) So small that those who live here know the exact unmarked spots at which they can stand along the side of the road to be picked up by a bus. Since when was the 3rd mango tree past the river on the left the equivalent of a public transport stop? The size of the island comes in handy for me, however, as I rather enjoy the privilege of being a weekend tourist from time to time. Just hop on a guagua…and you're there! When you can get from coast to coast for under $10, the possibilities are endless.
I received a reward in the form of a pink-shirted, bouncy, smiling 18 year old Dominican young lady today. She had just returned from a week-long girls' camp put on by Peace Corps, which I couldn't attend as I arrived after the planning had already gotten underfoot, but for which I managed to get her a spot. She's very family and church oriented, and had us both a bit worried what it would be like for her to attend a camp where the themes ranged from Sexual Education to Women in Business, touching on Race Relations along the way. But despite her conservative background, her winning attitude and outgoing nature were clearly enough to make it a wonderful experience. As she bounced through the gate in front of my house, wearing her new pink camp T-shirt, and launched into stories about the week, I felt the immense satisfaction of touching a single life in a way that makes a positive impact. I wish I could have gone, but there's always next year. I'm here to be a facilitator, and facilitate I shall!
I received a reward in the form of a pink-shirted, bouncy, smiling 18 year old Dominican young lady today. She had just returned from a week-long girls' camp put on by Peace Corps, which I couldn't attend as I arrived after the planning had already gotten underfoot, but for which I managed to get her a spot. She's very family and church oriented, and had us both a bit worried what it would be like for her to attend a camp where the themes ranged from Sexual Education to Women in Business, touching on Race Relations along the way. But despite her conservative background, her winning attitude and outgoing nature were clearly enough to make it a wonderful experience. As she bounced through the gate in front of my house, wearing her new pink camp T-shirt, and launched into stories about the week, I felt the immense satisfaction of touching a single life in a way that makes a positive impact. I wish I could have gone, but there's always next year. I'm here to be a facilitator, and facilitate I shall!
Hurry Up and Wait (written 7.17.08)
I do a lot of that here in the DR. I scrambled around with preparations for a charla (chat) about gardening and compost today, running over to the next community to borrow a thermos so I could have coffee at my meeting and painstakingly coloring visuals with my new markers (thanks to those who heard my cry and responded!). Small tasks like that take infinitely longer here, not to mention days of planning. Getting coffee and cups for this small outdoor meeting was nearly more stressful than planning the material itself! It worked out in the end, as things somehow do here, but not exactly as I had planned. The man I had asked to come speak arrived on time, gracias a dios, but he forgot the tape he was supposed to bring to put up our visuals. Luckily I'm the super-over-prepared-and-organized-Americana and had brought my own. We waited around for nearly an hour until about 8 people had shown up, then got the show on the road. About 20 minutes later, as he was concluding his talk, the bulk of the meeting showed up. I don't know how they do that, all show up equally late, but it's like there's some sort of unspoken agreement about how late you can be to different events, and I apparently haven't cracked the code. Anyway, we ended up going through the whole thing again, and those who had been there since we started surprisingly stayed for the 2nd go round. All the schlepping around I did to make sure there was coffee at the meeting paid off, because they seemed to enjoy it and it gave us a nice little break in between charlas. Running in between towns during the heat of the day, making flyers and visuals tediously by hand, and hunting down a coffee thermos like a seasoned hound-dog all for one informal little meeting about gardening! Never again will I take for granted the ease with which all of these things could be done in my native country. Sometimes it's rewarding to work so hard to make an event like this happen - but other times it's just downright frustrating!
We also had scheduled a trash clean-up with Brigada Verde for 5:00, and head spinning from the gardening charla, I had decided I wouldn't be overly disappointed if my kids didn't show-up. This frame of mind of course resulted in a turn-out of the youngest, rowdiest, most eager-to-pick-up-trash bunch that I could have mustered if I hand picked them. So off we went! Before long, we were much more spread out along the road than I wanted, trash bags busting here and there, but over all they did an enthusiastic job of collecting as much trash as we could. This didn't even put a dent in the amount that exists in the community, but that's not exactly the number one point. I want Brigada Verde to set an example for the rest of the community, every single person of which has it completely ingrained into their mind that throwing trash in the street is completely normal and acceptable. It's going to be a hard habit to break, especially until we get some trash bins up in here! But hopefully those that saw us working today to clean-up the roads will think twice next time before they throw their trash on the ground. They'll probably still do it, but at least they'll think twice.
We also had scheduled a trash clean-up with Brigada Verde for 5:00, and head spinning from the gardening charla, I had decided I wouldn't be overly disappointed if my kids didn't show-up. This frame of mind of course resulted in a turn-out of the youngest, rowdiest, most eager-to-pick-up-trash bunch that I could have mustered if I hand picked them. So off we went! Before long, we were much more spread out along the road than I wanted, trash bags busting here and there, but over all they did an enthusiastic job of collecting as much trash as we could. This didn't even put a dent in the amount that exists in the community, but that's not exactly the number one point. I want Brigada Verde to set an example for the rest of the community, every single person of which has it completely ingrained into their mind that throwing trash in the street is completely normal and acceptable. It's going to be a hard habit to break, especially until we get some trash bins up in here! But hopefully those that saw us working today to clean-up the roads will think twice next time before they throw their trash on the ground. They'll probably still do it, but at least they'll think twice.
A Note on Animals (written 7.16.08)
Animals have never been so funny to me as they are here - a burro braying at the top of its lungs or a goat neatly cuddled into a pile of rocks, greenery woven into its fur, really get me to giggling. They just seem so much more alert and knowing here, like they know what I'm thinking when I look into their little mammalian eyes. The cows and goats are as startled as I at my new found ability to make their noises. Maybe the fact that I'm doing that at all means that I'm going campo-crazy, but their bewildered looks when I moo or bleat are more than slightly amusing to me. If I can't hack it in the Peace Corps, at least I can rest assured that I can make a living with…animal voices? Hm.
Dominicans Do the Darndest Things (written 7.15.08)
This will probably be a work in progress, an annotated list if you will, of things that Dominicans do that, to me, stand out as unique in one way or another.
- Say "But it's so early" each time you try to leave the house, even if it's 10:00 at night.
- Pronounce my name 180 different ways, even when I spell it out or pronounce it very clearly with a Spanish accent (sounds like "Meeka"). Is it really that hard?
- Allow their children to be naked way later in life than we would ever think about doing. Once they get to a certain age, they dawn a t-shirt, but may still wander around completely bottomless.
- Lay on the cement floor, with or without a pillow, to "coge fresca". The first time I saw my host dad doing this, I thought he was drunk.
- State the obvious in most situations. (i.e. You're walking down the street and it’s drizzling: "Te moje!" You're walking down the street eating a mango: "Comiendo mango." If it's 100+ degrees outside: "Esta sudando!")
- Put so many people on one motorcycle that you can't even tell who the driver is.
- Be completely appalled if you go out of the house between the hot hours of 12:00 and 4:00. Or anytime after 8:00. Or if you want to live alone. Or if you want your coffee without sugar. Or if you don't use rollers in your hair.
- Call my name, or something that resembles it, incessantly from afar, unphased by my constant responses of "si" and "woo". When I arrive and try to initiate conversation, stare silently, mouth agape. (Fortunately, only those age 4 and under tend to do this.)
- Call me "linda" (pretty) when I haven't washed my hair, put on make-up, or even cleaned my clothes in a considerable amount of time.
- Tell me I'm putting on weight and expect me to take it as a compliment - which, after an internal struggle, I do.
- Consider a pair of shorts and a machete to be perfectly acceptable summer-time work attire. Or walking down the street attire. Or going to the store attire. "No shirt, no shoes, no business" is as foreign here as I am.
- Hiss and make hand motions at me and expect me to respond positively.
- Be very excited about a meeting that's coming up in 3 days, and then completely forget to go.
- Have 3 first names, and then give two of their children the same name.
- Throw trash in their own front yards, and then take their broom outside to sweep the streets.
- Say "But it's so early" each time you try to leave the house, even if it's 10:00 at night.
- Pronounce my name 180 different ways, even when I spell it out or pronounce it very clearly with a Spanish accent (sounds like "Meeka"). Is it really that hard?
- Allow their children to be naked way later in life than we would ever think about doing. Once they get to a certain age, they dawn a t-shirt, but may still wander around completely bottomless.
- Lay on the cement floor, with or without a pillow, to "coge fresca". The first time I saw my host dad doing this, I thought he was drunk.
- State the obvious in most situations. (i.e. You're walking down the street and it’s drizzling: "Te moje!" You're walking down the street eating a mango: "Comiendo mango." If it's 100+ degrees outside: "Esta sudando!")
- Put so many people on one motorcycle that you can't even tell who the driver is.
- Be completely appalled if you go out of the house between the hot hours of 12:00 and 4:00. Or anytime after 8:00. Or if you want to live alone. Or if you want your coffee without sugar. Or if you don't use rollers in your hair.
- Call my name, or something that resembles it, incessantly from afar, unphased by my constant responses of "si" and "woo". When I arrive and try to initiate conversation, stare silently, mouth agape. (Fortunately, only those age 4 and under tend to do this.)
- Call me "linda" (pretty) when I haven't washed my hair, put on make-up, or even cleaned my clothes in a considerable amount of time.
- Tell me I'm putting on weight and expect me to take it as a compliment - which, after an internal struggle, I do.
- Consider a pair of shorts and a machete to be perfectly acceptable summer-time work attire. Or walking down the street attire. Or going to the store attire. "No shirt, no shoes, no business" is as foreign here as I am.
- Hiss and make hand motions at me and expect me to respond positively.
- Be very excited about a meeting that's coming up in 3 days, and then completely forget to go.
- Have 3 first names, and then give two of their children the same name.
- Throw trash in their own front yards, and then take their broom outside to sweep the streets.
Grano por Grano… (written 7.9.08)
After a much needed vacation that could hardly be called relaxing - 6 nights in 6 different beds/tents really starts to take its toll - it was back to the campo for me, where daily life includes at least an hour of picking mango from my teeth and hand-washing clothes only to have them fall off the drying line and get dirty again.
I find it takes some adjusting when I leave my campo home, as well as when I return. This particular adventure took me to the city, after nearly a month in my site, where over 60 volunteers awaited an exciting 4th of July adventure to Bahia de las Aguilas, a beautiful beach in the southern tip of the country where desert shockingly gives way to lush palms and the bluest water you an imagine. It's really very shocking to go from doing my best to fit into Dominican campo life (where daily questions include things such as "why is your face still so white?") to vacationing tourist style (more or less on a Peace Corps budget, which is really quite different than regular tourists I must say) with a large group of gringos. We saw some beautiful sites, but were all a little anxious to go back to our sites, and with good reason: everybody notices when we're gone, and makes it a point to let us know. The sinking feeling I got when people asked me straight faced "where have you been" and "when did you get back" is what we call "campo guilt". Even though many young people are on summer vacation right now, my absence draws much more attention for obvious reasons, and I can't help but feel that leaving for any amount of time, whether it be a day or a week, results in a loss of the ground that I've worked so hard to build up.
Despite my campo guilt, everyone was excited to see me and clearly glad for my return, so now it's time to get back to work. We have Brigada Verde tomorrow, which I expect to be weakly attended due to the aforementioned vacation that has stolen away my members, and a meeting about gardening in the upcoming week. On Friday I hope to go to a nearby city (loosely defined as there's no ATM or internet center) to meet with the mayor about the possibility of sending a trash truck our way. Currently, everyone burns their trash or throws it "pra 'lla", which literally means "over there", and often is uncomfortably close to a water source. It's hard to scold people for throwing trash in the road when carrying it home just means they're going to burn it, releasing toxic fumes near their place of residence, or simply throw it somewhere else. Still, I've ground it into the heads of my Brigada Verde members that if I see them throwing trash on the ground, I'm going to be "muy triste"…very sad. It's a habit that's so ingrained in their daily lives that we can be in a meeting talking about not throwing trash down, and 5 minutes later upon opening a Halls cough-drop (candy here, they come in strange flavors like strawberry cream), they simply throw the wrapper on the ground. I holler and point and make a big fuss, upon which they laughingly and guiltily pick up the discarded wrapper, but I can't help but feel a little defeated when I realize that this paper has nowhere else to go. It makes you think about just how much the ugliness of realities like trash are hidden from view in developed countries like the U.S. We generate far less inorganic waste here, and yet it clutters the roads, forests, and waterways because the government hasn't taken the initiative to clear it out of marginalized communities like mine. Waste management is one of the most menacing environmental threats in the DR, and I hope to head my community in the right direction by getting a few strategically placed trash barrels and a truck that will collect regularly. Small steps, small victories. As they say here, "Grano por grano, la gallina llena su buche." Grain by grain, the hen fills her cheeks. With the amount of rice I consume every day, I should be there in no time at all!
I find it takes some adjusting when I leave my campo home, as well as when I return. This particular adventure took me to the city, after nearly a month in my site, where over 60 volunteers awaited an exciting 4th of July adventure to Bahia de las Aguilas, a beautiful beach in the southern tip of the country where desert shockingly gives way to lush palms and the bluest water you an imagine. It's really very shocking to go from doing my best to fit into Dominican campo life (where daily questions include things such as "why is your face still so white?") to vacationing tourist style (more or less on a Peace Corps budget, which is really quite different than regular tourists I must say) with a large group of gringos. We saw some beautiful sites, but were all a little anxious to go back to our sites, and with good reason: everybody notices when we're gone, and makes it a point to let us know. The sinking feeling I got when people asked me straight faced "where have you been" and "when did you get back" is what we call "campo guilt". Even though many young people are on summer vacation right now, my absence draws much more attention for obvious reasons, and I can't help but feel that leaving for any amount of time, whether it be a day or a week, results in a loss of the ground that I've worked so hard to build up.
Despite my campo guilt, everyone was excited to see me and clearly glad for my return, so now it's time to get back to work. We have Brigada Verde tomorrow, which I expect to be weakly attended due to the aforementioned vacation that has stolen away my members, and a meeting about gardening in the upcoming week. On Friday I hope to go to a nearby city (loosely defined as there's no ATM or internet center) to meet with the mayor about the possibility of sending a trash truck our way. Currently, everyone burns their trash or throws it "pra 'lla", which literally means "over there", and often is uncomfortably close to a water source. It's hard to scold people for throwing trash in the road when carrying it home just means they're going to burn it, releasing toxic fumes near their place of residence, or simply throw it somewhere else. Still, I've ground it into the heads of my Brigada Verde members that if I see them throwing trash on the ground, I'm going to be "muy triste"…very sad. It's a habit that's so ingrained in their daily lives that we can be in a meeting talking about not throwing trash down, and 5 minutes later upon opening a Halls cough-drop (candy here, they come in strange flavors like strawberry cream), they simply throw the wrapper on the ground. I holler and point and make a big fuss, upon which they laughingly and guiltily pick up the discarded wrapper, but I can't help but feel a little defeated when I realize that this paper has nowhere else to go. It makes you think about just how much the ugliness of realities like trash are hidden from view in developed countries like the U.S. We generate far less inorganic waste here, and yet it clutters the roads, forests, and waterways because the government hasn't taken the initiative to clear it out of marginalized communities like mine. Waste management is one of the most menacing environmental threats in the DR, and I hope to head my community in the right direction by getting a few strategically placed trash barrels and a truck that will collect regularly. Small steps, small victories. As they say here, "Grano por grano, la gallina llena su buche." Grain by grain, the hen fills her cheeks. With the amount of rice I consume every day, I should be there in no time at all!
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Night-Life (written 6.29.08)
Last night, for the first time since I moved to my community, I went out at night. There was a band playing, one of the guitarists of which is in my Brigada Verde group, so I walked to the top of the hill, accompanied by some very nice, respectful young boys/men (again, what do you call them when they're in their late teens??) who miraculously transformed into Tigueres the moment we got to the colmado. (An aside to define some terms: Tiguere is essentially a young man who's too cool for school, and around whom one must keep a watchful eye on their young daughters. A colmado is a little bar/convenient store, often with a patio where a band might play. They generally sell rice and beans by day, beer and rum by night.)
When we arrived, the mini-Tigueres and I, we immediately ran into the family of the guitarist, one of the more well off-families in my community. At first we all stood on the curb on the outskirts of the festivities, and I was a little afraid that's how it was going to be for hours, but the family soon invited me to accompany them to a table. When I asked my mini-Tigueres if they were coming to sit down, I was gently informed that Tigueres, even amateur ones such as my companions, generally stick to the shadows where they can scope everything and everyone out. Makes sense. If it sounds shady, that's because it sort of is.
Glad to have a place to plop, as I was unfortunately much more tired than I realized when I agreed to this outing, I accompanied the family (mother, father, and two gorgeous daughters in their 20s) to sit right next to the band, and right next to a table of Dominican men who looked like American football players. Here I began to intently observe the dating rites that are so particular to Dominican (or maybe just Latin) culture. The football-players of course immediately took interest in the Dominican women I was with, but since their father was present, a delicate dance of respect was performed. It began with the purchase of a large beer by one of the football-players, which he set directly in front of the alpha-male in our group (the girls' father). He then proceeded to alternate dance requests between the daughters, being careful not to show any favoritism, and danced much more conservatively with both than I'm sure he would have had parents not been present. As I was clearly included as part of the family on this evening, the football players asked me to dance too, after which everyone congratulated me on being able to dance merengue (not my favorite). They had all been on the edges of their seats, watching me with nervous smiles, until they satisfied themselves that I wasn't going to embarrass them by falling down or stepping on someone's toes.
While watching these interactions, as well as the strikingly familiar dating rites of the younger Dominicans in the crowd, was very entertaining and culturally enlightening, my favorite part of the evening by far can be summed up in two words: Menthe Dulce. This literally means "sweet mint", and is the nickname of this little old man who has to be at least 90 who walks (or hobbles really) daily from house to house, cutting people's weeds with his machete in exchange for meals. I didn't even know he could walk up the hill to get to the colmado, let alone take part in the festivities, but low and behold, come 11:00 on Saturday night Menthe was dancing a wild merengue with a young woman on the dance floor, sans walking stick! I couldn't contain my laughter, and the family I was with laughed at me laughing until we were all just tickled pink. They proceeded to point out each time Menthe entered the dance floor for the rest of the evening, and it never once ceased to amuse me. He was probably dancing wilder than anyone else on the floor, and although it could have resulted from a general lack of balance, something else struck me as even more likely: Menthe Dulce is a Tiguere in disguise.
When we arrived, the mini-Tigueres and I, we immediately ran into the family of the guitarist, one of the more well off-families in my community. At first we all stood on the curb on the outskirts of the festivities, and I was a little afraid that's how it was going to be for hours, but the family soon invited me to accompany them to a table. When I asked my mini-Tigueres if they were coming to sit down, I was gently informed that Tigueres, even amateur ones such as my companions, generally stick to the shadows where they can scope everything and everyone out. Makes sense. If it sounds shady, that's because it sort of is.
Glad to have a place to plop, as I was unfortunately much more tired than I realized when I agreed to this outing, I accompanied the family (mother, father, and two gorgeous daughters in their 20s) to sit right next to the band, and right next to a table of Dominican men who looked like American football players. Here I began to intently observe the dating rites that are so particular to Dominican (or maybe just Latin) culture. The football-players of course immediately took interest in the Dominican women I was with, but since their father was present, a delicate dance of respect was performed. It began with the purchase of a large beer by one of the football-players, which he set directly in front of the alpha-male in our group (the girls' father). He then proceeded to alternate dance requests between the daughters, being careful not to show any favoritism, and danced much more conservatively with both than I'm sure he would have had parents not been present. As I was clearly included as part of the family on this evening, the football players asked me to dance too, after which everyone congratulated me on being able to dance merengue (not my favorite). They had all been on the edges of their seats, watching me with nervous smiles, until they satisfied themselves that I wasn't going to embarrass them by falling down or stepping on someone's toes.
While watching these interactions, as well as the strikingly familiar dating rites of the younger Dominicans in the crowd, was very entertaining and culturally enlightening, my favorite part of the evening by far can be summed up in two words: Menthe Dulce. This literally means "sweet mint", and is the nickname of this little old man who has to be at least 90 who walks (or hobbles really) daily from house to house, cutting people's weeds with his machete in exchange for meals. I didn't even know he could walk up the hill to get to the colmado, let alone take part in the festivities, but low and behold, come 11:00 on Saturday night Menthe was dancing a wild merengue with a young woman on the dance floor, sans walking stick! I couldn't contain my laughter, and the family I was with laughed at me laughing until we were all just tickled pink. They proceeded to point out each time Menthe entered the dance floor for the rest of the evening, and it never once ceased to amuse me. He was probably dancing wilder than anyone else on the floor, and although it could have resulted from a general lack of balance, something else struck me as even more likely: Menthe Dulce is a Tiguere in disguise.
Get Along Little Doggies (written 6.28.08)
With the half-wild nature of the work animals around here, particularly the horses, there's no shortage of entertainment on my little dirt road. On more than one occasion, horses have gotten loose (not surprising when you consider they're more often than not simply tied to a tree, or large stick even, with deteriorating rope) and come tearing down the path in front of our house. At this point the feint of heart, including yours truly, watch from a safe distance while two or more courageous cowboys begin the tedious process of slowly closing in on the terrified beast from both sides of the path, eventually lassoing it and riding it bareback to a field of poor fencing, where the whole process will inevitably begin again. It's amusing for me, although surely not for the owners, and even less so for the angry steeds.
A "doggie" of a different type, our neighbor's canine friend to be exact, has taken to following me everywhere I go. He's some sort of tiny terrier mix (named Terry - go figure), and he walks with me all around the community, taking short-cuts through the woods, climbing buildings to get cell phone service, stopping to chat with community members. He even sits patiently waiting when I reach whatever destination I had in mind, occasionally leaning up against me to show his affection. Everyone except my immediate neighbors seems to think he's mine, and it's pretty cute that he likes me so much, although with his tendency to jump for the first 5 minutes of your company, it took me a while to warm up to him. I think I'm just a substitute anyway, since the young boy who normally plays with him is on vacation.
As I was leaving the house the other day, Terry in tow, my neighbor (not his owner, but another) noticed that I was being followed. In an effort to scare the pooch into returning home, he quickly produced a whip (I still have no idea where from) and began cracking it wildly in the air and on the ground. Terry quickly took refuge behind me - smart little thing - and when he felt it was safe darted in the direction of home, with my whip cracking neighbor in hot pursuit. Although I would normally find this horrifying, for some reason this scene struck me as incredibly funny (I'm hard up for humor here sometimes), and I justified my giggles by reminding myself that the whip didn't actually ever touch Terry, but merely scared him. Apparently not enough though, because he was back today, following me even more dotingly than before.
I figured I would find a dog while I was in the Peace Corps…I just never guessed that one would find me!
A "doggie" of a different type, our neighbor's canine friend to be exact, has taken to following me everywhere I go. He's some sort of tiny terrier mix (named Terry - go figure), and he walks with me all around the community, taking short-cuts through the woods, climbing buildings to get cell phone service, stopping to chat with community members. He even sits patiently waiting when I reach whatever destination I had in mind, occasionally leaning up against me to show his affection. Everyone except my immediate neighbors seems to think he's mine, and it's pretty cute that he likes me so much, although with his tendency to jump for the first 5 minutes of your company, it took me a while to warm up to him. I think I'm just a substitute anyway, since the young boy who normally plays with him is on vacation.
As I was leaving the house the other day, Terry in tow, my neighbor (not his owner, but another) noticed that I was being followed. In an effort to scare the pooch into returning home, he quickly produced a whip (I still have no idea where from) and began cracking it wildly in the air and on the ground. Terry quickly took refuge behind me - smart little thing - and when he felt it was safe darted in the direction of home, with my whip cracking neighbor in hot pursuit. Although I would normally find this horrifying, for some reason this scene struck me as incredibly funny (I'm hard up for humor here sometimes), and I justified my giggles by reminding myself that the whip didn't actually ever touch Terry, but merely scared him. Apparently not enough though, because he was back today, following me even more dotingly than before.
I figured I would find a dog while I was in the Peace Corps…I just never guessed that one would find me!
The Things I Learned on Mural Day (written 6.26.08)
One of the projects we learned about during training was community murals, a large painting in a public place, and in my case, with an environmental theme. I decided this was a good project to do with my new Brigada Verde group, and after securing paint donations (and lugging them home in a box on a bus, then on a motorcycle - every little thing just takes way more time and effort in the campo!), we met yesterday to do our mural. After finishing the lettering today, it's more than I could have asked for - a beautiful example of a group effort at environmental awareness that will be seen at one point or another by everyone in the community. The process that got us there, however, was interesting to say the least. So here are the things I learned on mural day:
-It's very hard to keep 17-23 year old Dominican males on track in public places where females are consistently passing by. Who knew girls were more interesting than painting an environmental-themed mural?
-The less qualified they are to paint (a.k.a. younger), the more they want to.
-The paints will get mixed, and debris will get in the cans. Better to give up stressing. Also, bodies, plants, electric poles, etc. will all be painted, regardless of how much you preach of wastefulness.
-There's never enough water to clean properly (esp. when the aqueduct isn't currently working), and instead fingers, sticks, and plastic bags bear the brunt of the job.
-If you start in the late afternoon (thought you were smart avoiding the heat of the day?), the sun will go down before you're done, even on long summer days.
-When it's time to leave, you may find yourself, previously the popular paint lady, suddenly friendless with a bag of gooey trash and 6 sticky paint cans to deal with, not to mention brushes that will be stiff as cardboard for the rest of their lives.
-If you can pull it off, it's very rewarding - and makes for a great photo-op.!
Swearin 'n Swattin' (written 6.24.08)
Anytime I have a good honest laugh here in the campo - which is rarer than one might think as I really hardly know these people - it warrants writing about, and this was definitely one of those times. I had a unique bonding experience today with one of the young men/boys (what do you call them when they're 17?) who participates regularly in my environmental youth group. He's quite the artist and was helping me put the finishing touches on the river rocks we painted as dominos when our conversation turned in the direction of language, as it often does with young Dominicans who are eager to learn English. After he cleared up the confusion I had with the Spanish words for some basic bodily functions (sneeze, yawn, hiccup, whistle, blow, etc.), I decided to step boldly forward and ask for his help with curse words. I figure I need to be able to recognize them in case they're ever used around me, but can guarantee that none will ever fly from my own mouth in the household of my über-religious host family. He laughingly told me the basics, but got so embarrassed and choked up when it came to the really bad ones that we both had a few good laughs - in between his long deep breaths that were an attempt to calm and prepare himself but really only made us laugh more. I told him he didn't have to say them if it made him that uncomfortable, but that they weren't at all offensive to me because I'd never heard them! I promised not to tell his mom (and again we laughed) and in the end, he settled for whispering them with a hand over his mouth or writing them on a piece of paper. He really is a nice boy, and I feel this experience definitely brought me closer to making a real friend out of a casual acquaintance.
There was absolutely no laughing, however, when I entered my room this evening and found what was waiting for me outside my mosquito net. So far I've been pretty lucky with things not getting inside (except two incidents with cockroaches that I'd rather not talk about), and the spiders here, although huge, are very timid and generally stay on the walls. Until tonight. Dun dun dun.
When I walked in my room, I saw a fat brown spider on the outside of my mosquito net, clearly a different species than the timid wall-dwellers, and decided immediately to swat it with a bandana. Upon doing so, there was a small explosion of tiny brown dots that immediately scattered in all directions, inside and outside the net, on the sheets, pillow, etc. That arachnid had laid her eggs on my net and the babies were fleeing for their lives! More angry that grossed out, I immediately set to exterminating the litter, but won't be surprised if I get that creepy crawly feeling (the same one I get when there aren't actually insects in my sheets) when I lay down to sleep tonight.
There was absolutely no laughing, however, when I entered my room this evening and found what was waiting for me outside my mosquito net. So far I've been pretty lucky with things not getting inside (except two incidents with cockroaches that I'd rather not talk about), and the spiders here, although huge, are very timid and generally stay on the walls. Until tonight. Dun dun dun.
When I walked in my room, I saw a fat brown spider on the outside of my mosquito net, clearly a different species than the timid wall-dwellers, and decided immediately to swat it with a bandana. Upon doing so, there was a small explosion of tiny brown dots that immediately scattered in all directions, inside and outside the net, on the sheets, pillow, etc. That arachnid had laid her eggs on my net and the babies were fleeing for their lives! More angry that grossed out, I immediately set to exterminating the litter, but won't be surprised if I get that creepy crawly feeling (the same one I get when there aren't actually insects in my sheets) when I lay down to sleep tonight.
Dropping Mangos and "C"s (written 6.21.08)
Invited by a volunteer in the next community over to come to her house this morning for a pancake breakfast, including coffee made without a cup of sugar, I gladly awakened earlier than I would have naturally and set off for the hike to her house (the second half of which is straight uphill) and even got a free motorcycle ride for part of the way. After I thanked Billy, or Peely, or something like that for the lift, I set off on foot to find the house. The fact that I didn't know exactly where I was or how to get there didn't really bother me since all you have to do is ask "where does the American live?" and you'll be pointed in the correct general direction.
On a particularly narrow and steep slope, I was enjoying the moment's breeze in the otherwise stifling heat (which arrives despicably early) when mangos started falling in large, loud numbers entirely to close to my head for comfort. The man I had stopped to talk to covered his head with his hands and I followed suite. Before long I found myself running up the hill for fear that I would receive a concussion from falling fruit and wouldn't be found for days! It was worth it in the end: the pancakes were delicious, complete with mango topping!
I haven't had very much trouble with the Cibaeño accent up until now, even though the people that populate this region are notorious for dropping consonants, particularly s's and r's. I started my house-to-house interviews this week, however, the goal of which is to find out which potential projects most suit my community (stoves, latrines, gardens, etc.), and have really had to invest a lot of energy and brainpower into understanding what these people are saying. Case in point: today, I met and interviewed a woman who does not, under any circumstance, pronounce hard c's or q's - for instance, "cat" and "car" would be "at" and "ar" - which would be hard enough to understand in English. In Spanish, it might as well have been Swahili, Mandarin, or any other language of which I have no knowledge. I managed to make out most of what she was saying through context clues, but I left feeling very drained from our 20 minute conversation. Twenty-one interviews down, 79-ish to go…I should be a pro at the regional accent within the next 2 months! Either that or my community will be very confused when I present my findings and nothing I say resembles what they told me.
On a particularly narrow and steep slope, I was enjoying the moment's breeze in the otherwise stifling heat (which arrives despicably early) when mangos started falling in large, loud numbers entirely to close to my head for comfort. The man I had stopped to talk to covered his head with his hands and I followed suite. Before long I found myself running up the hill for fear that I would receive a concussion from falling fruit and wouldn't be found for days! It was worth it in the end: the pancakes were delicious, complete with mango topping!
I haven't had very much trouble with the Cibaeño accent up until now, even though the people that populate this region are notorious for dropping consonants, particularly s's and r's. I started my house-to-house interviews this week, however, the goal of which is to find out which potential projects most suit my community (stoves, latrines, gardens, etc.), and have really had to invest a lot of energy and brainpower into understanding what these people are saying. Case in point: today, I met and interviewed a woman who does not, under any circumstance, pronounce hard c's or q's - for instance, "cat" and "car" would be "at" and "ar" - which would be hard enough to understand in English. In Spanish, it might as well have been Swahili, Mandarin, or any other language of which I have no knowledge. I managed to make out most of what she was saying through context clues, but I left feeling very drained from our 20 minute conversation. Twenty-one interviews down, 79-ish to go…I should be a pro at the regional accent within the next 2 months! Either that or my community will be very confused when I present my findings and nothing I say resembles what they told me.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Pablo Manda (written 6.13.08)
My BV group loves to play games, and one of their favorites is Pablo Manda, or the Dominican version of Simon Says. Apparently the news that I'm the ringleader for this game has spread across the community, because there are several little boys who live near the basketball court (where I often go in search of cell phone service) who address me as such each time I pass. I've never heard them speak any words other than "Pablo Manda", and I can't tell if it's meant to be my name, a command to play, or simply the only thing they can think to say to me, but it strikes me as funny when I hear a little voice say "Pablo Manda" and I look over to see a small Dominican boy, clothes disheveled if present at all, staring at me totally straight-faced and stating the Spanish equivalent of "Simon Says", with no apparent goal in mind. I'm sure you see the humor in this, or maybe things are just funnier in the campo.
Paco's Rainbow (written 6.13.08)
I returned home soggily from a Brigada Verde (BV) meeting yesterday with a tag-a-long quietly trudging behind me in the mud. We'll call him Paco. He's a quiet little guy of 9 years old who's taken to following me home on occasion after meetings and the like, no purpose stated, in fact, no words said. He opens up in groups, is eager to please, and thrives off the energy of his peers - indeed he hasn't missed a BV meeting yet! - but is excruciatingly shy in one-on-one situations, the few words he does manage to utter barely intelligible through clenched teeth and pursed lips.
As we sat on my porch yesterday, freshly damp from the afternoon rain that is a sure thing here, with me trying to make conversation, a rainbow appeared. Only a small piece, but very vibrant at times, we were both taken in by its beauty, and I made several comments to this effect before I realized he had the right idea all along: silence was just better in this situation. So we sat. Well I sat in the one chair, and he stood beside me barefoot, and we both looked up for a while. When the bright colors had passed and Paco was done, whatever that means to him, he simply put on his shoes and left. I called out "adios", not expecting a response, not getting one, and watched as he skipped away in the mud.
He seems to be satisfied with my simple presence, and that's just fine with me. There are many ways I had hoped to help here, but I hadn't really predicted that one would be the simple act of sitting quietly and watching the sky, in the company of one so young, who seems to have gone through quite a lot in his 9 years. Just goes to show you never can tell the ways in which people may need you, and I want to make myself available to Paco, just in case he decides to speak up. If not, we'll simply sit and watch together and be content to do so.
As we sat on my porch yesterday, freshly damp from the afternoon rain that is a sure thing here, with me trying to make conversation, a rainbow appeared. Only a small piece, but very vibrant at times, we were both taken in by its beauty, and I made several comments to this effect before I realized he had the right idea all along: silence was just better in this situation. So we sat. Well I sat in the one chair, and he stood beside me barefoot, and we both looked up for a while. When the bright colors had passed and Paco was done, whatever that means to him, he simply put on his shoes and left. I called out "adios", not expecting a response, not getting one, and watched as he skipped away in the mud.
He seems to be satisfied with my simple presence, and that's just fine with me. There are many ways I had hoped to help here, but I hadn't really predicted that one would be the simple act of sitting quietly and watching the sky, in the company of one so young, who seems to have gone through quite a lot in his 9 years. Just goes to show you never can tell the ways in which people may need you, and I want to make myself available to Paco, just in case he decides to speak up. If not, we'll simply sit and watch together and be content to do so.
Jurassic Park and Night Smells (written 6.12.08)
If we work hard in the Peace Corps (and believe me, we do!), then we play hard as well, and what better place to play than a friendly, travelable island in the tropics? This past weekend I went to Jarabacoa with 7 other Peace Corps friends, chosen for its location nearly in the geographic center (accessible to all!) and its reputation for outdoor adventure. On the guagua ride up, we started to notice something we hadn't seen in a while (unlike lizards on walls, spiders in showers, and cockroaches in beds): that is, we saw pine trees! Jarabacoa, known for its waterfalls, is situated in the highest mountain range in the DR and therefore offers some trees that don't exist in the more tropical lowlands. This isn't to say that I've grown tired of cacao and mango trees, which are in their height of fruit giving as I type, but it was somewhat like going home to visit a cooler city covered in hardwoods.
We arrived at our budget hotel (there really aren't many hostels here, but we still found a little hole in the wall for about $7 American a night) on Friday and were immediately greeted by a friendly tour-guide who undoubtedly thought "money" at first, but quickly realized that we were Peace Corps volunteers and had none. When I asked how he knew, he pointed at the Nalgene water bottle hanging from my bag and said "you all have them". What can I say, we like to hydrate! Being a nice guy, he agreed to take us on an all day private tour of the 3 main waterfalls, including transportation to and from the trails, which were vigorous at times, but completely worth it. The second waterfall we arrived at was surrounded by a small beach and we were the only ones there for most of the time. We were all taken aback by its beauty, and were not surprised to find out this was the site of part of the filming for Jurassic Park.
The weekend went smoothly, full of good company and good food, until Sunday night when I got violently (yes, I mean that) ill. Able to think of nothing that could have caused it (I was a good girl and drank only bottled water!), I couldn't help but laugh when I realized it was probably all the rich, delicious food. Great: I get sick when I leave the campo for a visit to the city. Apparently, I gotta have them viveres (remember my old friends, the white starchy vegetable group, each barely distinguishable from the other)! My disease reared it's ugly head again today, and after consulting my doctor by phone, found out that if I keep this up I'll be taking a sample cup to the lab in no time (or babyfood or mayonnaise jar, or any old thing with a lid that's laying around). Yipee!
Yesterday was one of those slightly frustrating Peace Corps days that turned out pretty good in the end. For several weeks now, several people have been telling me that my attendance is desired at the meeting of a youth group the next community over, an hour walk uphill both ways (yea, that really exists here), starting out at 5 PM …in otherwords, it's a commitment! I told them if they got me the details before the last minute, I would go, but no one ever seems to know what time, or where, or if it's happening at all due to rain, so I've just been kind of waiting it out. Well yesterday I was at home alone waiting for my host mom to return from the Chocolate Factory (I know, do I live in Heaven? Sometimes I think so) so I could take a much needed shower, which they don't like me to do so when I'm home alone. When she walked in the door I heaved a sigh of relief and was preparing to enjoy the cool water when she announced "Milagros is waiting for you at the top of the hill to go to the meeting in La Travesada". Mouth agape, I realized I was trapped and set out the door in shorts and flip-flops at a near trot so as not to keep her waiting for too long. An hour later, we arrived at the meeting which, to my surprise, had the principal goal of getting to know…well…me! I realized with some comfort that it sure was a good thing I went, and put my best foot forward in introducing myself and encouraging them to make the trek to my weekly environmental youth group meeting. They were very happy to see me, and had obviously been looking forward to meeting me, which made all the sweating and trekking worth it in the end.
On the walk home, subdued by a sense of accomplishment and the cool moonlight, I smelled cherries and gardenias, Dominican night smells that I don't usually get to enjoy as I'm always in the house before dark. Certainly preferable to the daytime smells of pigs and chickens, I soaked it in and strolled on home, where I took my first bucket bath in a while. The power had been out all day, which keeps the aquaduct from pumping water through our pipes. I was a bit out of practice with the bucket and didn't have enough water to wash my hair - I swear this bucket is smaller than the one I had during training! - but it was a relief to be clean and at home, in a place which I have no qualms calling by that name.
We arrived at our budget hotel (there really aren't many hostels here, but we still found a little hole in the wall for about $7 American a night) on Friday and were immediately greeted by a friendly tour-guide who undoubtedly thought "money" at first, but quickly realized that we were Peace Corps volunteers and had none. When I asked how he knew, he pointed at the Nalgene water bottle hanging from my bag and said "you all have them". What can I say, we like to hydrate! Being a nice guy, he agreed to take us on an all day private tour of the 3 main waterfalls, including transportation to and from the trails, which were vigorous at times, but completely worth it. The second waterfall we arrived at was surrounded by a small beach and we were the only ones there for most of the time. We were all taken aback by its beauty, and were not surprised to find out this was the site of part of the filming for Jurassic Park.
The weekend went smoothly, full of good company and good food, until Sunday night when I got violently (yes, I mean that) ill. Able to think of nothing that could have caused it (I was a good girl and drank only bottled water!), I couldn't help but laugh when I realized it was probably all the rich, delicious food. Great: I get sick when I leave the campo for a visit to the city. Apparently, I gotta have them viveres (remember my old friends, the white starchy vegetable group, each barely distinguishable from the other)! My disease reared it's ugly head again today, and after consulting my doctor by phone, found out that if I keep this up I'll be taking a sample cup to the lab in no time (or babyfood or mayonnaise jar, or any old thing with a lid that's laying around). Yipee!
Yesterday was one of those slightly frustrating Peace Corps days that turned out pretty good in the end. For several weeks now, several people have been telling me that my attendance is desired at the meeting of a youth group the next community over, an hour walk uphill both ways (yea, that really exists here), starting out at 5 PM …in otherwords, it's a commitment! I told them if they got me the details before the last minute, I would go, but no one ever seems to know what time, or where, or if it's happening at all due to rain, so I've just been kind of waiting it out. Well yesterday I was at home alone waiting for my host mom to return from the Chocolate Factory (I know, do I live in Heaven? Sometimes I think so) so I could take a much needed shower, which they don't like me to do so when I'm home alone. When she walked in the door I heaved a sigh of relief and was preparing to enjoy the cool water when she announced "Milagros is waiting for you at the top of the hill to go to the meeting in La Travesada". Mouth agape, I realized I was trapped and set out the door in shorts and flip-flops at a near trot so as not to keep her waiting for too long. An hour later, we arrived at the meeting which, to my surprise, had the principal goal of getting to know…well…me! I realized with some comfort that it sure was a good thing I went, and put my best foot forward in introducing myself and encouraging them to make the trek to my weekly environmental youth group meeting. They were very happy to see me, and had obviously been looking forward to meeting me, which made all the sweating and trekking worth it in the end.
On the walk home, subdued by a sense of accomplishment and the cool moonlight, I smelled cherries and gardenias, Dominican night smells that I don't usually get to enjoy as I'm always in the house before dark. Certainly preferable to the daytime smells of pigs and chickens, I soaked it in and strolled on home, where I took my first bucket bath in a while. The power had been out all day, which keeps the aquaduct from pumping water through our pipes. I was a bit out of practice with the bucket and didn't have enough water to wash my hair - I swear this bucket is smaller than the one I had during training! - but it was a relief to be clean and at home, in a place which I have no qualms calling by that name.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Wild ¨Fruit¨ Chase (written 5.28.08)
Two deliciously sweet mangos and approximately 87 maggi bites later, I returned home and took a shower, never appreciating so much the feel of cool water running down my bitten-to-pieces legs. I really would have worn long pants had I known we were going on a wild-"fruit" chase, but I tend to not understand the magnitude of these activities that I get myself into with my muchachos until I'm in right in the middle of them…and of course by then, it's too late to put on long pants, etc!
I know I write a lot about bugs but…that's kind of my life here. Bugs and fruit and coffee and sweat. That said, I noticed a huge spider in the shower with me today in the opposite corner from where I stand (which is really not all that far in this shower) and actually said out loud "Oh, I didn’t know YOU were in here", eye roll and exasperated tone of voice included. I take this as proof that I'm going crazy, and probably would omit this story out of embarrassment if I wasn't so sure that there are at least a few of you out there who'll get a good laugh out of it!
If Peace Corps is good for anything (and that's just a turn of phrase, because it’s actually good for a lot!), then it's the perfect cure for stage fright. Not only are we put in front of large, critical audiences, but we have to speak in Spanish! Por ejemplo (for example): Today, I arrived 15 minutes early at the school in my community, with all my little papers and books, prepared to give a "charla", or chat, to ONE class of 8th graders on trees and deforestation. Over an hour later ("la hora Dominicana", or Dominican time), I found myself performing surprisingly well in front of about 50 students between 6th and 8th grade. You just can't be afraid to make mistakes, and that's that. (Also, it's better to just come to terms with the fact that nothing will go as planned, i.e. 50 students instead of 20 and starting nearly an hour late.) The worst part of these charlas is that sometimes I can't understand the students who actually speak up to answer my questions (a minority) when all I really want to do is show my enthusiasm that they answered at all. They're very understanding though, and over all it went well. I'm giving the chat two more times this week, and should be a pro by the end! Although my vocabulary most likely still resembles that of a 6th grader, it should serve me well tomorrow as my group will consist of 3rd-5th graders.
I know I write a lot about bugs but…that's kind of my life here. Bugs and fruit and coffee and sweat. That said, I noticed a huge spider in the shower with me today in the opposite corner from where I stand (which is really not all that far in this shower) and actually said out loud "Oh, I didn’t know YOU were in here", eye roll and exasperated tone of voice included. I take this as proof that I'm going crazy, and probably would omit this story out of embarrassment if I wasn't so sure that there are at least a few of you out there who'll get a good laugh out of it!
If Peace Corps is good for anything (and that's just a turn of phrase, because it’s actually good for a lot!), then it's the perfect cure for stage fright. Not only are we put in front of large, critical audiences, but we have to speak in Spanish! Por ejemplo (for example): Today, I arrived 15 minutes early at the school in my community, with all my little papers and books, prepared to give a "charla", or chat, to ONE class of 8th graders on trees and deforestation. Over an hour later ("la hora Dominicana", or Dominican time), I found myself performing surprisingly well in front of about 50 students between 6th and 8th grade. You just can't be afraid to make mistakes, and that's that. (Also, it's better to just come to terms with the fact that nothing will go as planned, i.e. 50 students instead of 20 and starting nearly an hour late.) The worst part of these charlas is that sometimes I can't understand the students who actually speak up to answer my questions (a minority) when all I really want to do is show my enthusiasm that they answered at all. They're very understanding though, and over all it went well. I'm giving the chat two more times this week, and should be a pro by the end! Although my vocabulary most likely still resembles that of a 6th grader, it should serve me well tomorrow as my group will consist of 3rd-5th graders.
Monday, May 26, 2008
You know you´re in the Peace Corps when...
And now for my ongoing list, which will be updated periodically, so check back!
You know you´re in the Peace Corps when...
- You voice surprise that there is electricity when it's raining
- You scrub a moldy-smelling grocery bag with soap and water in order to reuse it
- The "smell test" for clothes takes on a whole new meaning
- You start to view spiders more as naughty children than terrifying insects, and even catch yourself thinking "aww" to the tiny ones who are the less threatening likenesses of the palm sized ones
- You ride for an hour on a crowded bus with a bag full of semi-live chickens under your seat
- You unpack your bags from a car and repack them into the back of a crowded bus in order to save a dollar and a half
- You offer to pay people in salami, and they accept
- You leave town for a week and a rat dies in one of your bags, rendering ¼ of your belongings useless (can't claim that one, but it happened to a friend)
- You come home after a long day to find an old man whom you do not know reclining in your bed (also a friend's story)
- You begin to accept hot chocolate and crispy bread rounds as breakfast AND dinner fare.
- You equate the combination of river, razorblade, bar of soap, and pumas stone to a visit to a luxurious spa
- You realize, with literal distaste, that it's been over 24 hours since you last brushed your teeth. (It only happened once, ok! And I was asleep like ¾ of the time with an evil DR illness)
- You pay $1 for enough drinking water to last you and 7 friends a whole weekend
- You get sick when you leave the campo for a vacation to the city, instead of the opposite. Gotta have them viveres!
- You wake in the night to find a rat in bed with you, happily snuggled against your leg. (Thank God that wasn't me!) You take some consolation in the fact that there was a mosquito net between you and the vermin.
- You read 13 books in 4 months
Bugs and Chocolate (written 5.25.08)
Don't worry, I still haven't put the two together…yet! But the bugs were definitely out in force several nights ago. I don't know what was going on, because I usually have a few spiders and roaches hanging out as I'm getting ready to turn in for the night, but on this particular evening (after a day no different from the ones before in insufferable heat, as far as I can remember) as I was reading by headlamp in my mosquito net, I had to remove a small cockroach from the inside, and check for holes so the higher than usual number of creepy crawlies wouldn't get in. Earlier in the night, reading on the porch I was focused on a orange and black spotted beetle, whose sheer size and sound-making capabilities were enough to make me a bit uneasy, when along came a huge brown praying mantis (stick-bug) to join the party, and before long I was dancing all over the place to rid the inside of my shirt from gnats and other small, bothersome chewers. Needless to say that night of sleep wasn't the best I've had in country…
Turns out my theory of cooking as bonding holds water. There's something about feeding people, providing nutrition with something you made with your own hands, that brings a certain satisfaction and comfort between the cook and those who partake in the final product. On Friday night, Mamín's (my host mom) daughter, her husband, and one month old baby arrived in time to partake in a huge pot of vegetable soup we had made together that ended up feeding people. To those of you who are familiar with my minestrone, it wasn't quite the same without the pesto, but was immensely satisfying to be able to recreate the basic flavor in a "town" (and I use the term loosely) where it's hard to find items as basic as potatoes.
Because today is Dominican Mother's Day, several weeks after the American version, I decided I would cook again for Mamín and her daughter - I'm getting pretty creative with campo food! And as tribute to the special day, they made a big lunch and even followed it up with chocolate from scratch, which will be combined with milk and sugar to make a delicious drink - that will, along with bread, probably serve as my breakfast AND dinner for the next 2 months. At least I'm starting to put back on a few of those lost pounds with this new carb. and sugar heavy diet!
We made another abonero (compost pile) yesterday, and although my crew was significantly smaller, later, and less enthusiastic than the first round a week ago, we managed to pull it off. Two hours, many bug-bites, machete blisters, and ankle scratches later, we had a hip-high pile in my host parents backyard…which promptly shrunk and compacted under today's torrential downpour, complete with hail (really an incredible sound underneath a zinc roof). As I worked to dig holes, drive stakes, and pile on the layers of dry leaves, green leaves, cacao shells and manure, I quickly became mud-splattered and sweaty. The Dominicans, who are generally a very clean people, helpfully reminded me very often that I had "tierra" (earth) all over my neck and shoulders, and seemed puzzled that I had resigned myself to wait until the end of the activity to wash it all off at once. They seem amiably puzzled by the dirty American, but at least I'm developing a reputation as a hard worker! And it clearly makes that trickle of a shower, routed through small pipes from the nearby cool aqueduct, that much sweeter to first be covered in filth.
Turns out my theory of cooking as bonding holds water. There's something about feeding people, providing nutrition with something you made with your own hands, that brings a certain satisfaction and comfort between the cook and those who partake in the final product. On Friday night, Mamín's (my host mom) daughter, her husband, and one month old baby arrived in time to partake in a huge pot of vegetable soup we had made together that ended up feeding people. To those of you who are familiar with my minestrone, it wasn't quite the same without the pesto, but was immensely satisfying to be able to recreate the basic flavor in a "town" (and I use the term loosely) where it's hard to find items as basic as potatoes.
Because today is Dominican Mother's Day, several weeks after the American version, I decided I would cook again for Mamín and her daughter - I'm getting pretty creative with campo food! And as tribute to the special day, they made a big lunch and even followed it up with chocolate from scratch, which will be combined with milk and sugar to make a delicious drink - that will, along with bread, probably serve as my breakfast AND dinner for the next 2 months. At least I'm starting to put back on a few of those lost pounds with this new carb. and sugar heavy diet!
We made another abonero (compost pile) yesterday, and although my crew was significantly smaller, later, and less enthusiastic than the first round a week ago, we managed to pull it off. Two hours, many bug-bites, machete blisters, and ankle scratches later, we had a hip-high pile in my host parents backyard…which promptly shrunk and compacted under today's torrential downpour, complete with hail (really an incredible sound underneath a zinc roof). As I worked to dig holes, drive stakes, and pile on the layers of dry leaves, green leaves, cacao shells and manure, I quickly became mud-splattered and sweaty. The Dominicans, who are generally a very clean people, helpfully reminded me very often that I had "tierra" (earth) all over my neck and shoulders, and seemed puzzled that I had resigned myself to wait until the end of the activity to wash it all off at once. They seem amiably puzzled by the dirty American, but at least I'm developing a reputation as a hard worker! And it clearly makes that trickle of a shower, routed through small pipes from the nearby cool aqueduct, that much sweeter to first be covered in filth.
First Week Jitters (written 5.21.08)
I've been a week in my new home in the campo, and despite the uncontrollable and constant sweating, bug bites, and creepy crawlies with whom I share a bedroom (and occasionally a bed!), it's already becoming home. I couldn't ask for a better host family, although we're still moving politely around one another and discovering our cultural differences and likenesses. I find that food is a great way to get to know people, and as I sat on the front porch popping beans from their garden, I could have closed my eyes and imagined I was popping green beans at home - that is if I closed my ears or pretended that anyone else in my family can speak Spanish.
My host mother is nothing but sweet and hardworking, but I often feel at a loss for words when I'm around her as our lives have to this point been completely different. So I decided to use the failsafe method in getting to know a Dominican woman of the campo: enter her kitchen. My host father had voiced an interest in me cooking them lunch or dinner, so they could try a little bit of food my style (and also, I think, they weren't quite convinced that a little white girl actually knew how to cook). So last Saturday, I rolled up my sleeves, and with the help of Mamin (my host mom) made a lunch that elicited the response "wow, this is like restaurant food!" I was beaming for the rest of the day, but keep in mind, it really wasn't anything that special: mashed potatoes, peas in a cream sauce, and fried tuna cakes - all items available in the local colmado. (What's a colmado, you ask? It's a great little system of small shacks that often operate out of one room of a family's house and sell basic food and household items, to make up for the fact that there are no grocery stores for miles. In order to make a complex meal, or if one has many items on their shopping list, it is not unusual to visit upwards of 3-4 colmados on your way home to obtain all necessary items.) The meal was special to them because it was different, and Mamin and I squealed like school girls and jumped back from the stove each time the mean tuna cakes popped hot oil our direction.
I've also given up any verguenza (shame) about playing the guitar and singing as loud as I like in the house, and they seem to welcome it as a change to the staticky radio or television. My host dad recognized the word "mother" from a Gillian Welch song called Orphan Girl, and after I explained the idea behind the song, he proclaimed it as his favorite. Not surprising that an Evangelical Christian would approve of a song in which a child asks God to be with her until she can be with the rest of her family in Heaven.
And speaking of Evangelists, I went to a church service with my host parents several nights ago and really enjoyed listening to all the teenagers showcase their singing and playing talents in karaoke style. I looked around the room with a smile on my face to notice that everyone in the church (all 15 of them) were happily and enthusiastically singing along, and all but dancing in their seats. I don't mind the services at all, and they're a great way for me to bond with the community. They are all so close at these times, and I feel lucky to be welcomed into a place where people are so supporting and loving of one another, and of perfect strangers, who are clearly well-intentioned.
The hardest thing in the Peace Corps by far, and not surprisingly, is starting out an entirely new life where you have no real significant personal contacts, where you have to put your best foot and best face forward everyday, where you have no one to really complain to or to hug and really feel good about it. On top of these barriers, my closest friends at the moment are 12-18 year old Evangelical Christian girls, the majority of which are required to wear skirts every day and are forbidden to dance in a country where shakin' what your momma gave you is the name of the game. They are sweet and helpful and fun girls, but our cultures and backgrounds are mercilessly different. I'm sure we'll all learn from one another and take valuable pieces of each other's life experiences as our own, but right now it's difficult to see a common ground. I'm lucky to have been plopped into a community that is ripe for activities, because otherwise I would be at a loss for what to do while I'm conducting my diagnostic over the next 3 months. We're looking forward to our 3rd Brigada Verde (green youth group) meeting on Thursday, and our second abonero (compost pile) on Saturday. I learned during training how to compost properly, as well as build a container completely from items that are locally and naturally available, and when I did an all call for helpers to build one last Saturday, I was in awe at the turnout. Not only did my Brigada Verde kids show up, but interested adults came too, and between the nearly 30 of us, we built a great compost pile at Noemi's house - she has an amazing home garden. To make it a little more official, I typed up a list of do's and don'ts for your compost that they really took to heart. We've planned to do another at my host parent's house this Saturday, and I can only hope that the novelty hasn't worn off and that everyone (or at least some) will show up to help. It was immensely satisfying when, during the building process of the last abonero, the jovenes (youngsters) started answering my questions of "what comes next?" correctly. I really feel like some of them could do the project on their own now, and after all, isn't sustainability what the Peace Corps is all about? Well in case you don't know, yes, that's what it's all about.
My host mother is nothing but sweet and hardworking, but I often feel at a loss for words when I'm around her as our lives have to this point been completely different. So I decided to use the failsafe method in getting to know a Dominican woman of the campo: enter her kitchen. My host father had voiced an interest in me cooking them lunch or dinner, so they could try a little bit of food my style (and also, I think, they weren't quite convinced that a little white girl actually knew how to cook). So last Saturday, I rolled up my sleeves, and with the help of Mamin (my host mom) made a lunch that elicited the response "wow, this is like restaurant food!" I was beaming for the rest of the day, but keep in mind, it really wasn't anything that special: mashed potatoes, peas in a cream sauce, and fried tuna cakes - all items available in the local colmado. (What's a colmado, you ask? It's a great little system of small shacks that often operate out of one room of a family's house and sell basic food and household items, to make up for the fact that there are no grocery stores for miles. In order to make a complex meal, or if one has many items on their shopping list, it is not unusual to visit upwards of 3-4 colmados on your way home to obtain all necessary items.) The meal was special to them because it was different, and Mamin and I squealed like school girls and jumped back from the stove each time the mean tuna cakes popped hot oil our direction.
I've also given up any verguenza (shame) about playing the guitar and singing as loud as I like in the house, and they seem to welcome it as a change to the staticky radio or television. My host dad recognized the word "mother" from a Gillian Welch song called Orphan Girl, and after I explained the idea behind the song, he proclaimed it as his favorite. Not surprising that an Evangelical Christian would approve of a song in which a child asks God to be with her until she can be with the rest of her family in Heaven.
And speaking of Evangelists, I went to a church service with my host parents several nights ago and really enjoyed listening to all the teenagers showcase their singing and playing talents in karaoke style. I looked around the room with a smile on my face to notice that everyone in the church (all 15 of them) were happily and enthusiastically singing along, and all but dancing in their seats. I don't mind the services at all, and they're a great way for me to bond with the community. They are all so close at these times, and I feel lucky to be welcomed into a place where people are so supporting and loving of one another, and of perfect strangers, who are clearly well-intentioned.
The hardest thing in the Peace Corps by far, and not surprisingly, is starting out an entirely new life where you have no real significant personal contacts, where you have to put your best foot and best face forward everyday, where you have no one to really complain to or to hug and really feel good about it. On top of these barriers, my closest friends at the moment are 12-18 year old Evangelical Christian girls, the majority of which are required to wear skirts every day and are forbidden to dance in a country where shakin' what your momma gave you is the name of the game. They are sweet and helpful and fun girls, but our cultures and backgrounds are mercilessly different. I'm sure we'll all learn from one another and take valuable pieces of each other's life experiences as our own, but right now it's difficult to see a common ground. I'm lucky to have been plopped into a community that is ripe for activities, because otherwise I would be at a loss for what to do while I'm conducting my diagnostic over the next 3 months. We're looking forward to our 3rd Brigada Verde (green youth group) meeting on Thursday, and our second abonero (compost pile) on Saturday. I learned during training how to compost properly, as well as build a container completely from items that are locally and naturally available, and when I did an all call for helpers to build one last Saturday, I was in awe at the turnout. Not only did my Brigada Verde kids show up, but interested adults came too, and between the nearly 30 of us, we built a great compost pile at Noemi's house - she has an amazing home garden. To make it a little more official, I typed up a list of do's and don'ts for your compost that they really took to heart. We've planned to do another at my host parent's house this Saturday, and I can only hope that the novelty hasn't worn off and that everyone (or at least some) will show up to help. It was immensely satisfying when, during the building process of the last abonero, the jovenes (youngsters) started answering my questions of "what comes next?" correctly. I really feel like some of them could do the project on their own now, and after all, isn't sustainability what the Peace Corps is all about? Well in case you don't know, yes, that's what it's all about.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to el campo we go!
After visiting my permanent site last week, a lot of my fears (housing, family, community, food) have been assuaged and replaced by excitement to start my project. It will definitely be challenging at times - for instance, I'm really not sure how I will get all my bags there right now as there's a mandatory motorcycle ride - but I have lots of ideas for projects, especially with my Brigada Verde youth group. I had only been there two days on my site visit, talking about forming this group, when the "jovenes" decided to call our first meeting! They are energetic and smart, and are longing for something to belong to. Hopefully I can incorporate environmental education while keeping our activities fun!
My house is modest, but comfortable. In my room there was only a bed, but I found a broken chair in the woods and converted it into a bookshelf - it's amazing the resourcefulness that necessity fosters! My host parents are an older couple, and my host father is also my project partner, the President of the Junta de Vezinos, which is a neighborhood association which currently operates more like a weekly Bible study - religion is very important in the Dominican Republic.
My house is surrounding by fruit trees, from which my muchachas have collected many delicious treats for me, beautiful mountains, and a flowing river which is refreshigly clean. During my visit last week, a group of 20 kids took me to the river - check out the pictures at: http://community.webshots.com/user/jynx24
I have a few small activities, or "quick wins", scheduled for my return, including composting with a community member who has an impressive garden and several "charlas", or conversations/lectures at schools in and around my community. Other than these small projects, I'll have to do my diagnostic to make a decision about our big projects, which will most likely be latrines, improved cook stoves, and gardens.
Our swearing in ceremony is this afternoon and all 36 of us made it through training, which rarely happens! It would be even more extraordinary for us to all make it to the end of the 2 years...here's pulling for Peace Corps DR, group 08-01!
My house is modest, but comfortable. In my room there was only a bed, but I found a broken chair in the woods and converted it into a bookshelf - it's amazing the resourcefulness that necessity fosters! My host parents are an older couple, and my host father is also my project partner, the President of the Junta de Vezinos, which is a neighborhood association which currently operates more like a weekly Bible study - religion is very important in the Dominican Republic.
My house is surrounding by fruit trees, from which my muchachas have collected many delicious treats for me, beautiful mountains, and a flowing river which is refreshigly clean. During my visit last week, a group of 20 kids took me to the river - check out the pictures at: http://community.webshots.com/user/jynx24
I have a few small activities, or "quick wins", scheduled for my return, including composting with a community member who has an impressive garden and several "charlas", or conversations/lectures at schools in and around my community. Other than these small projects, I'll have to do my diagnostic to make a decision about our big projects, which will most likely be latrines, improved cook stoves, and gardens.
Our swearing in ceremony is this afternoon and all 36 of us made it through training, which rarely happens! It would be even more extraordinary for us to all make it to the end of the 2 years...here's pulling for Peace Corps DR, group 08-01!
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