Today, I made an important strategic move that will, without a doubt, increase my efficiency as a development worker in the DR – I went to church.
I had been many times to the Evangelical church, as my host parents attend religiously (pun intended), but had never been to the Catholic church, much closer to where I now live. What with it being Mothers’ Day, there was no time like the present, so I decided to stop by both to see what was shaking.
The Catholic service was very normal, adhering to tradition, to the extent that a young boy appointed acolyte was dressed in layers in the Caribbean, the robes over his own clothing. The Evangelical service, as usual, provides much material for interesting blogging.
There was all the usual loud group praying, and even louder group singing. But in honor of the day, a group of 15 year old girls prepared an anti-abortion, anti-drinking, and anti-disobeying-your-mother mini-drama, complete with street-thugs and old women, played by the same youngsters. To bring it all home, the pastor embarked on a heart-felt Mothers’ Day gospel, that somehow evolved, or devolved, into 6th grade sexual education. I always have a hard time understanding this man’s accent, but when I tuned in to the subject matter, I made a special effort to pay close attention. The best parts went something like this:
Pastor: Women ovulate every month.
Congregation: Blessed God!
Pastor: Then they have sexual relations, with their vaginas.
Congregation: Glory to God!
Pastor: And each time a man ejaculates, there are 7 thousand sperm!
Congregation: God be lifted up!
Pastor: And do you know what a virgin is? A young girl who has not known a man.
Congregation: Allelujah!
So on and so forth…
Sometimes I think they would “Allelujah” no matter what, as long as their pastor was confident in what he verily yelled at them, fists pumping all the while. I think he could very well say “It’s recently been discovered that eating 6 mangos a week will kill you” and they would support him to the very edge of the earth, although many have been known to eat that quantity in a single sitting.
I guess it’s good to know who’s got your back.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Walk-throughs (written 5.31.09 – Happy DR Mothers’ Day!)
Funny things happen when I walk through my community. Yesterday, an unusually tiny 5 year old on his bicycle stopped me in my tracks when he insisted, in all seriousness, that I tell him next time I’m going to go running because he would like to go.
I’ve seen all number of funny English t-shirts since I’ve been here – “Fat people are harder to kidnap”, “Drunken Monkey Brotherhood”, and “Baby Girl” worn by a teenage boy are among the favorites – and I’ve even seen a few from USC, my alma mater. But today took the cake. Walking through my very own site, I saw a boy wearing a t-shirt that said Gatlinburg, Tennessee! I tried to explain the significance of it to him, but since most Dominicans think most Americans live in “Nueva Yol”, the relevance was a little lost.
And finally, one of the school professors walked past me as I was leaving my house. She was carrying a beautiful handful of freshly picked roses, and dressed in a way I thought totally hip and beautiful, lots of colors and a silk scarf wrapped around her hair. I wanted to remember her, just as she was, and since I had my camera in my purse, I asked if I could take a picture. Her first reaction was no way! I look so ugly right now! (i.e. I haven’t forced my hair straight and put on 8 inch glittery heels) She finally agreed to let me take a picture, but only after she had removed the head scarf, positioned herself in front of an iron gate, and assumed a facial expression that was anything but natural. I long ago realized that beauty ideals here are very different from mine, but just once I’d like to snap a candid shot without everyone stopping to pose.
I’ve seen all number of funny English t-shirts since I’ve been here – “Fat people are harder to kidnap”, “Drunken Monkey Brotherhood”, and “Baby Girl” worn by a teenage boy are among the favorites – and I’ve even seen a few from USC, my alma mater. But today took the cake. Walking through my very own site, I saw a boy wearing a t-shirt that said Gatlinburg, Tennessee! I tried to explain the significance of it to him, but since most Dominicans think most Americans live in “Nueva Yol”, the relevance was a little lost.
And finally, one of the school professors walked past me as I was leaving my house. She was carrying a beautiful handful of freshly picked roses, and dressed in a way I thought totally hip and beautiful, lots of colors and a silk scarf wrapped around her hair. I wanted to remember her, just as she was, and since I had my camera in my purse, I asked if I could take a picture. Her first reaction was no way! I look so ugly right now! (i.e. I haven’t forced my hair straight and put on 8 inch glittery heels) She finally agreed to let me take a picture, but only after she had removed the head scarf, positioned herself in front of an iron gate, and assumed a facial expression that was anything but natural. I long ago realized that beauty ideals here are very different from mine, but just once I’d like to snap a candid shot without everyone stopping to pose.
Gourmet Eating (written 5.30.09)
After several days at a conference center in the middle of nowhere with all 18 of my colleagues from the environmental group, at which we gave our mid-service presentations and shared project ideas and successes, 8 of us headed off to Monte Cristi, a beach town on the north shore, to celebrate making it this far. One year down, one year to go! And since we’re all at the point where we’re well-integrated into our communities and actually able to get things done, it should be a busy second year.
Monte Cristi, a town not unlike other coastal spots in the DR, offered several hotel options, all equally infested with inordinate amounts of mosquitoes (even for the Caribbean), so we chose one near the launching spot for small boats that take groups of people to any one of the seven small islands off the coast that offer tranquility and excellent snorkeling, although apparently not in the murky water month of May. But not matter – we still had a great time with a whole island to just the 8 of us for a day!
The first evening in Monte Cristi, we all settled down to a few beers and a fish dinner, an excellent break from the norm of green banana moosh, which we saved for breakfast the following morning. As we were finishing off the fish, one of our friends popped out a fish eye and promptly spooned it into his mouth, explaining to our horror that he always savors this part of a fish dinner. Not to be outdone, to try something new, and to impress my friends, I popped one in my mouth as well. To a chorus of “oohh!”s, it popped right back out into my spoon. Reflexes. Determined, I summoned up all my courage from the depths of my stomach and popped it back in. It wasn’t the taste so much as the mucus-like texture that was insurmountable. A few chews and it was done for, wash it down with a sip of beer, try not to think to hard about what I just did to prevent bringing it back up. Whereas my friend’s fish eye had had a hard pupil-pit that he spat out, mine was pure mucus through and through. Is that better or worse? Who knows. I wish I could say it was an important cultural experience, but the Dominican waitress was quick to regard me with disgust. But my friends all think I’m totally cool, and isn’t that the most important thing in life?
Monte Cristi, a town not unlike other coastal spots in the DR, offered several hotel options, all equally infested with inordinate amounts of mosquitoes (even for the Caribbean), so we chose one near the launching spot for small boats that take groups of people to any one of the seven small islands off the coast that offer tranquility and excellent snorkeling, although apparently not in the murky water month of May. But not matter – we still had a great time with a whole island to just the 8 of us for a day!
The first evening in Monte Cristi, we all settled down to a few beers and a fish dinner, an excellent break from the norm of green banana moosh, which we saved for breakfast the following morning. As we were finishing off the fish, one of our friends popped out a fish eye and promptly spooned it into his mouth, explaining to our horror that he always savors this part of a fish dinner. Not to be outdone, to try something new, and to impress my friends, I popped one in my mouth as well. To a chorus of “oohh!”s, it popped right back out into my spoon. Reflexes. Determined, I summoned up all my courage from the depths of my stomach and popped it back in. It wasn’t the taste so much as the mucus-like texture that was insurmountable. A few chews and it was done for, wash it down with a sip of beer, try not to think to hard about what I just did to prevent bringing it back up. Whereas my friend’s fish eye had had a hard pupil-pit that he spat out, mine was pure mucus through and through. Is that better or worse? Who knows. I wish I could say it was an important cultural experience, but the Dominican waitress was quick to regard me with disgust. But my friends all think I’m totally cool, and isn’t that the most important thing in life?
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sticks and Stones (written 5.21.09)
After much anticipation, grant writing, hurry-up-and-waiting, and endless community mobilizing, I was finally able to begin buying materials for the stoves this week. After going to the hardware store to get an estimate of how much money we would need to buy half the materials now, I traveled several cities and modes of transportation to the south in order to transfer the money from my account to that of the hardware store owners – 27,055 pesos, or 773 dollars, ¼ of our grant, gone in the blink of an eye. I felt satisfied knowing that I wouldn’t have to travel with this much cash on me, but it’s interesting how money flies so easily, even in the developing world. Especially in the developing world. Anyway, after this transfer, it was back to site to wait on the 5-6 large trucks that would be arriving in 2-3 days. That’s right, you heard correctly folks. I spend upwards of 1,000 U.S. in a country where that goes a long way, and can’t get a guaranteed arrival time, or even a date, for my materials. So I hurry-up and wait, something I’m very good at by now.
After a light afternoon rain, characteristic of the month of May here, my first truck showed up with a bed full of sand for mixing cement. We go house by house dropping the materials off, because I don’t trust that everyone would come pick their materials up from a central location before they could be stolen. On our way to our last stop, we’re flagged down by a dona who says there is another truck at her house, waiting on me to tell them where to go. So I hop off the sand truck and onto the bag-of-cement-sheets-of-zinc-1x4-rebar truck and make my rounds all over again. People seem in shock that materials have actually arrived, which I like to think is the reason they seemed somewhat ungrateful, saying things like “where’s the rest of it?” and “can’t you put it 5 feet to the left?” instead of “Oh gee, muchas gracias.” I have to remain positive, trying to see things from their point of view (which is, wow, this is actually happening, we might see this project through to the end), or else I will go crazy and feel less valued in equal but opposite proportion to the amount of work I put it.
At the end of yesterday’s deliveries, I felt tired but satisfied. I have been fretting for months about this material delivery business, and it wasn’t so hard after all. I waited around at home for several hours to see if another truck would show up, until about 5:00, when a heavy rain started and I thought they wouldn’t possibly send anything else for the day. I allowed myself a shower and a hot tea, and just as I was settling into the evening, a truck came roaring down the road in front of my house with about 300 cement blocks. I was expecting 300 cement blocks. But they didn’t stop in front of my house like the others had, and they roared by again about 15 minutes later with an empty truck, not so much as glancing in my direction. I hoped against hope that it was a coincidence…that someone else had recently ordered 300 cement blocks?
Too good to be true. I set my alarm for 8:00 this morning, as I had no idea when the next truck might show up, and as I was hitting the snooze at 8:15, an inappropriately happy voice, accompanied by large truck horns, summoned me from my little cabin to inform me that a truck full of sand had just roared past looking for me. I had just enough time to put on my glasses and Chaco’s before running to hop in the truck to make another round of deliveries. I found out that these same men, in fact, had left all the blocks at one woman’s house, and had to coax them into delivering them separately after we dropped off the sand. It was a trabajo fuerte – hard work – but that’s what we had previously agreed to, and I have recently promised myself never again to be stepped on by a Dominican man, if I can at all help it. By 9:45 we had everything sorted out, and I was able to go home, shower, and put a little sustenance in my already tuckered out body. All that’s missing now is 120 cement blocks and another truck of fine sand.
My daily routine, for the past 48 hours, has been conformed to the coming and going of trucks full of sand, cement, zinc, rebar, and wood. Depending on what I’m in the middle of (like shampooing my hair or eating lunch), I feel a certain sense of panic when I hear the sound of gravel being tossed willy-nilly by a truck-driver who has a certain self-assumed similarity to Jeff Gordon (he’s a Nascar guy, right?) Even sitting here now, calmly typing this story, I wince when I hear them coming over the hill. What can I say? I am a product of my upbringing, my familiar environment, and in America, we do this kind of stuff on a schedule!
Of course, now that materials are arriving, everyone and their brother wants a stove. They literally tell me “inscribame!” Sign me up! And I can do little but gawk at them, shake my head with my lips sassily puckered, and tell them “too late!” I spent months trying to mobilize a group of 20-25 people to come to 3 meetings, getting their word that they would pay 500 pesos (not really that big of a sacrifice – the same as a week’s worth of food for 2-3 people) and it’s been like pulling teeth. I’m not sure what exactly were the main contributors to their reluctance – wariness that I would take their money and run? Maybe it wouldn’t be the first time that someone of a higher economic echelon had duped them. But be that as it may, I’m not here just to give. I’m here to work with the community, and sometimes I feel all they want me for is to give them stuff. The kids demand little things – “Give me a pencil! Give me something to drink! Give me a candy! Give me a book!” – and the adults ask for more. “Give me your necklace, give me a stove, find me a white girlfriend.” I try to remain positive, and think of the real, worthwhile connections I’ve been able to forge with a discouragingly small portion of my community. These relationships are what counts, and all the rest is just sticks and stones.
After a light afternoon rain, characteristic of the month of May here, my first truck showed up with a bed full of sand for mixing cement. We go house by house dropping the materials off, because I don’t trust that everyone would come pick their materials up from a central location before they could be stolen. On our way to our last stop, we’re flagged down by a dona who says there is another truck at her house, waiting on me to tell them where to go. So I hop off the sand truck and onto the bag-of-cement-sheets-of-zinc-1x4-rebar truck and make my rounds all over again. People seem in shock that materials have actually arrived, which I like to think is the reason they seemed somewhat ungrateful, saying things like “where’s the rest of it?” and “can’t you put it 5 feet to the left?” instead of “Oh gee, muchas gracias.” I have to remain positive, trying to see things from their point of view (which is, wow, this is actually happening, we might see this project through to the end), or else I will go crazy and feel less valued in equal but opposite proportion to the amount of work I put it.
At the end of yesterday’s deliveries, I felt tired but satisfied. I have been fretting for months about this material delivery business, and it wasn’t so hard after all. I waited around at home for several hours to see if another truck would show up, until about 5:00, when a heavy rain started and I thought they wouldn’t possibly send anything else for the day. I allowed myself a shower and a hot tea, and just as I was settling into the evening, a truck came roaring down the road in front of my house with about 300 cement blocks. I was expecting 300 cement blocks. But they didn’t stop in front of my house like the others had, and they roared by again about 15 minutes later with an empty truck, not so much as glancing in my direction. I hoped against hope that it was a coincidence…that someone else had recently ordered 300 cement blocks?
Too good to be true. I set my alarm for 8:00 this morning, as I had no idea when the next truck might show up, and as I was hitting the snooze at 8:15, an inappropriately happy voice, accompanied by large truck horns, summoned me from my little cabin to inform me that a truck full of sand had just roared past looking for me. I had just enough time to put on my glasses and Chaco’s before running to hop in the truck to make another round of deliveries. I found out that these same men, in fact, had left all the blocks at one woman’s house, and had to coax them into delivering them separately after we dropped off the sand. It was a trabajo fuerte – hard work – but that’s what we had previously agreed to, and I have recently promised myself never again to be stepped on by a Dominican man, if I can at all help it. By 9:45 we had everything sorted out, and I was able to go home, shower, and put a little sustenance in my already tuckered out body. All that’s missing now is 120 cement blocks and another truck of fine sand.
My daily routine, for the past 48 hours, has been conformed to the coming and going of trucks full of sand, cement, zinc, rebar, and wood. Depending on what I’m in the middle of (like shampooing my hair or eating lunch), I feel a certain sense of panic when I hear the sound of gravel being tossed willy-nilly by a truck-driver who has a certain self-assumed similarity to Jeff Gordon (he’s a Nascar guy, right?) Even sitting here now, calmly typing this story, I wince when I hear them coming over the hill. What can I say? I am a product of my upbringing, my familiar environment, and in America, we do this kind of stuff on a schedule!
Of course, now that materials are arriving, everyone and their brother wants a stove. They literally tell me “inscribame!” Sign me up! And I can do little but gawk at them, shake my head with my lips sassily puckered, and tell them “too late!” I spent months trying to mobilize a group of 20-25 people to come to 3 meetings, getting their word that they would pay 500 pesos (not really that big of a sacrifice – the same as a week’s worth of food for 2-3 people) and it’s been like pulling teeth. I’m not sure what exactly were the main contributors to their reluctance – wariness that I would take their money and run? Maybe it wouldn’t be the first time that someone of a higher economic echelon had duped them. But be that as it may, I’m not here just to give. I’m here to work with the community, and sometimes I feel all they want me for is to give them stuff. The kids demand little things – “Give me a pencil! Give me something to drink! Give me a candy! Give me a book!” – and the adults ask for more. “Give me your necklace, give me a stove, find me a white girlfriend.” I try to remain positive, and think of the real, worthwhile connections I’ve been able to forge with a discouragingly small portion of my community. These relationships are what counts, and all the rest is just sticks and stones.
A Good Feeling (written 5.9.09)
When you greet a Dominican in passing and ask “How are you?” you might receive any one of the following responses:
Muy bien: Very well
Mejor: Better
Mejorcito: A little better
Alli: Here
Aleviado: Alleviated
Aguantado: Holding on
Luchando para vivir: Fighting to live
Entre dos: Between the two
I have felt all of these, and more, during this past week, in which two of my friends and colleagues came to give a First-Aid course in the dilapidated clinic in my site. By Dominican campo terms, it was a major success, although through my American lens, it was, at times, disastrous. Herein lie the details, through which I reflect on the good and the bad, and try to come away from this experience with a feeling of accomplishment.
Although there were 15 women I had either invited or who asked special permission to participate in this 5-day course, only 6 showed up the first day. We had planned the course weeks in advance, me desperately reminding them on multiple occasions to come, Monday turned out to be one of the many obscure Dominican holidays, and most of the women saw fit to skip out the first day. It’s such a mob mentality – they think, well, no one else is going, so why should I? This is (one of) the banes of my existence here.
All week long, the women showed up late, even when I’m begged them to be on time out of respect for our visitors. Very few afforded me this luxury, very typical Dominican behavior. My disappointment was, however, slightly diminished by the fact that once they did show up and we could start, they all seemed eager to learn. Embarrassed to practice the Heimlich and CPR movements, which were the topics of our successful second day of class, but eager just the same.
On the third day, we had some atmospheric issues. One of the women (actually a 19 year old girl) brought her screaming toddler to class every day, claiming she had no one else to care for him, and he was in rare form this day. Further, the heavy rain on the tin room made it difficult to hear, and finally, the women who work in the clinic, one of which specifically requested a medical course, had some sort of paperwork “emergency”, and retreated to a cubicle right behind the desk where we were presenting. They proceeded to cause such a ruckus, giggling and “working out the emergency”, that I had to ask them 4 times to quiet down, to which they responded rather haughtily.
Despite all of this, the women seemed to be learning and retaining a lot, considering that the majority of them probably didn’t finish high-school. We tried to make the course as hands-on as possible, but some of the information you just have to memorize. They took rather well to the manuals I printed off, and were very happy to hear that they didn’t have to turn them in at the end of the course.
The fourth day was going very well, until a man (who already dislikes me because I once confronted him to ask, very politely, that he please stop shouting “Beeoo-tee-fool!” at me every time I pass his very centrally located home) waltzed in and sat down on the perimeter of the all-female class. I started to feel on edge even before he piped up, and apparently with good reason: as soon as my colleagues started talking about electrocution, an important topic here since everyone cuts wires to steal electricity, he butted in rudely to say “Well, you know what we do here? When someone has their hand stuck to a wire and is being electrocuted and can’t let go, we cut them with a machete, because the blood flow helps them let go”. My colleagues vehemently corrected this dangerous “campo myth”, and in fact had a few slides in their powerpoint dedicated to just this: “Nunca le corte! – Never cut them!” It’s obvious to us why this is a terrible idea, but the women needed to hear it. The man, feeling intellectually threatened in a machismo society, took his seat briefly, where he fumed and muttered to himself until he could no longer take it, hopping back up to yell at my colleagues “I don’t know what you do in your country, but that’s what we do here and it saves lives!” They proceeded to calmly try to correct him, and when I saw that that was going nowhere, I stood up and told him that this was a private course and he had to leave. Immediately, and predictably, he turned his anger on me, yelling at me that I needed to be more educated, as my colleagues simultaneously protested that they were doctors. He eventually stormed out, and stood about 10 feet from the clinic yelling back comments that I luckily couldn’t make out, finally walking away. What did the 13 women in the class do while this man was insulting me and my colleagues? Exactly what you would expect middle-aged, uneducated rural women to do: absolutely nothing. I was so enraged that this man had dared to question my friends and be so rude to me in the middle of a course he had not even been invited to, that I couldn’t even concentrate for the next 20 minutes or so. I wish I could have avoided the conflict all together, because the lawless campo is not exactly the best place to be making enemies, but I didn’t really see a way around it. He had to go.
Anyway, the rest of the class went smoothly, with the women doing their practicum at the end. We told them they had to pass it in order to take the written exam the next day, and most of them took it very seriously, except 2 of the women who work at the clinic, who left early without doing the practicum.
On the 5th and final day, I arrived to administer the written test alone, as my colleagues had done more than their share of work and had left that morning to return to their own sites. When I informed the 2 women who had left that they would not be passing the course as they had skipped the practicum (which I did not feel comfortable administering without my colleagues present), they were shocked (who knows why – we told them a million times it was mandatory) and issued a barrage of excuses. “I had something really important to do! My head was hurting, that’s why I left!” I had been fully prepared, since the night before, to fail them, but they ganged up on me, accompanied by a women who had come punctually to every class, saying they wanted to take the test. Finally, feeling the pressure of women twice my age who know the campo-ropes much better than me, I agreed to administer the practicum and let them take the test.
Out of 12 women, I caught 10 cheating. 10!!! I had specifically asked them before, and multiple times during, the test to not talk and to keep their eyes on their own papers, but like high-school delinquents, each time I turned my head one way, those out of my line of vision cheated. I had separated their chairs as much as possible in the tiny clinic, but there was no way to keep all 12 women far enough away from one another. I felt so disrespected, asking these middle-aged women to abide by a simple rule, and yet my threats were empty – I couldn’t fail the entire class. I try to reflect on it positively: they really wanted to pass the course, and they are not accustomed to being students. Their insistence on cheating showed a desire to get the certificates that a majority of them deserved. Still, it made me feel so cold inside.
Finally, I went over the tests with each woman, and passed them all. I was tired, and worn down, and it was a difficult situation to boot: some of the women who had participated most did far worse than those who had at times acted indifferent. Basically, I was just ready to go home and sleep. They all left beaming with their certificates, and I left to crash.
Thinking back on what I’ve just written, (I’m too tired to reread it), it seems incredibly dismal and complaint-riddled. I guess I just need to share with an audience who understands my American expectations at times, but I shouldn’t downplay the successful aspects of the course. My colleagues gave an incredible, patient performance. The women came with enthusiasm, and left a little more prepared to respond to emergency situations. They learned about breast-feeding, which many Dominican doctors stupidly advise against, and I would trust several of them to save me were I to choke on a cherry pit. Passing the test and gaining the certificate gave them notable confidence, and a deserved sense of achievement. It’s a big deal for these women to leave their homes for an hour, let alone 4 hours a day, 5 days in a row. Best of all, I can cherish the fact that we facilitated the sharing and multiplying of valuable information, even if the absorption level did not reach my dangerously high developed world aspirations.
Also, I have doña friends to protect me from the drunk, ignorant creepazoid, so no se preocuppen (don’t worry!). And this morning, walking down to the store to buy some detergent, I got a good feeling. It’s hard to explain, but it happens in one’s site at times, and seems to be a mixture of factors. In this case, it was sleeping 10 hours, hearing good news about the meeting held Thursday about the library we’re starting, arriving at the store on a Saturday to find nice old men instead of young ones who tend to harass, returning to my neighbors’ to help shell tamarind, and being gifted a huge steaming bowl of asopao – a stew with chicken and rice. Sometimes, you have to just take it easy and recover, and that’s exactly what I plan to do for a couple days.
Muy bien: Very well
Mejor: Better
Mejorcito: A little better
Alli: Here
Aleviado: Alleviated
Aguantado: Holding on
Luchando para vivir: Fighting to live
Entre dos: Between the two
I have felt all of these, and more, during this past week, in which two of my friends and colleagues came to give a First-Aid course in the dilapidated clinic in my site. By Dominican campo terms, it was a major success, although through my American lens, it was, at times, disastrous. Herein lie the details, through which I reflect on the good and the bad, and try to come away from this experience with a feeling of accomplishment.
Although there were 15 women I had either invited or who asked special permission to participate in this 5-day course, only 6 showed up the first day. We had planned the course weeks in advance, me desperately reminding them on multiple occasions to come, Monday turned out to be one of the many obscure Dominican holidays, and most of the women saw fit to skip out the first day. It’s such a mob mentality – they think, well, no one else is going, so why should I? This is (one of) the banes of my existence here.
All week long, the women showed up late, even when I’m begged them to be on time out of respect for our visitors. Very few afforded me this luxury, very typical Dominican behavior. My disappointment was, however, slightly diminished by the fact that once they did show up and we could start, they all seemed eager to learn. Embarrassed to practice the Heimlich and CPR movements, which were the topics of our successful second day of class, but eager just the same.
On the third day, we had some atmospheric issues. One of the women (actually a 19 year old girl) brought her screaming toddler to class every day, claiming she had no one else to care for him, and he was in rare form this day. Further, the heavy rain on the tin room made it difficult to hear, and finally, the women who work in the clinic, one of which specifically requested a medical course, had some sort of paperwork “emergency”, and retreated to a cubicle right behind the desk where we were presenting. They proceeded to cause such a ruckus, giggling and “working out the emergency”, that I had to ask them 4 times to quiet down, to which they responded rather haughtily.
Despite all of this, the women seemed to be learning and retaining a lot, considering that the majority of them probably didn’t finish high-school. We tried to make the course as hands-on as possible, but some of the information you just have to memorize. They took rather well to the manuals I printed off, and were very happy to hear that they didn’t have to turn them in at the end of the course.
The fourth day was going very well, until a man (who already dislikes me because I once confronted him to ask, very politely, that he please stop shouting “Beeoo-tee-fool!” at me every time I pass his very centrally located home) waltzed in and sat down on the perimeter of the all-female class. I started to feel on edge even before he piped up, and apparently with good reason: as soon as my colleagues started talking about electrocution, an important topic here since everyone cuts wires to steal electricity, he butted in rudely to say “Well, you know what we do here? When someone has their hand stuck to a wire and is being electrocuted and can’t let go, we cut them with a machete, because the blood flow helps them let go”. My colleagues vehemently corrected this dangerous “campo myth”, and in fact had a few slides in their powerpoint dedicated to just this: “Nunca le corte! – Never cut them!” It’s obvious to us why this is a terrible idea, but the women needed to hear it. The man, feeling intellectually threatened in a machismo society, took his seat briefly, where he fumed and muttered to himself until he could no longer take it, hopping back up to yell at my colleagues “I don’t know what you do in your country, but that’s what we do here and it saves lives!” They proceeded to calmly try to correct him, and when I saw that that was going nowhere, I stood up and told him that this was a private course and he had to leave. Immediately, and predictably, he turned his anger on me, yelling at me that I needed to be more educated, as my colleagues simultaneously protested that they were doctors. He eventually stormed out, and stood about 10 feet from the clinic yelling back comments that I luckily couldn’t make out, finally walking away. What did the 13 women in the class do while this man was insulting me and my colleagues? Exactly what you would expect middle-aged, uneducated rural women to do: absolutely nothing. I was so enraged that this man had dared to question my friends and be so rude to me in the middle of a course he had not even been invited to, that I couldn’t even concentrate for the next 20 minutes or so. I wish I could have avoided the conflict all together, because the lawless campo is not exactly the best place to be making enemies, but I didn’t really see a way around it. He had to go.
Anyway, the rest of the class went smoothly, with the women doing their practicum at the end. We told them they had to pass it in order to take the written exam the next day, and most of them took it very seriously, except 2 of the women who work at the clinic, who left early without doing the practicum.
On the 5th and final day, I arrived to administer the written test alone, as my colleagues had done more than their share of work and had left that morning to return to their own sites. When I informed the 2 women who had left that they would not be passing the course as they had skipped the practicum (which I did not feel comfortable administering without my colleagues present), they were shocked (who knows why – we told them a million times it was mandatory) and issued a barrage of excuses. “I had something really important to do! My head was hurting, that’s why I left!” I had been fully prepared, since the night before, to fail them, but they ganged up on me, accompanied by a women who had come punctually to every class, saying they wanted to take the test. Finally, feeling the pressure of women twice my age who know the campo-ropes much better than me, I agreed to administer the practicum and let them take the test.
Out of 12 women, I caught 10 cheating. 10!!! I had specifically asked them before, and multiple times during, the test to not talk and to keep their eyes on their own papers, but like high-school delinquents, each time I turned my head one way, those out of my line of vision cheated. I had separated their chairs as much as possible in the tiny clinic, but there was no way to keep all 12 women far enough away from one another. I felt so disrespected, asking these middle-aged women to abide by a simple rule, and yet my threats were empty – I couldn’t fail the entire class. I try to reflect on it positively: they really wanted to pass the course, and they are not accustomed to being students. Their insistence on cheating showed a desire to get the certificates that a majority of them deserved. Still, it made me feel so cold inside.
Finally, I went over the tests with each woman, and passed them all. I was tired, and worn down, and it was a difficult situation to boot: some of the women who had participated most did far worse than those who had at times acted indifferent. Basically, I was just ready to go home and sleep. They all left beaming with their certificates, and I left to crash.
Thinking back on what I’ve just written, (I’m too tired to reread it), it seems incredibly dismal and complaint-riddled. I guess I just need to share with an audience who understands my American expectations at times, but I shouldn’t downplay the successful aspects of the course. My colleagues gave an incredible, patient performance. The women came with enthusiasm, and left a little more prepared to respond to emergency situations. They learned about breast-feeding, which many Dominican doctors stupidly advise against, and I would trust several of them to save me were I to choke on a cherry pit. Passing the test and gaining the certificate gave them notable confidence, and a deserved sense of achievement. It’s a big deal for these women to leave their homes for an hour, let alone 4 hours a day, 5 days in a row. Best of all, I can cherish the fact that we facilitated the sharing and multiplying of valuable information, even if the absorption level did not reach my dangerously high developed world aspirations.
Also, I have doña friends to protect me from the drunk, ignorant creepazoid, so no se preocuppen (don’t worry!). And this morning, walking down to the store to buy some detergent, I got a good feeling. It’s hard to explain, but it happens in one’s site at times, and seems to be a mixture of factors. In this case, it was sleeping 10 hours, hearing good news about the meeting held Thursday about the library we’re starting, arriving at the store on a Saturday to find nice old men instead of young ones who tend to harass, returning to my neighbors’ to help shell tamarind, and being gifted a huge steaming bowl of asopao – a stew with chicken and rice. Sometimes, you have to just take it easy and recover, and that’s exactly what I plan to do for a couple days.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Up In Arms (written 4.22.09 – Happy Earth Day!)
I was sitting on a bus coming back from a relaxing weekend at the beach (it was birthday, ok! And the Peace-Corps wide “bola race”, in which we hitch-hiked in pairs across the country. Me and Michal came in 5th!) and although it was filling up, so far, no one had made a move to sit by me. Although I had begrudgingly moved my bag off the seat next to me, I was secretly hoping to have a little arm and leg room for the rest of the trip.
We made a stop and on the bus gets, literally, the fattest Dominican I have ever seen. This middle-aged Doña took one look around the bus and decided that sitting by me, the flacita blancita (skinny white girl) would be the best option, and proceeded to do so with much gusto. She was not at all shy about her overbearing presence, and made no attempts to remove her clammy upper-arm from the position it immediately assumed smooshed up against mine.
I’m an environment volunteer, so I feel obligated to chastise the youth in my Brigada Verde group when they throw trash on the ground. But when that imposing figure reached across me, without so much as an excuse me or an embarrassed smile, to throw a piece of plastic out the window, I surrendered immediately. Well, maybe not immediately. I slowly turned my face toward hers (only a few uncomfortable inches away), and was met eye to eye with a look that calmly said “I dare you”. Dominicans typically don’t think twice about throwing a piece of trash out the window, but I swear she knew what was going through my head when I looked at her.
And I lost.
When I got back to my community and walked down the street, I was caught up in about 30 immensely cuter arms, those of the children who had just gotten out of school and insisted on walking down the street with me, fighting to have their arms around my waist and their hands in mine. It’s good to be loved.
We made a stop and on the bus gets, literally, the fattest Dominican I have ever seen. This middle-aged Doña took one look around the bus and decided that sitting by me, the flacita blancita (skinny white girl) would be the best option, and proceeded to do so with much gusto. She was not at all shy about her overbearing presence, and made no attempts to remove her clammy upper-arm from the position it immediately assumed smooshed up against mine.
I’m an environment volunteer, so I feel obligated to chastise the youth in my Brigada Verde group when they throw trash on the ground. But when that imposing figure reached across me, without so much as an excuse me or an embarrassed smile, to throw a piece of plastic out the window, I surrendered immediately. Well, maybe not immediately. I slowly turned my face toward hers (only a few uncomfortable inches away), and was met eye to eye with a look that calmly said “I dare you”. Dominicans typically don’t think twice about throwing a piece of trash out the window, but I swear she knew what was going through my head when I looked at her.
And I lost.
When I got back to my community and walked down the street, I was caught up in about 30 immensely cuter arms, those of the children who had just gotten out of school and insisted on walking down the street with me, fighting to have their arms around my waist and their hands in mine. It’s good to be loved.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Home Library (written 3.18.09)
In response to an intense desire to read storybooks, and an equal but opposite lack of reading material, we’ve recently decided to start a public library in my community. The initial steps have been taken: we’ve chosen a location in the school, submitted a grant request, and had a very successful first meeting for which our Peace Corps librarian visited my site to get everyone excited; she’s Dominican and passionate about books, not to mention a experienced librarian, so she could contribute a lot that I could not. She was able to bring up several boxes of books to get us started, and the kids have already been checking them out, informally, a schoolteacher keeping a list of rentals in her classroom.
In the meantime, my house has become sort of a temporary library. I have about 30 kids books in Spanish that I will put in the library when it’s up and running, but for now the kids like to come by and read them here, or sign them out with a promise to return them.
Word has spread like wildfire that this library is coming, and I think what makes me happiest about the whole thing is that we finally seem to have settled on a project that seems equally important to me, the foreign development worker, and the community members. Our priorities have definitely been at odds in the past (for example, they want English classes, while I want them to learn how to read in Spanish first), so it’s nice to have found a middle ground in this project of obvious importance.
Shameless plug: I will soon have a grant online to which anyone interested can donate any amount they deem appropriate to the library. Link to come soon.
In the meantime, my house has become sort of a temporary library. I have about 30 kids books in Spanish that I will put in the library when it’s up and running, but for now the kids like to come by and read them here, or sign them out with a promise to return them.
Word has spread like wildfire that this library is coming, and I think what makes me happiest about the whole thing is that we finally seem to have settled on a project that seems equally important to me, the foreign development worker, and the community members. Our priorities have definitely been at odds in the past (for example, they want English classes, while I want them to learn how to read in Spanish first), so it’s nice to have found a middle ground in this project of obvious importance.
Shameless plug: I will soon have a grant online to which anyone interested can donate any amount they deem appropriate to the library. Link to come soon.
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