Feeling the Spirits (written 1.17.10)

It seems I picked the right day to go to church. I’ve only been to the Catholic church in my site a handful of times, but due to the unexpected absence of the girl who paints my nails, I decided to drop in on the mass, which turned out to be a memorial service in honor of an important community elder who passed away 4 months ago. Although everyone was dressed in black and white, as customs dictate, I decided they would rather have me in my blue skirt and orange t-shirt than not have me at all. I blended right in with the kids in their colorful outfits that state “we’re not old enough to know any better”. That’ll teach ‘em that I’m not as young as they assume!

By the time the out of town preacher (pastor? Father? I’m not really up on my Catholic lingo) arrived, the little church was pretty full. It’s an important week religiously speaking, what we call Patronales, and several of the kids will be taking their first communion soon. As the preacher started warming up to his sermon, we here a loud cry from the back of the church. Heads turn just in time to see an extremely drunken man, someone visiting from outside the community, stumbling down the aisle, on an unmistakable path to the altar, where he interrupts the preacher with an inebriated salutation and proceeds to place the preacher’s hands on his head. Ostensibly, they had healing powers and the man could wait not a moment longer to have them laid upon his lowly noggin. The preacher asked him to sit, which he did, but momentarily was at it again, and the sermon swayed accordingly from the real topic of the service – parting with loved ones – to the ways of the sinner.

Throughout this scene, I stifled giggles with the kids, exchanged knowing glances with the adults, and was generally satisfied that I had chosen to stop in on such a lively event. I usually struggle to pay attention during foreign language, religiously themed diatribes, but I was wide awake this day, and silently thanking God that I’ve never felt the Spirit(s) quite as much as this man.

DeliCATessen (written 11.22.09)

Sometimes I give my cat more food than she can eat in one sitting, the consequence being that it’s a little less than crisp at the nth hour, due to the constant humidity in the DR. To show her disapproval, she will walk by, sniff the bowl, and head straight for the ziplock bag where she knows her food is kept, meowing each time I brave eye contact until finally, I cave, and give her a little extra fresh food on top of the older stuff. I’ve watched her eat this mixture, and she really does know the difference. No one likes mealy food, but a cat that’s closer to feral than domestic? Now I’ve seen it all!

Deck the Palm Board Halls (written 11.15.09)

‘Tis the season! To warm up my bath water and make corn fritters, intrigued by a recipe that assured me these oily treats offer a delightful respite from the winter chill. Chill, obviously, is completely relative. Currently, on most days, I can walk from my house to the school in long pants and a short sleeve shirt and not sweat. At night, not only is a sheet tolerable, but my blanket (knitted/crocheted – who can really tell the difference? – by a dear Peace Corps friend) becomes marginally necessary in the wee hours of the morning. Would I freeze without it? Certainly not. But using it has become one of the ways I pretend there are seasons in the Caribbean.

Many of my neighbors already have installed small, artificial Christmas trees in their homes, all aglow with tiny lights, and I’ve even seen the occasional decorative wreath. Now I’m no proponent of acculturation, but I must admit, this tiny sampling of North American culture leaves me feeling warm and fuzzy as opposed to indignant at the island’s permanent home under the umbrella of U.S. influence.

I had noticed some particularly pretty little lights coming from a tree in the window of my neighbor’s house, and after admiring them from the outside for several days, decided to step inside and pay my compliments. To my astonishment, I found it was not a 4 foot tree that had dazzled me, but a tiny tree propped up on a table in just such a way that its light filled the window. I had a good laugh at this and explained it to my neighbor. I don’t think she saw the humor, but humored me anyway with a giggle. After all, ‘tis the season for giving!

Man vs. Beast (written 9.30.09)

On my way to buy eggs and a Pepsi yesterday – yes, only the bare necessities – I came across a strange scene. A small group of campesinos were gathering around a dead donkey on the side of the road, with an identical but live and visibly flustered donkey waiting nearby. I asked what happened, and the general consensus was that the one had murdered the other. Stories as to how exactly that happened were less conclusive:

1) The one bit the other, and that killed it. (?) With no real visible flesh wounds, I discarded that as absolutely impossible.
2) The live, male donkey had been trying to mate with the recently deceased female donkey. She, unwilling, tried to get away, fell, and somehow broke her neck. This story seemed more likely, so I chose to accept it as valid.

This all happened, apparently, in the span of a few minutes, right before I left my house to do my shopping. How fragile life is! Also, I may not be a native, but I know enough by now to realize that the beast of burden was no pet, but rather a valuable source of labor to the now grieving owner – a really nice guy, who I patted on the shoulder and gave my condolences to as I walked past. I also had a brief interaction with the owner of the culprit, who muttered “that donkey’s crazy” as he walked past to lasso his liability.

Clearly the newly burro-less campesino had to be compensated, and whether it was from a lack of cold hard cash or designed as a slap in the face of ironic fate, he was awarded ownership of the offending beast. I suppose one hauls cacao and alimento for the pigs as well as the other, and that’s what matters in the end. Still, I can’t help but wonder if the transaction didn’t leave all parties feeling like a bit of an ass.

What’s my age again? (written 9.30.09)

A Haitian-Dominican friend of mine recently found himself asking the same question as Blink 182 did in their late 90s pop-punk smash song. This friend stopped by my house the other day to chat and maybe finagle some help with a homework assignment. Toward the beginning of our conversation, he said “Well, I guess you’ll be getting married right when you get back to the states”. Don’t worry, he’s not like THAT – and by that, I mean the Dominican men who don’t even know me who ask me similar questions with lecherous grins painted on their mouths. I told him, “Well, ya know, I’ll get married whenever I’m ready, but that’s not now. I might want to go back to school first.” We’ve had conversations about ambitions and families before, so I wasn’t surprised when he responded that he also wanted to finish school before starting a family (high-schoolers range in age from early teens to late 40s here). He continued, however, with something I wasn’t exactly expecting. He had always believed himself to be 25 (this year at least), and had even told me so in the recent past. I thought he looked a little older, but who am I to say such a thing. A recent review of his birth certificate, however, confirmed my doubts – he’s actually 30! This information was obviously very sobering to him, as he told me “yes, I’ve always told everyone I’m going to wait until I’m done with high-school and have a job before I get married, but apparently I don’t have as much time as I thought”. He was by no means despondent, and was cheered when I offered that you’re only as old as you feel and act. Still, I can’t imagine looking at my own birth certificate and finding out I’m 5 years older – that would make me almost 30 as well!

Burning Bridges

Last week in my site, the motorcycle drivers went on strike in attempt to draw the government’s attention to the poor road conditions in our community. When marginalized groups decide to go on strike in the developed countries, they are more often than not empowered enough to make the strike mean something: they target a group or individual that needs their services, a group that has the power to give them what they want and need, and they deny services until those wants and needs are met. In the developing world, however, strikes often affect most negatively the very people they would be designed to serve.

So when the motorcycle drivers went on strike, no one in our community could go anywhere. My 60+ year old neighbor told me she walked several miles out to the highway in order to get to a doctor’s appointment that she couldn’t miss. The lack of transportation services, so far, had affected no one but the usual customers of the motorcycle drivers.

In an angry mob, the drivers took to the streets. They cut down trees to block access to the roads (preventing the authorities from making any repairs even if they had planned to, which they surely had not), burned tires every 100 yards or so, cut all the power lines, and finally, in a dramatic flourish, burned down the community clinic. Although it was an inadequate rural clinic with leaky roofs and no electricity, basic services are clearly better than nothing, and now all community members are forced to go far from their homes for even the most primitive of treatment.



The anger and frustrations that they feel due to inactive, inattentive local and national governments is entirely founded, but their irrational actions have not inconvenienced those that have the power to make a change, but rather themselves, their families, and their neighbors. It’s not fair that they are so disempowered regarding basic necessary repairs to the infrastructure of their community, and their desire to protest is warranted, but unfortunately the target audience is relatively unaffected. Perhaps the mayor of the region will be embarrassed enough to make some small, temporary changes, but ultimately, their outcry will have hit the hardest at home, where their children can no longer get antibiotics and vaccinations within walking distance.

The God of Small Things (8.10.09)

The title of a beautiful novel by Arundhati Roy that I just finished reading also seems appropriate as title for this blog.

Yesterday, I had my first water filter meeting, and it was completely different from my first stove meeting a year ago. At that point, people still didn’t really trust the new girl in town, probably thought I wasn’t gonna actually do any of the stuff I was talking about, and didn’t exactly flock to my meetings. Now, since word spread quickly that the quantity of filters available will be limited (25 to be exact), they couldn’t get there fast enough. We actually started relatively on time! And there were 78 people present, representing about half the houses in the community. I spoke in Spanish for over half an hour in front of this group, only later recognizing this as an important accomplishment.

Since everyone who came will obviously not be receiving a filter, I’ve created an application that I will be “turning in to Peace Corps” so I don’t get crucified by the majority that ends up without. In reality, I will be making the final decisions, placing the filters in strategic locations throughout the community where the most people can have the most access. If there were 78 filters available, I would gladly solicit that many, but it’s an issue of availability for other volunteers – there just aren’t enough being made in the country to put them in every house.

Anyway, I think I’ve noticed people being especially nice to me today. It’s probably not as calculated as one might think, but one guy brought me 30 bananas today. That’s a lot of banana bread. I guess I’m a little afraid of the power that comes with making this decision, with being the God of the water filters, but it’s mostly self-preservation. I have to live in this community for 9 more months, and I can’t be making 53 enemies who came to the meetings and yet get no filter. Fortunatley, many of the houses are close to one another, and if I plan this right, eveyone should have access to clean, drinkable water, for free, just a short walk from their home.