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.

All in the Timing (written 8.10.09)

My boyfriend is on vacation on a boat, unreachable. Both of my Peace Corps doctors are in the U.S., leaving behind a substitute I’ve never met. Three of my best friends from the states are visiting me in my site, scheduled to leave in less than 2 full days. There could not have been a worse time to get sick.

Enter gut-wrenching, appendicitis resembling intestinal bacteria.

It started in my community Thursday afternoon as we (me and the U.S. friends) were walking back to my house from visiting the other end of the community. A terrible pain in my stomach, unaccompanied by nausea or a real need to go to the bathroom, that had me doubled over by the time we made it to my house. Luckily, I had one remaining dose of “Spasmosan” ( just as incredible as it sounds – you can really get anything over the counter here), a disgusting yellow liquid laced with barbituates that allowed me a few hours of fretful sleep. Little did I know how much I was going to need that beauty rest.

When I woke, it felt a little better, but probably only because I started pounding anti-inflammatories right away. The next day, on our way down to the capital, I called the substitute doctor, asking her to leave me some form of medication in the office before she left for the day. Even though I wasn’t able to get to the office until 7, she insisted on waiting for me to do an exam – just in case.

After pressing on my stomach and asking a few questions, the sub-doc deemed it necessary to take me to the hospital right away because she was more than a little concerned that it was my appendix. Happy day, and great timing! So me and the friends loaded up our backpacks into her sedan and trucked it over to the hospital, where the real saga began.

I immediately had my blood drawn, a sonogram which supposedly showed appendix inflammation, and my stomach palpitated by 4 male doctors in a less than private setting in the ER. This is a very touchy culture, and although they mean well, their form of comfort (joking around, patting my leg, foot, smiling at my tears, etc.) just served to make me more hysterical when they each reported “yep, looks like you’ll be in surgery tomorrow morning”. One doctor even went as far as to say “I would send you right away, but I want to do a CT scan first”. Yes! I wanted to scream. Do 8 CT scans first! I’m not having surgery in the developing world when my boyfriend and doctors aren’t even in the country!

For some odd reason, they found it appropriate to put me on an IV before they had finished carting me around the hospital, so by the time I got through with the CT scan (if you’ve ever had one of those, they give you an injection of some hot, paralyzing liquid that makes you feel like you’re peeing your pants – I really hope that’s not just a DR hospital perk) and got up to my room, my hand had already begun the epic swelling that was to be the bane of my existence over the next 4 days.

When they finally sent me to my room, I immediately had to be returned to the CT scan room, but at least the news was encouraging: it seemed to be my intestine that was inflamed as opposed to the appendix, so no surgery for now. Yay! I would have clapped had I been able to feel the fingers on my left hand.

So my new struggles were their absolute refusal to let me consume anything, even water, for the next day and a half, just in case I had to be sent into surgery. And, of course, the over-sassy, under-trained nurses that I have heard so much about from other volunteers who have had the fortune to spend a few days in “our country’s best medical facility”. Between the blood tests at 5:00 am, the staff’s insistence that the hospital didn’t have any blankets, and the rolling of eyes when I asked for my IV to be switched to a spot on my body that didn’t resemble the Michelin man, I felt so angry and disempowered that I nearly took the IV out myself. If it hadn’t been for my dear, dear friends, so dedicated to me that they actually slept IN my hospital room on the faux-leather couch and cold tile floor, I would have gone straight from the intensive care unit to the mental health ward. They even changed their flights to stay and make sure I wouldn’t have to go into surgery alone. I felt so lucky and loved, and able to control my would-be homicidal outlashings at the RNs from Hades.

When I was finally allowed to consume liquids, squash soup has never tasted so good. In fact, up to this point, I had done everything I could to avoid it. My final night I was allowed some mashed potatoes, and I almost cried a little. By then, they had basically determined that what I had must be a bacteria – the blood samples showed no risk of infection in the appendix, and an unnecessary number of stool samples ruled out any chance of parasites. They put me on antibiotics and sent me on my merry way, and since I actually made it out alive and feel fine now, my best guess is that they were right in the end.

All of that could have been avoided if I had just gone to the pharmacy and bought some super-strong antibiotics. So what have I learned from this experience? When you’re in the developing world, where everything is OTC…self-medicate!!!*

(*The author wishes to express that this is a joke, and that those who care about her should not fear that her ignorance will negatively effect her health in future potentially critical situations.)

Behind Bars

What does it say about the quality of life in a country when those that can afford to choose to carry out their lives behind bars? Literally. Those with resources fence in their front porches and windows with heavy duty re-bar, albeit decorative, to keep out things that go bump in the night. Schools always have at least a tall, locked gate, if not circular barbed wire atop 10 foot walls. We can't even dream of putting computers (which we received donated) into our library until we have bars across all the windows, and several layers of plywood nailed up to separate it from the neighboring classroom. Food for thought.

Campo Days (written 7.12.09)

Yesterday morning, we finished construction on the 20th and final fuel efficient cook stove in my community. I took a deep breath as I rode on the back of a motorcycle to my house (yes, it was walkable, but it’s hot, ok) where I bathed, had a coffee, and then set off to a neighboring community, where a PCV friend has recently finished construction on an aqueduct and was celebrating with an inauguration. We listened to speeches, ate huge plates of food, and danced the night away, me secretly celebrating my accomplishment along with his. Well, not so secretly.

Hey Mica, how are you? OHMYGODIFINISHEDSTOVESTODAY is probably closer to what it was like. Hm.

Anyway, I hosted breakfast at my house this morning for 4 PCVs and 2 Dominicans who work with the water volunteers. It stretched out into lunchtime – pancakes’ll do that – and by the time I made it down to the other end of my community, to a party I had somewhat grudgingly promised to go to, the main event guests had gone to the river. That was fine with me – I thought the whole reason I was invited was because they were expecting rich white-ish Dominicans from the city, some of which lived in/had lived in/or at least had been to “Nueva Yol”. So when I arrived to find the man of the house, who’s birthday we were to celebrate, with his wife and a few choice kids and grandkids, I was not at all disappointed. He was a little upset that I missed the morning events, but I reassured him that I would hang out until the owners of the out of place Hummer and Lexus parked outside his palm board house reappeared to finish their festivities at the tables they had set up behind his house. Socio-economic hierarchies are incredible here. I was late in arriving, but the woman of the house and her daughter-in-law had clearly worked their butts off to make this event as luxurious as possible for the city dwellers, of whom even the women didn’t seem to lift a finger to help.

When they actually arrived from their jaunt at the river it wasn’t all that bad – they smiled politely and basically ignored me, not at all the hideous “I speaka d’English” event that I had dreaded. I was fed well, as always, visited my host parents in the neighboring house, and was sent on my merry way to take some photos of stoves I had yet to document. The last of these stops was the house of one of my favorite women in the community, whom I was glad to have as the last stove recipient – end on a good note. She is a rare unmarried woman in her 30s who doesn’t have some sort of repelling physical attribute, as sweet as she can be, who lives with her equally kind and alarmingly active father who must be at least in his 70s. She was fixing her visiting niece’s hair, and as soon as she perceived that I was gonna set a spell, sent for a soda and we settled in to chat on the front porch, the coolest place on the top of the hill she lives on. On a whim, I asked her to do my hair as well, and after almost falling asleep under her gentle hands, left her house with an interesting braid across the front/ponytail combo. It was what I asked for, but didn’t quite come out like I imagined.

Next stop, informal English lesson. I don’t mind helping this particular girl who asked for help on an assignment, because she tries really hard and is determined to learn. She asked me to read an “exposition” that she had written and was to read in front of her class, and after thoroughly marking it up with corrections, I complimented her on how much of an improvement it was from the last work of hers I had read. As we corrected her paper, I stopped several times to ask her to translate some clumsy passages into Spanish so that I could tell her how to say what she meant in English. She could never tell me what it was she had intended to say, and finally opened another notebook from which she had copied the entire piece! She said that a friend had helped her write it, but she clearly didn’t know what the majority of it meant. Oh dear. But anyway, she’s trying hard, so I guess that counts for something. I left to make a phone-call, promising to return for the dinner of super-fried cheese and fried green bananas (quite less delicious than the tomatoe version). The call was dropped irretrievably right in the middle of a conversation with someone I had been looking forward to talking to all week, so I sulked back to the house and forced down half of what felt like meal 15 of the day.

I hitched a ride in a passing car with a man who, had I known his disposition, I would have avoided if it meant walking to Santo Domingo – lecherous grinning, asking if I was married before I even got the door shut, etc. When I got out of the car, thankfully before we arrived to my house thereby disclosing it’s location to pervy mc-pervson, I walked up to a group of 3 girls and spoke with one about the strange, painful looking blemish that has recently popped up on her face. As I was speaking, another girl whose name I don’t know interrupted me to ask if I’m pregnant (I apparently need to work on my posture, or stop eating everything I’m offered. Or both.) I didn’t quite hear her, but I must have heard enough to throw me for a loop, cause I asked her to repeat herself, and she, completely straight-faced, re-asked her absurd question. I stared at her for a moment, told her no, and the other girls, sensing my shock, helped with “that’s just how she was standing!” I tried to conclude the conversation I had been having before I was rudely interrupted, but ended up just having to split with a “sleep well!” Being a single pregnant girl here has social connotations that pregnant teens in America could only imagine in their wildest nightmares, so I think that’s what shocked me even more than the insinuation of fatness.

That’s the campo. Dios Santo. Ese sol pica y la gente no son facil. I’m out.

Las esposas

In (Dominican) Spanish, the word for handcuffs is the same as wives. Las esposas.

There's nothing more to say about that.

Shameless Plug

Another thing I didn't know - how much my Peace Corps work would depend on the fiscal generosity of people back home! But it's a good thing, because it gives everyone interested the chance to get involved. Thanks again to those who donated to my library project. For those who wanted to help but didn't quite get around to it, here's your chance! My PC colleagues and I are planning a summer camp for youth from our site, the theme of which is Diversity and Leadership. I participated in the camp last year with two young girls from my site, and it was a great experience. In order to make the camp happen, we need your help! Check out the URL below to see what you can do:

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=517-290

What I knew (written 6.27.09)

It’s hard to remember what I knew coming in to the DR. It’s an island: check. It’s in the Caribbean: enthusiastic check! But did I know that men as fat as Jaba the Hut (forgive me, real Star Wars fans, for the certain mis-spellings) sitting on the side of the street would see completely fit to kissy-face me as I ride by on a bus? Did I know how many chicken murders I would witness? Did I know I would have the opportunity to be a weekend tourist? Did I know that there were be so many children age 10+ that don’t know how to read? I dunno.

I definitely didn’t know that there would be so many people willing to work hard, side by side with me, and yet so many who would refuse to lift a finger.

For the past month, I’ve been working with a Dominican mason (we’ll get to that later…) and have completed 11 fuel efficient cook stoves – hopefully a few more by the time this entry actually gets posted – and it’s incredible what a difference the receiving family can make. When they are people who care about and respect me, people who are ready to work for the stove they’re receiving pratically free, it almost doesn’t feel like work. Almost. As close as manual labor gets to feeling like fun anyway. But when they are people who feel entitled, people who would rather sit on their porch and ask redundant questions than pick up a shovel, the experience is painful, to say the least. For example, today we finished the stove of my host mom’s brother, and due to his willingness to work – I think it was the first time I’ve heard “what can I do?” since we started the project – and his positive attitude made it a very rewarding experience. The stove came out looking great, like a rainbow; they’re all loco over bright colors on the top, and this particular man had 5 different colors. He was very satisfied with the product, and I left feeling refreshingly fulfilled.

As noted, working with a Dominican mason (male, which goes without saying really) is an accomplishment in and of itself. We butted heads at the beginning over things like punctuality, reliability, responsibility, etc. but we seem to have found our niche; it could just be that most recently, we’ve been working with families we both like more. It’s most likely the fact that I increased his pay, but he deserved it and we both knew it. Only 9 more to go, and then I can focus on my library, a project I’m so excited about I can barely sleep at night for all the ideas running through my head. A story corner, a photo wall, all kinds of things to make it a friendly place where people want to spend time and learn. Thanks again in advance to everyone who made this project a reality – pictures to come soon!

Pay-Day (written 6.1.09)

The real one is coming up Monday, and rejoice! I can buy toothpaste and shampoo and cat food! But today, I received a different sort of payment.

Today, we finished construction on our first fuel-efficient cook stove. It may be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. After months and months of endless planning, mobilizing, grant-writing, agonizing waits, and materials-gathering, even I had my doubts about whether this was actually going to happen. Today, it did, and everything else just melts away.

Looking at the underside of the tin roof, covered in the black char the doñas have been breathing for years, the simple tin chimney we installed seemed more relevant than ever. The doñas, of course, don’t care so much about this as they do about the aesthetic quality of the stove, and I would be lying if I didn’t say I feel so lucky to have masons who are proud enough of their work to pay attention to details. This is what this family was cooking on before, actually a step up from a lot of others, who cook with their pots balanced on rocks on the ground.


















And this is what we made.



I hope this feeling lasts throughout the making of the other 19+. We picked a great family to start with, people that I’m very close to and who were more than willing to help with construction. I can only hope that the coming experiences will be half as rewarding as this one.

Priorities (written 6.1.09)

Yesterday, my 13 year old neighbor told me that in order to celebrate the end of the school year, her teacher (male, but not at all outwardly lecherous) was taking she and a bunch of her (female) classmates to the park in a nearby small city, in order to dance. I asked lots of questions, trying to figure out why, what the possible goal could be, and all she could tell me was that they were going to wear short skirts and shake their little bodies “like this”. It wasn’t exactly what I would call chaste.

This is the same young girl whose father will not allow her to attend my youth group meetings, apparently having something to do with the fact that she attended one without first asking his permission.

I know I must remove my cultural lens, and all that jazz, but I’m pretty lost on this one.

Día de las Madres (written 5.31.09 – Happy DR Mothers’ Day!)

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Day at the Dominican Dentist (written 3.18.09)

No one likes going to the dentist, but we all must admit that we love that freshly clean feeling we get after an hour of picking with sharp metal instruments. Last week, I went for my annual cleaning, and although I was admittedly apprehensive to undergo this marginally uncomfortable procedure in the developing world, the office was clean and modern and the dentist spoke fluent English, so I figured everything would be routine. Physically and emotionally, it was anything but.

After the hygienist did the air test for cavities, miraculously finding none considering the amount of sugar we consume in this country, the dentist came in to do the cleaning, which took all of 15 minutes. This is because she picked my teeth faster and harder and less thoroughly than they have ever been picked, following up with a speedy brush and floss, all the while insulting me with a smile: “You’re a Peace Corps volunteer? You don’t look like one. You look like a city girl. Do you wear these boots and skirt in your site? Ya know, you kinda look like a baby. I’m pretty sure it’s because your front teeth are a bit jagged.” Of course, I could respond to none of this because her crazy hands were in my mouth, and then she was gone before I could thoroughly rinse away the small chunks of bloody gums (NOT an exaggeration) that she had separated from their rightful home in her flurry of “cleaning”.

My teeth felt not even the slightest bit cleaner afterward, and “baby” that I am, I cried wee wee wee all the way home.

20 Questions (written 3.18.09)

I often feel like I’m playing this popular car game here in my site. For instance, some conversations I had just today…

Conversation 1

Man I don’t know that well: Hey, has that guy come yet?

Me: Um, what guy?

Man: You know, the American who was going to come work in the next community over.

Me: Oh, THAT guy. Yea, they haven’t finished filling out their application yet, but when they turn it in they might be able to get a volunteer in their community.

Man: OK

Conversation 2

Me to my neighbor lady: Just wanted to let you know that the first-aid course has been rescheduled for May 4-8.

Neighbor: OK, well you know I have to talk to the women.

Me: Um, what women?

Neighbor: You know, the women I work with at the chocolate factory.

Me: Oh, THOSE women. I see. You’ll have to let them know you won’t be there on those days.

Neighbor: Yea.


It’s kind of like pulling teeth (see next entry). I don’t think it’s that they’re lazy, I think they honestly expect me to know what they’re talking about without specifying. I guess it keeps things interesting.

The Big Cheese (written 3.17.09 – Happy St. Patty’s Day!)

The activity that inspired this entry happened in the same weekend trip as the tree murder detailed above, but seems to warrant its own title and piece.

There are two kinds of Dominican cheese: white and yellow. This weekend, I learned to make the white, with the help of 14 year old Manuela, the prideful queen of regional cheese.

She was completely enthused, if a bit baffled, when we told her we wanted to learn how to make this delicious dairy delicacy. After all, she makes it and sells it every day of her life, and probably fails to see why it’s interesting, but nevertheless gave an enthusiastic two-hour accelerated course in cheese-making to the fascinated foreigners. Steps are as follows:

Mix several huge metal cans of fresh cows’ milk with a syringe full of some brown, grainy liquid (suggestions?) and let it sit for a while. After mixture thickens, use a long stick to cute a cross in it to let the whey rise. Let it sit for another while. Add a huge pot of boiling water and mix it for a bit, and let it sit again. Insert arms into plastic vat, up to shoulders, and slowly begin to form ball of cheese, by pressing the mass together delicately. When a manageable ball is formed, remove it from the whey into a separate container, and continue pressing out liquid until cheese ball (we’re talking like 30 pounds here) is hard. Cut into small chunks, add an incredible amount of salt, and then force cheese into small wooden boxes, weighted down with rocks to shape cheese into blocks. Let it sit for a while, then sell it all to community members.

The omission of times, quantities, and really any form of measurement is no mistake; that’s just how Manuela rolls. It was a ton of fun, and resulted in a delicious treat to boot!

Breaking and Entering Part II (written 3.17.09 – Happy St. Patty’s Day!)

Although we don’t receive training in it, breaking and entering seems to be a pivotal part of the Peace Corps experience. First the all-inclusive resort, and now, none other than the house of another volunteer. I was visiting my boyfriend in his site over the weekend, and we decided to go down the street for a barbecued hotdog – a fancy campo date, to be sure. When we arrived back at the house, we played a familiar game: “Do you have the key? No you do”. It’s always him, but this time, he had left it inside the house, and as we had padlocked the door from the outside, we found ourselves in a bit of a pickle. Having no other option, he decided to try to break down the side door, which we perceived to be the weakest entry to the house. After giving it two solid kicks, we decided the little palm-board house was going to come down before the door did; nice to know he lives in a secure home, but I must say an inconvenient time to figure it out.

Both of us working hard not to panic (locksmiths aren’t exactly on call out here), I realized that although the door was padlocked, if you pushed on it, it still opened about three inches before the lock caught, and what to my wondering eyes did appear in the line of sight those three inches provided but the key! It was hanging on a nail on the wall about 7 feet from the crack in the door. Ever the eco-friendly environmental volunteer, my solution was… “Hey! Let’s pull up that skinny baby tree and see if we can reach the key!” This worked surprisingly well, and within 5 minutes we were indoors sitting on two plastic lawn chairs (one of which I broke the next day - long story. Actually, it’s really not; I’m just a clutz.) surprised and satisfied with our ingenuity.

To quote an exasperated homeowner: “I really can’t keep that key there anymore.”

Behind the Times

Dear Friends,

Today I discovered something beautiful: all the wonderfully kind and supportive comments that you all have been leaving me!

I've never pretended to be particularly technologically savvy, and that combined with the limited amount of internet time I get...well I've just never noticed all the comments you guys are leaving. It has put me in such a wonderful, positive-energy mood to read all of your words, and I thank you so much for keeping up with me! Maybe it was even better this way, cause I just spent the last 20 minutes reading a year's worth of your friendly writing, and I was a bit like a kid at Christmas.

So I must apologize for not responding to all your comments, but I sincerely appreciate them and promise to keep up with them better in the future. Your support gives me the energy to keep going, and now I'm feeling particularly rejuvenated!

Love,
Mica J.

Peace Corps – “It has the power to change you in ways you’ve never dreamed” (written March 1, 2009)

In the first 3 months, it is drilled into all of our little new trainee heads that Peace Corps is about sustainability, i.e., we don’t give stuff away, and instead make people earn it through manual labor, meeting assistance, and what-have-you so that they will feel ownership and projects will last further into the future. A year into service, however, which is exactly where I am as of our anniversary on February 28th, idealism starts to go out the window and you just want to get stuff done. Maybe it’s out of selfishness, but in the end, we’re all going to leave, and in the end, we all want to leave something behind.

Thus, let the scramble begin. I WILL build stoves as soon as my money gets here, I’ve started work on a small library, and just today a young girl made a comment on my shoes and how they look like they would fit her – I’ll probably give them to her when I leave. They’re 5 year old tennis shoes, and still sturdier than anything she has.

A while back, I did a fundraiser with my environmental youth group to get trash cans in our community, which apparently no one has figured out how to use.

The ground is still littered with plastic and glass as the cans fill up with organic waste; Dominicans, strangely, find leaves and the like to be more of an eye sore than old coke bottles and grocery bags, so that’s what they consider “trash”. So, in an effort to kick-start community awareness, I set up a walk-through with my youth group, scheduled to take place this morning, about an hour ago. We made a big sign, equipped with visuals explaining what can and cannot go in the can, and were going to walk through the community picking up trash and, more importantly, explaining on a house by house basis what the cans are for. Given, not the most fun activity, but we do fun things all the time and they seemed to understand that this is important. Besides, in a big group, they always have a good time regardless of the activity.

Not a single person showed up. I waited for 40 minutes, at which point had it not been for the free motorcycle ride I was offered to go home, I would have gone to the houses of each of our “officers” and demanded an explanation. I know our cultures are different, but I’ve been here for a year, and long story short, they know better by now.

It’s easy to fall into a downward spiral of pessimism on these occasions, so this is what is going through my head: if they don’t care enough to come (not a single one!), and people would rather throw away leaves than plastic bottles, and even if the truck actually comes to pick it up it’s going to get burned or washed into the rivers anyway…why do I even bother? At this point, you might expect for me to offer up some profound explanation as to why, but I haven’t stumbled across it yet.

Bola of the Century

I spent several days this past week helping out in other sites. There are two volunteers relatively close to me who invited American high-school groups to come help with the construction of aqueducts, and I was asked to come and help translate and also to provide a night of entertainment in the form of live folk music. I was amazed at the amount of trench those kids were able to dig in order to put in piping in order for water from the mountains to reach individual houses, and when we left the celebratory pig roast on Friday night, spirits were high. That is, until us visiting volunteers remembered that we had to cross 2 frigid rivers on foot in the dark in order to reach the house where we would be sleeping.

The community where we had been helping out was far back in the mountains, across several rivers, and even more difficult to reach lately as it had been raining cats and dogs. The last thing we expected, therefore, was to see a car inside the community at the festivities, and a revamped Range Rover with leopard print interior and a sound system to blow your socks off. After eyeing this vehicle, the volunteer I was visiting had the brilliant idea of asking for a “bola”, or a free ride, to his house on this person’s way out to the main road. Obliging and friendly, the driver loaded the 5 of us into the back, and off we set to traverse flowing rivers and flojo (weak) land bridges. The imagery I experienced from the inside of this unlikely SUV was uncanny.

As we sat on the leopard print seats and tried in vain to protect our inner ears, the car filled with a red glow from the tail lights, and I looked out the back to see three young boys running along behind us, their smiles illuminated by the necklace glow sticks that the American volunteers had handed out to amuse them. (As an aside, I noted that given toys and gadgets, such as the costume jewelry and flashlights the Americans brought, Dominican children suddenly seem far less different than those in the U.S.) They ran behind us the whole way home, deterred only slightly by the rivers, catching up each time with smiles never faltering.

I’ve had a lot of free rides in this country, but this one I will never forget. Having just spent all day in the trenches and the evening eating fresh roasted pig and dancing to Dominican songs, it was the perfectly strange ending to a more than vivid 3 days.

Interesting things I’ve done since my last entry…(written 1.31.09)

Stayed up until 3 am in a hotel lobby installing drivers for my new hard drive (the burnt out old one being the reason for the recent lack of blogging.

Taken my cat to a vet in the developing world (enough said) after spending several days at home with her in heat. (She can get out through the roof at night, you know…)

Removed several hearts from chicken breasts in order to cook them for dinner – the breasts, not the hearts.

Had an amateur manicure that required 6 bottles of nail polish. Yes, they were stunning.

Found a dead rat under my bed. And thoroughly mopped. And mopped again with Clorox.

Visited the high school to talk about MLK Jr. on his birthday, the American holiday.

Attempted to make arroz con leche, and failed.

Organized a First Aid training to be held in my community clinic, and led by other Peace Corps Volunteers, in March.

Invited some Dominican young’ns to my house to watch a movie in Spanish, and understood everything! (Not entirely fair, as I have seen Love Actually in English many times, Actually. )

Ridden up a mountain on the back of a Vespa that had a flat tire. And by ridden, I mean the driver made me get off and walk up the really steep parts. (I am after all, according to my community, putting on the pounds…)

Become much more proficient in my energy-efficient-stove building abilities by participating in a build in a neighboring community.

There are surely many more, but these juicy tidbits are what come to mind most readily.