Undoubtedly, the past month has been anything but quiet. Really, since I arrived in country, I have gone through an absurd number of both difficult and rewarding moments. Adjusting to my new live in my site, well outside of the proverbial box, has been difficult enough. Uncomfortable and exciting are two particularly good words to use here.

I arrive at my site November 13, and left on the 17th to spend a week in the capital for Thanksgiving. I returned to my site for less than two weeks, after which I went back to the capital the weekend of December 7-9 for the annual Artisan Fair, sponsored by the ministry of culture. In my village, there are four scattered unrelated families who make crafts from gourds called hig¸eros. They open up the gourds, which range in size from handball to cat torso, scoop out the nasty stuff inside, and make intricate carving designs on the outside. Such products they make are cups, bowls, canteens, ornaments, centerpieces, guiras, and the most popular item, maracas. After trudging down my dirt/mud road in the pouring rain to the highway with five massive rice sacks full of hig¸eros, my artisans and I sat in the rain on the highway for a half hour to catch the guagua to the capital. There, for three days, artisans from all over the country sold their coconut earrings, scented candles, and soapstone carvings to tourists. As a Volunteer, I served as translator. Example:
Overweight German tourist in heavily accented English: How mooch iz thiz?
Artisan lacking many teeth: Que?
German: How mooch?
Artisan: Oh, cien pesos.
German: Vat? Ten?
Then I graciously step in and mention that the really cien is ten. I was impressed by this fair if only for the quality of the products, as they were much better than anything found in a beachside tourist trap gift shop.

Over this weekend, I was able to explore Santo Domingo a little bit. This included the discovery of a falafel restaurant downtown, which raised the value of the city for me quite a bit. In addition, I stayed at a hostel that all the Volunteers stay at whenever he or shi is in the city, turning the hostel into some kind of massive frat house. This was fun.
I came back to my site Sunday evening, and spent Monday quietly with my host family, staying inside because of the rain. Unofficially, the rainy season is the summer, but it has rained nearly every day since I arrived in country. Watching the news Monday afternoon, I noticed a bit about a "tormenta" coming the next day. It being December and all, I didn’t think too much of it, but soon after I received a text message from Peace Corps informing me that Tropical Storm Olga was on its way. The next day, Peace Corps initiated Consolidation, which meant that all volunteers had to leave their sites and head to a safe house (ie, hotel) in the major city nearby. Unsurprisingly, this also created a sort of college dorm atmosphere. Kept safe from the dangerous storm outside, we were able to take a three-day vacation inside, complete with three nice meals, wireless internet and lets say, more fun activities.

Finally, I returned home last Thursday to see my dirt road turned into mud and some downed trees, but thankfully no serious damage. I was able to settle down and relax with my host family Thursday evening, eat some boiled platanos, and watch a couple melodramatic Mexican telenovelas. However, just as Julia was about to inform Miguel that the baby wasn’t his but Enrique’s instead, a low rumble filled the house, which began a slow roll and then shifted violently. Earthquake. My host family didn’t flinch. Nothing fell, but it freaked me out.
So, in my first three months in country, I have survived three host families, two tropical storms, and one each of earthquake, parasite, and gripe. I can only imagine what the next twenty-four months have in store for me.

this picture is of the people i spent the most time with at my site. this is what we do for fun in the evenings.

Peace Corps: A puzzle

One year ago, I was a first semester senior, worrying about finals and papers and the like, as well as trying to forget that college was almost over; I refused to participate in the obsessive culture over what to do after it was all going to be over when the following May came around too quickly. I was about to submit my Peace Corps application. Applying to Peace Corps oddly mirrored my college process. Each times, I applied first to both Georgetown and Peace Corps, and while I submitted other applications, I did so with less energy and conviction, convinced as I was that I would get in. And although both choices were those of a different path than the vast majority of my peers (Georgetown is Catholic and I am from Jewville; Peace Corps drops its Volunteers in the middle of nowhere with nothing but luck, some phone numbers and a few thousand dollars a year), and many, if not most, thought these choices didn’t make sense or were simply crazy, I knew they would be right for me.
Over six months ago, I graduate from college. I walked across that stage a proud holder of a BSFS, but still without a job. Peace Corps, as any bureaucratic arm of the US government and thus notoriously slow, had yet to inform me of my invitation, or give any indication of wanting to communicate with me. A tearful goodbye in DC, and I was an unemployed college graduate. Still, I waited. It would come, I was sure.
Three months ago, I got on a plane in Washington, DC, my home over the last four years, and flew to a land geographically quite close to the US but in other ways far, far away. We were warned in staging: there is a lot to know, and you will feel lost. There will be many, many difficult times, but also the most rewarding ones of your lives. For two years. Pa’ que sepas.
So, I write this today. I have lived in my little farming village in the hot central valley of the Dominican Republic for two long, long weeks. I have met some truly amazing people, American and Dominican, and have met with some truly frustrating moments. Almost ten percent of my training group has left the Peace Corps. Now, I am more than just physically separated from my life in the US, but I do have my laptop here to keep me sane. I know that am in the right place, although I haven’t had a solid poop in almost four weeks. Two years is a long time for us – who knows where we will be in November of 2009? I know: I will be finishing up here in my little farming village and returning to the States, having achieved a certain measure of success as a development worker in my small corner of the world.