Leaving

This was the hardest post to write. When I arrived in the DR three Septembers ago, I looked forward to over two years of time in the Dominican Republic, and saw the day that I would leave my adopted country as so far off in the future as to not merit thinking about. Well, that day has come and gone. I have left my home, my neighbors, my friends. I felt, however, that it was time. Sure, I was comfortable there, I was used to my way of life. The comforts that we take for granted so much here I might have lacked, but I didn’t miss them, I functioned and even flourished and in the context of my environment. Maybe that was a sign that I had to move on. I had found living there (relatively) easy, effortless. I knew what to expect, how to deal with problems and challenges. I knew what was going to work (not much) and what wasn’t. I did what I could with my project and community partners. I didn’t accomplish everything I wanted to, but I don’t leave empty-handed. We worked hard, and met with some success. Plenty of people doubted that we could even get anything done, and certainly did their part in trying to hamper progress. As my sector coordinator said, I definitely arrived idealistic and optimistic that I could affect some sort of change in my little corner. My hopes were quickly dashed on the rocks of historico-cultural inertia, and what I saw as a lack of institutional support from my local partner agencies.

Pero nada, as they say, I moved forward. I ended up loving my campo, and the people in it, for all the difficulties we had on a professional level. Personally, they welcomed me with open arms. They couldn’t have been more warm and open. I moved into a community of people I had never met, and who knew nothing about me besides my nation of origin, and became family. I know I could never really become a Dominican; I felt more like a long-lost cousin who came back for a bit from Nueba Yol. Their ability to act as they did towards me was astounding – no American community would be able to do that.

So leaving all of that was difficult. Of course, I also had all of my Peace Corps friends, many of whom were extending their service in the country. I had also met people who arrived in country after me, and I would be leaving them, too. At times it felt like I was the only one who was leaving the country.

The night before I left my village, my friends and neighbors put on an inauguration of the stove project, and put on a despedida, or goodbye party, afterwards. All sorts of people showed up, including my erstwhile project partner, my APCD, and various Peace Corps friends. There were speeches, certificates, and tears (from doñas, not from me). The doñas didn’t stop there – they made an enormous sancocho that fed at least all 75 people that were there. It was pretty expensive, but well worth it. And finally, my host mom, forever the politica, finagled a set of giant speakers (the ones they have on the back of the campaign trucks) to play all the hits for three hours. We had a dance party on her lawn. All the muchachos were there. It was glorious. After that madness was over, a few PC amigos came to stay at my house, where we had our sort of afterparty, and ended the evening with a bang. It couldn’t have been a better last evening.

I am sad I had to go. It was a bittersweet farewell, but well worth it. I wish the best to my PC colleagues and friends and hope that my neighbors continue to work to improve their quality of life as I know they can. Siempre tenga esperanza.

I can hear the questions now, bearing down on my being like a winter snow in Nueva Yol.

“Wow, two years! That’s a long time. What was it like?”

“ Well, that’s sort of a complicated question. I learned a lot, I guess, and I had all these great experiences, and I tried to help—“

“That sounds great. Did they have real food there? Haha! And I can’t believe you were without electricity all the time. How did you live?”

“Um, it really wasn’t that bad…”

And repeat. Ad nauseum. Until all I want to do is go back to my campo, where people asked me where I was and if it rained there, because they really wanted to listen the answers. And when I didn’t want to hear anymore I could remove myself to my house, close my door (or leave it open for the brisita), turn on my iPod and lie with my shirt off on the cool cement floor, praying for rain to hear the light patter of drops on my roof. And all would be good.

But this will not be my reality now. My reality will be far, far away from the breeze coming off the conuco, the mound of rice and beans for lunch, the naked screaming children. I won’t be able to hide in my house, because my house will not be mine, but I will also not be able to go next door, welcomed with a smile and kiss, and be fed lunch with the family. This is not to say I am not looking forward to being back. In the course of writing this, a scorpion ran across my keyboard and jumped onto my leg. That sort of thing will not be missed. I look forward to seeing my friends and family, my native land. I look forward to the comforts of developed-world life. But after living here, I appreciated so much more everything that we take for granted in the States.

Take electricity, for example. I am not fool enough to say that life is better when we don’t have it all the time; I appreciate this situation from a rich-world point of view. I understand electricity as a necessary condition for economic growth and for basic household comforts. Yet for someone who never knew life without electricity except for the rare winter-storm blackout, it was an opportunity. When there is no luz, people often move outdoors. Families are forced to spend time together, to talk to each other. At night, the moon lights our faces, and we admire the stars. I hope that sometime soon, EDENORTE gets its act together and provides sufficient electricity to its clients. But this was an opportunity for us, and I hope that we all took advantage of it. I hope we also understood that although for us this was a two-year stint in the campo (or pueblo), that this is the permanent situation for our friends and neighbors, and what that means for us and for them.

To get back to the original question posed by my imaginary American: What was my time as a Volunteer actually like, then? A simple summary would never do, it cannot capture two years. I could tell some funny stories, although as we like to say, our entire lives here are funny. I might show some pictures, but they do not tell the whole story. Unless they were here, they do not understand. We worked too hard, gave too much of ourselves, learned too much, (and took necessary of time off), for our experiences to be distilled until meaningless. A lack of luz, a week of sickness, a failed project attempt, these must be placed in context, or we risk misunderstanding what they signify. I cannot attempt to define my Volunteer experience here. I could never do it justice, nor would it speak to exactly what your experiences were either.

As I plan to exit the country at the end of the month, I realize that I am not really leaving the Peace Corps; I am hardly leaving the Dominican Republic. There is so much of this place I am taking back with me, from the unwanted, perhaps a parasite bien metido in my intestine, to the valued, like photos that probably shouldn’t be posted on the Internet. I will do my part of Third Goal activities in America, I will remember why I came and why I stayed, and who knows, I might be back someday to steal Romeo’s job. It seems pretty good right now.

Illness

After the injury post, I thought a relevant follow-up would be about illness. Disease is too big of a topic to discuss here, so I’m going to stick mostly to personal experience and some observations. An American I met in the capital asked me what the most difficult part of being a Volunteer was. My first answer had to do with work – the lack of efficiency, interest, ability, access, and funding, among other factors, that I have found to be significant impasses to progress. But then my friend pointed out that he thought being sick would have been my answer, sickness being something that happens fairly often to Volunteers here. I was stunned to realized that I had become used to it. Stomach issues don’t faze us; these problems have faded into a part of daily life. However, during a recent bout with another stomach bug, I thought about it more. Being sick is different than being sick in the States. At home, we get colds and the flu. We feel it coming; there is a tickle in the throat, a sniffle. We pop vitamin C with added zinc, maybe some extra orange juice in the morning. We sneeze, we cough, we take a day off work if it is bad, and we get better. No biggie. There is a doctor’s visit for what we can’t tackle at home: a diagnosis, a treatment, a recovery. Straightforward and predictable, for the most part.

Not so here. Being sick often comes from nowhere, from around the corner late at night. It comes when you least expect it, armed and dangerous, with intent to harm. Sometimes we are at fault (eating street food, playing with dirty, dirty children), but usually they are unavoidable (eating food ever, playing with most children). So, we get sick: hit by a two-by-four. Diarrhea for a week, but not after the first episode happens on the bus. We are laid low, doubled over. Sure, we get treatment. Our medical staff is phenomenal and our coverage amazing. But something seems to linger. Even with our medical staff, the diagnosis is uncertain and the recovery can be unpredictable. The thing about these guys is that they never really seem to go away. The bad feeling comes back, the cough is slow to go away, and the sore takes days to heal. There is always the scepter of the serious: giardia, dengue, even tuberculosis.

Nevertheless, we are lucky and we know it. After all, illness did not come first to mind when I thought of the most difficult part of the job (and, after all, we do not live in sub-Saharan Africa). We get sick, we get over it, we get used to it. We get to go home. Our neighbors are not so lucky. Prevention measures are not taken as often as they should be, environmental factors are innumerable, and treatment is often laughable outside major urban areas. In the tropical heat and humidity, problems often take longer to heal anyway, compounding difficulties. We as Volunteers try to do our small part, but we do not have the capability or resources to make systematic reform. Así es. I will be on my way out soon, having survived the hitman and ready to go back to NyQuil. Once I unwittingly harbored a stowaway campo tarantula in my backpack on a trip to the beach. Hopefully I won’t be taking any kind of bugs home with me this time.

Injury

Over the past two days, I was witness to three types of unfortunately typical Dominican injury, and I thought it’d be interesting for me to share these with you.

The first happened a few minutes before I arrived home from a trip to the capital. My neighbor, a 15-year-old girl, had gotten into a motorcycle accident, hit her head, and was taken to the hospital unconscious. I arrived home to see a bunch of people at her house, nervously whispering, praying, or speaking animatedly about what went wrong. She had just begun her first year in high school, which is in town about 5km away. Her family purchased a small motorcycle so that she didn’t have to rely on others to get to school, and she was just learning how to drive. Motorcycle accidents are absurdly common here, as the lack of traffic laws, driving customs, and inattention to safety proves a dangers combination. A Volunteer friend recently was involved in a motorcycle accident as a passenger and had to be medically evacuated from the country. I hear of accidents on a weekly basis from my neighbors. This accident hit home especially hard, since the girl lives down the street and had just learned how to drive. All sorts of people opined that she shouldn’t have been driving in the first place – she is, after all, a girl, and the road is dangerous – and she should now stay off the roads. I found this pill bitter. Her motorcycle was not actually hit, but swerved to miss something, and so people claimed that she was just “asustada,” or frightened, which cased the bike to leave the road, lending credence to the girl-driving-motorcycle theory of the accident. Regardless, I found this piece insulting. She is a girl, sure, but this of course has nothing to do with the accident. My neighbors weren’t there, they just like to talk. It is fairly rare to see a woman driving motorcycles, so I was glad to see her family give her a vote of confidence. We shall see how she ends up getting to school in the future, or if she is even allowed to drive again at all. For now, she is fine, back at home after a night in the hospital.

That same night, relatives came to visit her house to comfort her family and hear news. I came upon one cousin who I hadn’t seen in a few months. I asked her how she was, and she told me that she was better. Well, better from what? She told me matter-of-factly that she had received a “balazo” – she was shot. Driving on her motorcycle (with a male passenger), returning home from university at 10PM, she was stopped by two males. The assaulters forced them off the motorcycle and in the ensuing chaos, shot both the girl and her friend in the leg. Without missing a beat, and as I wore what must have been an incredulous look on my face, she whipped out her cell phone to show me pictures she had taken of the wounds. She was all smiles and confidence – after all, she still goes to university, coming home a little earlier now, and drove to my neighbor’s house on her new pasola. Still, she said, she hardly goes out at night anymore. Here was a smart, driven, university student who refused to let depravity deprive her or her independence. She told me that if her attacker had seen her face, sweet and smiling, he wouldn’t have shot her. Either way, she was on her feet, with no visible limp. She lamented her cousin’s injury, and noted the difficulty of being a female on the road. When you fall off of a motorcycle…

The next day, I went a bit farther down the road to play dominos with some neighbors. It is one of my favorite places to be – community spirit, children running around, all sorts of people playing and watching under an enormous mango tree – and so I spend many an afternoon sheltered from the fierce Caribbean sun, whiling away these hours. At one point, a boy of about three wandered into the outdoor kitchen. His grandmother found him looking slightly suspicious, and he pointed to his nose. She looked up into it, and saw something inside of his nostril. She brought him outside and presented the situation to his mother, while the kid continued to stick his finger up into his nose. Another woman took him into his lap and held his head tight while someone else pinned down his arms. His mother almost instantly pulled out a bobby pin from her hair and put to work. At this point, the child began to scream one of those agony-ridden, high-pitched screams children have that uncanny ability to make. He squirmed and cried as the bobby pin scooped and scraped and came out with nothing. A few tense minutes passed, the women exchanged nervous glances, the mother poked and prodded, the kid wailed, I wondered if we’d have to leave the game I was winning and go to the hospital. A shriek from one of the women brought the boy’s nose back into focus – a bright yellow kernel of corn emerged, intact and soggy. Everyone sighed, the kid ceased his wailing, saw the kernel, and began crying again, and then the domino game continued. His mother gave him a light pop on the head and comforted him. All was good again in the world, minus my serious doubts about wanting children.

Celebrando el Cibao 2009

If you remember from last year, I helped organize a diversity and leadership conference for youth in my region of the DR. This year, I was a co-coordinator, and the conference was a big success. Thank you for all who helped make it so by donating online at the Peace Corps website.

This year, we held the conference at a center in a mountain valley by the River Yaque, where we were able to take the participants one afternoon. We were lucky enough to have representatives from the synagogue and mosque in the capital, as well as a Haitian immigration activist, speak to the youth. Fellow international volunteers from Korea visited our conference, and we held an “around-the-world” fair with music and displays from over 20 countries designed by Volunteers and their youth. We also created an activity for the youth to understand a little more about America through the lens of the Volunteers – since after all, we are representatives of America, we are something of a microcosm of American society.

Although the conference lasted just three days, we managed to pack in as much as possible. The conference is an opportunity for us to talk to our youth about topics rarely discussed in school, at home, or in society – the existence of minority religious and cultural communities, the treatment of those with disability and disease, and the entrenched web of money and privilege which these youth can see, but are implicitly left out of.

Cooking and Improving Lives

Just because I’m not an environment or health Volunteer doesn’t mean I can’t do evironment or health-related work. Which is why I am now in the middle of the biggest project of my Peace Corps service.
About a year ago, I floated the idea of a wood-burning stove-building project, one of the central themes of the environment sector. What most people in the campo cook on is called a fogón – three large stones or cinderblocks as three sides to a square, set upon a table. The fourth side is left open in which to put firewood. Above the stones/bricks usually sits a length of rebar to complete the square on which to sit a large pot. These fogones are usually situated in poorly ventilated outdoor kitchens, which can fill with smoke during cooking. The stoves that are built as part of the project have an interior area to insert the firewood so as to increase efficiency (meaning that the heat produced by the burning firewood does not escape into the air but is directed into the cooking pots); these stoves also use considerably less firewood. The stoves also include a key addition: a chimney. The smoke is pulled up through the chimney and let out into the air above the kitchen. Those cooking (almost always women) therefore do not have to worry about various smoke-related problems, such as lung and eye irritations. Of course, the more the family uses this stove, the less they use the stovetop, which many families have, and thus don’t have to purchase the cooking gas.
The stoves intrigued my community partners and neighbors. We wrote a grant proposal and six long months later I received a check for $124,875 Dominican pesos, or about $3658 through SPA, or Small Project Assistance, grant available to Peace Corps Volunteers. I received the check in May, and immediately began working on the project. I opened a bank account, spent time at the hardware store, and talked to families interested in participating. One of the points I stressed in this project was that the stove was not a handout – I required each family to pay RD$800 towards the project, which mostly went to the labor. The family also had to provide breakfast and lunch, as well as someone to help the stove-builders, as well as attend a stove use and maintenance meeting. Before beginning construction, I hired a woman who builds these stoves professionally to come to my community to teach my abañil (mason) how to make the stove. He now is an expert himself.

By my modest measures, the project is a success. Through today, I have built 18, and have eight more to go. There were many more families who wanted to participate than there were stoves I could build under my budget. People from surrounding campos, and even the pueblo, hear of the project and have come to see these fascinating stoves for themselves. It is always nice to hear people tell me that I will be remembered for bringing such a wonderful project to Las Aromas. Although this is nice, I never really wanted to be a construction volunteer – the stereotypical American or foreign aid worker dropping in, building something, and leaving. I won’t be remembered for courses I taught to the youth, or attitudes I might have changed, but because 26 homes will have three-feet-cubed cinderblock boxes in their homes on which the families boil dinner. Such is the nature of the Volunteer experience. Even if in ten years I am only remembered as the American who lived in a tiny village for two years and built some stoves, at least I know I helped a few women live healthier lives, which they could then better use to improve the lives of their children and families.

Working within the System

As I have mentioned in the past, one of the projects I have been working on is a water system, or aqueduct, for my village. There was once running water here for some houses, but as the numbers of users increase, us at the end of the line have suffered immensely. Also, when the local government came to “repave” (read: put a few more rocks in the dirt) the road a few years back, they tore up many a pipe. Needless to say, there is not running water anymore. So, last February, I began to work with a local NGO backed by an important public figure who, in my opinion, holds a strong desire to hold office in the future. As of now, he keeps busy by being a powerful force on the provincial level and in his Cabinet office. He also promised to back my project, especially relevant since he has taken an interest in Peace Corps Volunteers and it generally falls under his purview.

Well, 15 months later, we have a hard-earned well and not much else. If you remember, last August while I was in the States, some people from a governmental water agency came to drill the well but as they were to begin drilling the drill fell on a worker’s foot, severing it. They left pretty quickly and I never heard from them again.


In January, I finally got in touch with someone at another governmental water agency. I suppose the other one didn’t want to take up the job (although oddly, the foreman of the team that later showed up was the same man as the one last year). So in March, they showed up almost without warning (they called the night before to suggest that they would come the following day) with an absurdly rusted machine mounted on the back of a truck. Of course, the truck got stuck in a ditch the first night, and we had to call the mayor’s office to bring us another truck to tow it out. It took the team two weeks and two tries to build the 60-foot well. On the first try, the well exploded and caught fire, because of “gas” in the ground. I was suspicious, but I rarely suspend disbelief these days.

Through today, we have had no other progress in receiving a pump to actually use the water, let alone build a holding tank, or put in pipes. I must also stress that I am simplifying the story. Nearly every day for a year, I have made phone calls to these water agencies and the local NGO to get an update on progress or to ask various questions. On the rare occasions I get through to someone, the evasive answers I receive would be comical if not for their inanity. All I can do now is laugh at the situation. Building a well-based water system like this seems like it is done with relative frequency here and without much difficulty - or so I thought. Yet the lack of action (at least in my view) of the key contacts is frustrating. The water agency wanted to charge an outrageous fee to do surveying for the pipes that could only conceivably have been paid by political figure, and my community is caught in the middle. The politicization of the aqueduct has also posed difficulties. I do not want to and cannot be associated with any party or politician, but as I am using government resources and have the backing of the most visible local politician, this has proved almost impossible. Needless to say, it has been an exercise in patience and fortitude, and I have found myself out of shape.

Still, as they did end up building the well itself, I have hope. My neighbors like to say that hope is the last thing that you lose, and though my suspicions run deep, hope remains.

May it stay that way.

I have four months left and continue to be cautiously optimistic about the ability to begin construction on the system by the time I leave. Vamo’ a vei, as they say (“we’ll see” - in a rural Dominican accent).

I am different

I am Different

First, OK, sorry I don’t update this thing more often. I’ve been busy, or lazy, or both. I’ll try to write more – no guarantees.
Warning: I am going to extract a bit of hyperbole from this story, but bear with me. I think it is at least very telling.
The other I was walking around the nearby town (“town” meaning paved streets, market, ice cream shop) with two other volunteers, both female, in the late afternoon. We passed a gleaming new bar/liquor store. As I have written, the normal drinking establishments are of a low-key environment – big, open-air space, cheap beer, huge speakers. This place was none of that. It was small, sleek, fully enclosed, and highly air-conditioned (a rarity in any commercial establishment). It had a selection of alcohol seen only in big supermarkets in the major cities. It was clear that the location catered to a certain, specific clientele.
As we passed by the bar we noticed video cameras and some smartly dressed people milling about inside. A man wearing a brilliant red shirt opened the door and invited us inside. We were intrigued, so we accepted the invitation. We recognized a group of four guys who were clearly being fawned over as a merengue band (Sin Fronteras) whose posters were plastered up all over the town advertising an upcoming concert. A number of people came up to us, introduced themselves, and proffered free drinks (Ron Barceló – better than Brugal). We had apparently stumbled into a TV and radio interview of the band while also clearly being a promotion for the new bar. The only people inside the bar were with the media, the band, or the bar. Other people continued to pass by and were not invited inside. Sure, the three of us were dressed nicely for a meeting we had attended that day, so maybe that was part of is. But why where we let in and not others?
In the end we decided, only half-jokingly, that half the reason we were invited in was because we were clearly American (i.e., white), and most of the rest was because we were good-looking, but half of the attractiveness factor came from the fact that we were American and had a good female-male ratio. I know that if I had been walking around with friends from the campo, we would never have been invited inside. If I had been in the States in similar circumstances, I wouldn’t have been invited inside.
So why does it matter? It is a fun little story, a nice bit of adventure and excitement for us who struggle against apathy and disillusionment in our work. But we received acknowledgement there not because of what we do or even who we were, but what we looked like and what those appearances represented.
This is one of the two-faced coins aspects of the Peace Corps experience. Being American, we are inherently different, are treated as such (i.e., better), and become accustomed to such privileged treatment. But we also live nearly completely integrated into Dominican society. It is a difficult balancing act that we must always confront in our work and lifestyle as Volunteers.

Pico Duarte

The tallest mountain outside of the Rockies-Andes chain sits right here in the DR – Pico Duarte. At 3,087 meters, over 10,000 feet, Pico Duarte towers at the center of Hispaniola and the Cordillera Central, or central mountain range, of the DR and Haiti. Begging to be conquered, Pico Duarte has received intrepid PCV trekkers as long as we have been on the island. Climbing this mountain is requisite as one of those activities to be accomplished before close of service. Early spring is supposed to be, and usually is, a drier time of the year, and so four PCVs, a Stateside visitor and I took the bait and climbed Pico Duarte last weekend. We choose the shortest and most populous route, beginning at a small mountain valley village called La Ciénaga. There, we picked up our guides (a middle-aged man, who was recently a host father to an area PCV, and his 13-year-old son), mules (one pregnant) and provisions and set on our way.
Being not the especially outdoorsy type, I lacked the necessary tools for the hike. Luckily for me, my fellow hikers were more prepared, or at least thought that cold weather was possible here. And as it is really, really tall, Pico Duarte is cold. Really, quite cold. Such that I live in a sea level valley on a tropical island, I own here one sweatshirt and a jacket with holes that I have used only during hurricanes and a few times in December-January. So, having good and sensible friends, I was lent some sensibly warm clothing and sleeping gear.

The first day, we left in good spirits, as the trail starts off warm, wide and flat. By the time we stopped for serious calorie intake, however, the wind turned chilly, the sky gray, and my stomach rumbled. Hopped up on peanut butter, we set off again. The gray sky lowered itself over us, bringing stinging drizzle and ankle-deep mud. This was certainly the coldest I’d ever been in coutry. No matter. At 5 p.m. we arrived at the campsite, having climbed 1300 meters. Exhausted and freezing, we found that we were sharing a large camping lodge with eleven Norwegians who live in Cabarete and were studying physical education and an American couple on honeymoon who had met in the DR.

The next day, we set out early and with sun. The campsite sits only five kilometers away and 600 meters below the actual peak. We reached the summit by ten a.m. to a stunning view of the surrounding mountain range and imminent rainclouds. On the very top rose a bust of Duarte himself and a slightly tattered Dominican flag with a number of fading plaques below deeming it a place of import and proclaiming international friendship.


Sure enough, it was raining by the time we arrived back at the campsite. In the afternoon, a sort of international incident transpired between the Americans and Norwegians when one group apparently took firewood, a limited resource, from another group’s pile. Nasty glances ensued and each party went to bed on separate sides of the room.

The next morning, the Norwegians took their leave early as yours truly spent some quality time in the conveniently located bathroom (use purification tablets next time). We made it down the mountain by mid-afternoon in a soaking rain. Muddy, exhausted, and highly pleased with ourselves, our party of six finished hiking 2000 meters in altitude and 23 km in distance, each way, and with time to spare for a little celebratory Brugal.

Holidays

Before starting: I have a new place for my pictures on the Internet, on my Picasa site.
As I have written here before, holidays are very significant, and very common, in the DR. Holidays, regardless of origin, import, level of sacredness or impiousness, all tend to mean the same thing here – the kids are home from school, work of any kid grinds to a halt, and alcohol consumption increases, often exponentially. Equate them with Sundays, minus the whole church thing (usually). Since I like to put my own twist on things, last week I celebrated two holidays I enjoy that are celebrated by but a few people on this populated island: Purim and St. Patrick’s Day.
Purim, for those not in the know (or of the Tribe) is a Jewish holiday poetically simple in its founding – the Jews of Persia, in danger of being massacred by fiat of the king’s evil advisor, were saved by the recently chosen queen, herself Jewish, and her clever and sincere uncle. Jews across the world celebrate once again cheating death by the skin of their teeth (see: Hanukah, Passover) with a party that includes storytelling and general merriment. In the case of Santo Domingo, another Jewish Volunteer and I went to the new Jewish Chabad House, where we were among the small but functional international Dominican Jewish scene, speaking a confusing and yet comforting cacophony of Hebrew, Spanish and English. In addition to traditional Purim food, we were surprised to find that dinner consisted of, yes, Kosher Chinese food. Leave it to us to have Kosher Chinese for Purim in the DR. A good evening, indeed.

As for St, Patrick’s Day, well, that was a different story, but with a few similar themes. First, I have always found the similarities between the DR and Ireland compelling – Catholic and populous, they share a small island with another nation that differ in language, religion, culture, and history, and have been overrun by their neighbor. Sure, the DR has taken its just desserts and more out on Haiti, and Ireland is just recently raising its Celtic Tiger head, but still. Anyway, St, Patrick’s Day is celebrated by a select few here in the DR (although there were far more people at this party than at the one for Purim). In Cabarete, a crowded tourist beach town on the North Coast, a bar, aptly and certainly creatively named José O’Shay’s and very popular with Volunteers, hosts a raging St. Patrick’s Day party right on the beach. They have green giveaways (though, disappointingly, no green beer), a parade led by the Irish flag, Irish dancing, and of course bagpipes. Sure, you might say, bagpipes are Scottish; but on this side of the Atlantic, it’s all the same. Being the good cultural Ambassadors that we are, a number of us volunteers headed up to Cabarete to participate in the best, and as far as I know, only St. Patrick’s Day celelbration on the island. We were not disappointed. The beer flowed, painfully fake Irish brogues were bandied about, and we all enjoyed the day at a decidedly non-Irish coast.

Juan Pablo Duarte

A couple of weeks ago, after a hike up to the top of the tallest peak in the eastern half of northernmost mountain range in the DR (incidentally, in the pouring rain, which turned out to be a bad idea when I got sick after), I made my way into San Francisco de Macoris, the third-largest city in the DR. Famous mostly for having a lot of drug money and former US-based mid-level dealers running around, it is actually a pretty nice city, with modern conveniences like parks with wireless in which I would never sit outside with my computer open. It also has my favorite restaurant in the country with the best passion fruit (chinola) frozen margaritas I’ve ever had.

Anyway, I happened by San Francisco de Macoris on January 25, or Día de Duarte. Duarte is like Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, FDR, MLK, and Michael Jackson all rolled into one. That big. San Francisco also happens to be the seat of Duarte Province. Duarte Day, as I have pointed out on other occasions, is like many other Dominican holidays, in which principle activities include not going to work, not going to school, and drinking or at the least, hours spent at the colmado. I managed to arrive in the city just in time to see that the President was speaking, on what a great man Duarte was. His inspirational oratory was followed by an equally inspired parade. Various parts of the Dominican armed forces marched by, followed by some bands, flag-waving children, firefighters, teachers, more bands, the local professional baseball team (Giants) that had lost the Dominican version of the World Series the previous evening, guys on stilts, and a series of tableaus of Duarte’s life in which solitary guys painted in all white stood on banner-strewn floats pushed by orange-clad part-time national guardsmen. Quite a sight.

More on Duarte. He was one of the three “founding fathers” who fought against the Spanish in the war of independence in 1844 (Note that this is 20+ years after most of Latin America achieved its independence from Spain. These guys were a little slow on the ball). The other two are named Sánchez and Mella, and are all but forgotten. Sure, they pop up every so often, but it is Duarte who takes the cake. Duarte appears everywhere – the one real highway is called Duarte, as are the main streets and central parks and plazas in most cities. Duarte generously lends his name to schools, hospitals, community groups, and many other public spaces and buildings. Like many other Dominicans, Duarte even made it to New York – there is a thirteen-foot statue in his likeness towers on Canal Street. Moral of the story: Duarte is a big deal.
One of the pictures is of the professional baseball team in town (called the Giants) who marched in the parade after losing the completely lopsided and controversy-laden Dominican version of the World Series. No matter, they were still well-received. The other is of firefighters with sledgehammers (?), whom I have never seen in action in my time in country.

My house

I took some pictures of my house to share. The one above is my kitchen. The gas oven is open on the far table. The big grey bucket is where I keep my water, which I collect outside in the smaller buckets since there is no running water here. You may see numerous tupperware-type things, this is for keeping out critters, of which I have many. This is the a look at the back of my house, where I place buckets to catch rainwater from the poorly constructer gutters. During the dry season, I either get water from a questionable creek or buy it from a guy who sells it in barrels from the back of his pickup.

Here is my living room (sala). I am standing in my front door, straight ahead is the kitchen and then my backyard. To the left there is a door, not really visible, to my bedroom. I have 4 plastic and very comfortable chairs here, as well as my bike and the table I use to work on. I didn't build it, but I did paint all of the inside and the windows (called Persianas).
This is my bedroom, taken from the doorway to the living room, with mosquito net up over the bed. It looks kind of bare, which is true, but I do have a table with books and other random stuff on it against the wall to the left. I hang my clothes on a rod to the right, not visible here.
This is the last room in the house, the other bedroom. The door to the left is to my bedroom; the picture is taken from the door to the kitchen. As you can see, the roof is really low, so it gets very hot in this part of the house. I think there used to be some (non-poisonous) tarantulas living under the floor here, but with my honed machete skills I believe that I have taken care of this problem.This is the view from my back door, with the latrine visible on the left.
Lastly, the view from my front door with the road. Don't worry, I do have neighbors, one to my left and another across the street a few yards down to the right.