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.

Baseball

We went to a baseball game last week. They love baseball here. We went to a game in a city called San Francisco de Macoris, whose baseball team is called, get this, The Giants (Gigantes). They were playing one of the two teams from the capital called Leones de Escogido (Lions of the chosen one. I don't get it either). The other teams are the Aguilas/Eagles, of Santiago (my team), the Toros/Bulls (formerly known as the Azucareros, or Sugar farmers. Good name change) of La Romana, the other capital team called Tigres/Tigers de Licey (the city where the team used to be), and the Estrellas/Stars of San Pedro de Macoris.
Baseball here is great. The games are insane. After the Aguilas won last year, the street party in Samana, the city I was in at the time, was the biggest I have ever seen. People say that baseball is the DR's actual religion. I beg to differ, but I would say it is pretty close.

Feliz Navidad

Merry Christmas! What? It’s not Christmas today, you say? Well, it is here. Sort of. This is an unofficial tally, but I have gathered that Christmas runs from about December 1 to January 15, slightly more than the twelve days that we pretend that Christmas lasts in America (turtle doves?). These data figures come from indirect and direct observation, such as when my neighbor and the Brugal commercial tell me that “ya llegó la navidad.” Also, it has been raining here nonstop for over month, meaning that it is winter and thus Christmas. Rain, like magic, removes the average person from even remote responsibility for anything. Don’t leave your house: you might get wet. Given that the mode of transportation here is the motorcycle, this is likely. Still, a lost two months of productivity may make the economic situation here slightly more understandable. At least now it isn’t 100 degrees at noon and I only have to go to the buckets under the gutter to collect water, not to the river.

Back to Christmas. Sure, we all know that Christmas is December 25. They don’t even do that here. In the DR, the most important day is the 24th, which they call “noche buena,” or, good night. (To actually say “good night,” like to your roommate when you are going to bed, is “buenas noches.” Here, it is also used as a greeting when it is dark, like “good evening.”) The Good Night begins especially early, something around 9AM. By then, the pig is well on its way to being sufficienltly slaughtered and roasted on an open fire (something like chestnuts, but more hairy and with someone higher protein content). This means that it is time to drink, like most Dominican holidays (recall Corpus Christi day, Election Day, Patron Saint’s Day, etc.)

Why, then, does Christmas start the first of December? From the middle of November, I noticed a serious slowdown of work. By the beginning of this month, no one was showing up to meetings. Sure, some people still went to the pueblo to their jobs, but for those whose employment or other duties generally stay in the campo, its been over for awhile. It isn’t like anyone set a rule, or explicitly states that the meetings are cancelled, just no one shows. I noticed a general up tick in early and often attendance at the colmado for drinking/domino sessions.

Interestingly, most Dominicans receive “doble sueldo,” or double the salary, for December. This is akin to the holiday bonus, but is the rule rather than the exception. It has no basis in merit or accomplishments, it is just twice as much as is normally received. This means you can afford that pig to roast and the nifty bottle of white rum that fits in your pocket. Mmm. Warm.

Of course, New Years’ takes up a couple weeks, and then on January 6 falls Three Kings’ Day (look at all these fun things I learn about Catholicism being here), which is the day when presents are traditionally given, as opposed to Christmas itself. Then, at least another week or two is needed for some well-deserved recuperation after all those festivities. Soon enough, it is February, it has stopped raining, it is hot again, and Lent is upon us. The world begins to spin again.

Don't Worry, I Play a Doctor in the OR

In early November, I participated in one of the most highly coveted Peace Corps activities: the Medical Mission. Like Peace Corps gold. It works like this: a group of doctors, nurses and staff from an area (say, Kansas City) hospital or university come to perform a series of medical services here in the DR. A select group of Volunteers, then, are chosen to help the medical team in translation and other things. Since most of these services are performed on the poor, we are especially valuable since we live in those marginalized communities targeted by the missions, meaning that we better understand the rural accent and culture than someone who may have studied Spanish in say, Spain.

Why are med missions so great? We Volunteers get to travel to a nice medical center for a week (read: AC and decent food), have everything paid for, and even get taken out by the generous doctors if they are feeling kind. Plus, we are working. A win-win for sure.

The Med Mission I participated in was very specific – hernia surgeries. For a week, these doctors and nurses, with the invaluable help of the PCV, performed eight to ten hernia operations a day in each of the three operating rooms. It was fascinating. For anyone who has not been in an operating room, do it. Its cool. Scrubs are really comfortable, and all of that shiny medical equipment I’m not allowed to touch for fear I was going to contaminate them was mesmerizing.

Well, maybe I thought I was going to lose my boiled plantain breakfast the first day. After that, I got over the spurting blood (OK so that only happened once), the smell of burning skin (some sort of hot knife for cutting), and massive, and often open, testicles. Remember, hernias? These things range from kind of to fairly to very nasty, and our rural farmer friends lack basic medical care, so they go untreated for, well, a while. The center here in the DR has volunteers who go out into the rural areas to look for prospective patients, and then bring them in for operations. Needless to say, I got the opportunity to witness some things not often seen by anyone in the states.

Our everyday work here can be daunting and maddeningly slow. Seeing actual results is rare and fleeting. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been locked in a padded cell with no padding. Participating in the med mission is refreshing. We are able to see how our presence is appreciated. We are also able to fulfill one of Peace Corps 3 main goals: to bring home what it is that we do here as PCVs. The medical staff that gives up their vacation time and a week of pay gets to see the life of a PCV, and bring home stories of the crazy Volunteers that they have met. It is also an important reminder for us what it is that is going on at home – the economic crisis, the election (Republicans can be good people, too!), and the daily adventure of a suburban parent. Some of these things are as foreign to us as the rural villages in which we live to the doctors and nurses. Así es.

I’ve tried to post a few pictures here. Enjoy.