Here are some photos from our first week of production on the telenovela Me Toca a Mi (It's my turn). For more details about this incredible project, see the post below!

Below, Arya, Amanda, and Katie prepare for Day 1 of Acting Camp:

PCVs and students discussing character development:

Improv games:

The leads:

Abbey Road or Avenida Málaga?

Is Carolina PREGANT?!

We got creative with production equipment:

Thank goodness for the experts: Helen, Elisa, and Alanna!

Katie as Chief Stylist and Art Department:

The whole gang:

Receiving superlatives at the wrap-party (in PC, you get to have these whenever you want, even if you've only wrapped one tenth of the work!):

I have the best job:

While Episode 1 is currently being edited, you can check out the TEASER here!

Here's an article I wrote about the telenovela(!) for the upcoming issue of the Gringo Grita, PCDR's volunteer magazine. It's basically a rehashing of the May post, but with more details about this amazing, incredible, overwhelming project.

Risky Business: The Little Telenovela That Could

Part 1

Most people consider joining the Peace Corps a risky move. As volunteers, we uproot ourselves from what we know – family and friends, colleges and jobs, comforts and conveniences – to make Otherness and the Unknown our daily bread. When we arrive in country, many of us look to the horizon and imagine it slanting upwards, zigzagging around a million cultural, professional, and personal barriers that we’ll eventually have to overcome.

For a long time, though, my service didn’t make me feel much like Evil Knieval or a tightrope walker. As an ICT volunteer, I’ve divided my time between smaller projects like teaching classes, coordinating clubs, and hassling government agencies to update my computer lab. Outside work, I read, watch American TV on my laptop, and bum meals off my neighbors. All in all, life here has been meaningful and good. But not necessarily risky in the way that I imagined.

That’s not to say that I don’t find the Peace Corps challenging, exciting, and, occasionally, frustrating. It’s undoubtedly all of the above. The fact remains, however, that I’ve never really had a flagship project: something like an aqueduct, library, or latrines that defined my work and truly tested my mettle.

Until now.

Some time ago, fellow ICT volunteer Miguel Galhouse had the inspired idea of making our own Peace Corps telenovela to complement the Escojo Mi Vida curriculum. Take a moment to let the brilliance sink in. The project would turn the standard soap opera format on its head, shifting the focus from shameless hedonism and sensationalized characters to healthy decision-making and everyday Dominican teens. Each episode in the series would correspond to a lesson in the manual, highlighting the relevant issues and underscoring important values and lessons. Moreover, the marriage of technology and education would allow youth to learn, embody, and share these lessons by simultaneously promoting deeper engagement in the Escojo material and its creative application in community outreach.

Slowly, more people got involved and the outline of the novela began to crystallize. While a creative team initiated the ongoing process of writing, translating, and editing the screenplay, the producers pitched the idea to higher-ups and searched for funding. We were working hard and having fun, but somehow the project seemed imaginary and distant: removed from the quotidian ups and downs of Peace Corps life.

Finally, it was time to pick our filming site. We wanted a scenic small town, preferably in the Santiago area. We needed supportive local authorities, friendly community members, and, most importantly, a lot of talented, dedicated kids. One fateful day, I got a phone call from Miguel asking me if I thought my own site, Jánico, would be suitable and willing. I said, “HECK YES!” and starting writing a grant that very afternoon.

After about a week of being thrilled, something happened. I became terrified. I couldn’t explain it, but thinking about the project gave me a lump in my throat. After investing so much time and effort alongside so many wonderful volunteers and community members, why was I suddenly making myself sick with apprehension? How could taking a step forward be so paralyzing?

What happened, I’ve come to realize, is that the telenovela became real. It went from being a pipedream to a possibility: one that I really believed in and wanted to help make a reality. But it felt so big and risky. For the first time in my service, I looked for the horizon and didn’t find it; I couldn’t see exactly where we were going or what would be required of us along the way. We could invest every ounce of our collective brains, brawns, and bravery into the project and still come up short. We could fail.

If it weren’t for the other members of our incredible production team, I might have gone on steeping myself in doubt and inaction. Thankfully, the telenovela is a true group effort, and my team members repeatedly reminded me that we have to define success on our own terms and concentrate on each day as it comes. By words and example, they showed me that this project is fundamentally about working with youth, having fun, and growing as individuals.

This past August, after a tremendous amount of preparation – securing grant money, attending countless meetings, resolving conceptual and logistical conflicts, writing and rewriting scripts, casting and preparing youth, scouting locations, creating a schedule, and coordinating a million other details large and small – no fewer than nine PCVs traveled to Jánico, committing themselves to a week of sleeping on the floor, youth-wrangling, and hard work in the hot sun. We spent our first three days running a camp for the 17 incredible teen actors and actresses selected to participate in the project. In addition to attending sessions on character development, leadership, and activism through art, students rehearsed their scenes and worked at becoming a cohesive team.

We dedicated the rest of the week to filming the first of ten episodes in the series. With the help of a few production-savvy crewmembers, broomsticks became boom mics and posterboard sheathed in aluminum served as a bounce board. PCVs assumed pre-assigned production roles and filled in whenever new needs arose. Our student actors defied the laws of nature, consistently showing up on time and with positive attitudes (even in the rain!). While production was not flawless, we were able to focus on communication and having fun. It paid off, and the week was an incredible learning experience for everyone involved.

The telenovela is nowhere near finished, and we will undoubtedly face many more challenges and frustrations along the road to its completion. But it’s worth it. Risk is a double-edged sword that opens us up to failure and success. The pun is intended; taking a genuine risk can feel like cutting a painful, ragged line right through our very selves. It threatens to reveal all our carefully guarded inadequacies and leave our guts bared for all to see. Being part of a big, overwhelming, amazing project like the telenovela has forced me to own up to it all: the certainty of my own limitations, the inevitability of judgment, and the possibility of failure.

On the other side of the cutting line, however, doing so has paradoxically restored my own sense of ability and agency. Our team of volunteers, PC staff, production experts, and youth is opening itself up to all sorts of risks and accepting – enjoying – the challenge. Being Peace Corps Volunteers far away from so much that we know and love, we’re called to know and love things that are new and oftentimes hard to grasp. We’re called to make ourselves transparent and vulnerable: to risk letting ourselves and other people down. But that also means that we’re called to risk growth and success: to have faith that we can work diligently with the people around us to accomplish something truly great, si Dios quiere.

After spending the better part of June reading and watching (and re-watching and re-watching...) Glee on my laptop, July felt like a breath of fresh air. Which is ironic, because July was a humid mess.

Anyway, my awesome friend Sara from study abroad in Chile came to visit. First stop on our itinerary was to Sarah’s (note the h!) site: a tiny campo outside San Francisco de Macorís. Sara and Sarah are both so wonderful that they pulled me right out of my June funk. We baked pizza and made chinola jam (that’s PASSION FRUIT JAM, people!) and sang more Patty Griffin songs.

Sarah's house out in the campo-campo!

Fixing dinner:

Next we headed to El Limón on the Samaná peninsula, home of the amazing Stephanie Garry. Samaná is truly one of the most beautiful parts of the country, and Stephanie couldn’t be a more kind and gracious hostess. We spent a day enjoying the company of several other PCVs, visiting the gorgeous El Limón waterfall, and humiliating ourselves while dancing to Michael Jackson at the local discoteca. The hike to the cascada:

Sarah at the falls:

Bañar-ing ourselves:

Following El Limón, we headed out to the tip of the peninsula to camp at remote Playa Frontón. Frontón is a popular destination for PCVs, most likely because it’s beautiful but also sort of waywardly and secluded. After an hour on a guagua, we hired motorcycles to take us another 40 minutes or so down a stunning dirt road overhung by jagged crags and palm trees. From there, we hiked for an hour y pico through beachside jungle on a scenic trail that stank like rotten mangoes, listening to unseen waves crashing against sheer cliffs.

Finally, we arrived!

Our last stop in Samaná was Playa Las Galeras, where PCVs were meeting up to celebrate the 4th of July. We spent a day at incomparable Playa Rincón and a night dancing bachata and merengue at a local club. As one might imagine, everything culminated in a raging American-style house party. But PCVs still took time to honor their country. At one point, everyone dropped their drunken revelry and joined together to sing what I consider to be one of the most heartfelt renderings of the national anthem I’ve ever heard. Hands over hearts, voices belting, and wistful pride in their eyes, it was clear that PCVs absolutely adore Nueba Yol (that’s Dominican for America). But seriously, it was a moment.

We made a stop in Imbert, Puerto Plata, home of Amazing Amanda, to hit the 27 charcos (waterfalls you climb up and then jump down!) before heading back to Jánico for rest and homemade doña food. It was an awesome trip!

After Sara left, I got down to business planning for the telenovela. That’s right: a PC-produced Spanish soap opera is being filmed right here in mi querido Jánico!!! But it deserves a post all it’s own. So stay tuned.

And admit it…that was a good update! All. Caught. Up.

(Okei...not really. I'm on it though!)

Looking back, I think to myself, “You should have known.” See, I had high hopes for June. I planned to keep my Escojo group going, start a computer club, organize a teacher training, and work on some big sector- and PC-wide initiatives. But classes and testing dragged on and on, and then teachers couldn’t attend any of the training times, and the lab was in constant use for government data-entry. Moreover, it rained and rained and rained. Blah blah blah. It’s standard Peace Corps fare. But as that miasma of scheduling conflicts, inopportune weather, and inactivity settled in, so did the inevitable ennui. I lost momentum and motivation and started to get that bottomless, worthless, empty feeling. Call it loneliness or listlessness. It made me feel lazy. Thank goodness for books and file sharing. And GRACIAS A DIOS for Wally. But really, something that I’ve learned about myself in the Peace Corps, especially during times like this past June, is that I’m not really a lazy person. In college, my reluctance to work developed from a nagging resistance every time I had to stay late at the library into a crippling mental boulder that stood in the way of getting anything done. I made myself sick while writing my thesis, treating each word on the page like a splinter under my fingernail. Later, I got a great job, but continued to drag my feet and failed at truly applying myself in a way that best reflected care and ability. For a long time, I felt like the big obstacle was my own stinking sloth. Of course that’s part of it. And once you slow yourself down, inertia is hard to overcome. But I’ve gradually come to realize that the core of my resistance isn’t really laziness, and it’s definitely not apathy. It’s plain old fear. Fear of failure. Fear of judgment. Fear of where the cutting line falls between my own ability and inability. And guess which side is scarier? Ability, of course! It’s terrifying to glimpse what we might accomplish – and what may be required of us along the way – if we really set out with a vision and a mission. Simple and stupid and obvious, but true and crippling all the same. Well, Peace Corps throws failure right in your face. You fail. Foreign languages aren’t mastered at breakneck speed. Projects don’t work out. Committees fall apart. Whatever it is you apply yourself to here has a high probability of turning out different than you want it to. For me, it has been a daily struggle. More than that, though, it’s been a tremendous, unimaginable relief. As the months pass and I see this reality more clearly, I have started to accept my weaknesses and imperfections, and, remarkably, to let myself off the hook. Paradoxically, opening up to the possibilities of failure and judgment – to the certainty of my own limitations – has given me back my voice and restored my agency. It’s like someone hit a release valve and the tremendous pressure and anxiety I created in my own skin has begun to dissipate, leaving room for creativity, risk-taking, and genuine learning. I have never felt so comfortable with myself or assured of my own capacity. Most importantly, I’ve never been as contented in my work. I think the correct word to describe the process would be revelation. Obviously, this is an ongoing struggle. I’m learning about redefining failure: asking myself, “on whose terms?” Figuring out how to extend the same patience and forgiveness I’m beginning to offer myself to others. Remembering that doing isn’t being (thanks again, Thomas Merton) and that I can’t identify myself solely through my actions. I still occasionally bristle and feel afraid when I need to do something big and important (or something small and seemingly insignificant). But this does not change that my PC experience has empowered me in the strongest sense of the word; the heavy, terrified feeling I get in my gut every time I face that boulder has been tempered and even transformed by courage and exhilaration. I see my flaws and limitations more clearly than ever, but I also see my strength and my gifts. And I want to use them faithfully and joyfully.

May was a big month. My classes ended and I made several trips down to the capitol for official PC events. First off, swearing in of new volunteers and the All-Volunteer Conference.

Stacie, Alanna, and me at Swearing In:

Squished in a carro with Lindsey and Tamara:

ICT PCV's share advice and experience with new volunteers:

To celebrate the coming-together of all volunteers nationwide, we threw a PC prom. And like any proper prom, we had an amazing theme and photo-op backdrop.

Me and Katie:

Later on in the month, my sector completed our 1-year In-Service-Training (IST). The conference actually proved to be incredibly useful and a lot of fun. We all shared our struggles and successes and got to debrief about everything with one another.

Good old-fashioned compartir-ing between my beloved education volunteers:

Hello everyone!

Well, I will not be winning any “Most Prolific Blogger” awards anytime soon. But something important I’ve learned here in the Dominican Republic is the importance of ketchup. Whether on your ham and cheese sandwich, pizza empanada, or even as a stand-in for spaghetti sauce, ketchup (or catchu, as we say ‘round these parts) makes everything better. Thus, for your digital digestion, I submit a big, fat, high-fructose corn syrup-laden helping of ketchup! The second semester of the school year kept me pretty busy. I continued with my computer and English classes and finally started my Escojo Mi Vida youth group. I helped some other education PCVs to develop a manual for a computer youth club, and we also made progress on the telenovela project (SO much more to come on that shortly!). Also, I got to host two wonderful trainees during their first weeks in the country. I guess I finally earned PC upper-class status!Computer class:

English:Escojo kidsAdam and Sabrina. One upon a time, they were trainees. Now they're well on their way to sophomore status! Beyond the basics in my site, I participated in the annual Bola Race. What’s a bola, you ask?! Why, a FREE RIDE. Aside from being a very important way PCVs get around, bolas are a ton of fun. They’re practical, economical, and make you feel extremely accomplished whenever you get one. Each year, Peace Corps Volunteers (unofficially) divide into small race teams, which then gather together in a specific location. Then teams compete by seeing who can hitchhike to another specific location, which always happens to be a stunning beach, the fastest. Oh, and did I mention that you dress up in costume? My partner Arya and I went as a sailor and his pregnant wife: Other volunteers elected to go as doctors, a priest and a nun, conservationists, Taínos (Hispañola’s long-gone indigenous population), clowns, Eurotrash, and robots. While my team did not win, we did eventually make it to our intended destination of Bayahibe. I also visited my friend Tamara’s site, where I got to celebrate part of holy week with fella (doesn’t that seem like it should be the feminine of fellow?) PCVs Sarah, Lindsey, and Amanda. We made tortillas and played with Tamara’s dogs and sang Patty Griffin. Magical.

It's 4:17 on a Thursday. I'm 3/4 through my computer class when a boy from my high school plants himself in the doorframe of the computer lab. 15 minutes pass. He stands. I go on explaining about slide templates and animations in Powerpoint. Finally, as the class settles down to create their masterpieces, he approaches...

Student: Profe! I'm here!

Me: Oh! Ummm...hi.

Student continues to stand and look expectantly.

Student: I'm here!

Me: Right, but here for what?

Student: I'm going to take your English class!

Me: Well, uh, this is computer class. I don't have English on Thursdays.

Student: But I want English.

Me: Okay. This is computers!

Student: When is English?

Me: It's Mondays and Wednesdays, but did you know that the class started almost 2 months ago?

Student: Yeah, but I just decided to take the class.

Me: Unfortunately, the class is closed since there are only a few weeks left in it.

Student: I can't sign up?!

Me: No. Sorry.

Student: Can I check my Myspace while I'm here?

Me: Go for it!

Here are some shots from the week in Jimani. First, a view of the mountains surrounding the hospital facilities. There were approximately 60 patients when my cohort got the hospital, but there were apparently hundreds more immediately after the quake. Most stayed in tents due to lack of space, but many patients, family members, and translators preferred it because they were afraid to sleep inside:

Another tent and the outhouses. Patients generally took public sponge baths in their beds, while family members bathed behind the bathrooms. During our time there, all patients were transported back to various facilities on the Hatian side of the border. Some were physically and emotionally ready to go, others were not:

Stelsie! The adorable daughter of Valentin, a translator (he spoke Creole, French, Spanish, and English...and is teaching them all to this little girl) and minister who led worship services for patients and aid workers each night:

Valentin and Luke, the amazing 23-year-old phenom who was practically running the whole clinic:

Me and Charles:

Jeffly and Stanley, two of our amazing Creole translators:

Amanda and Manuela. This made many nurses very nervous:

Me and Roody. Roody spent a huge part of his day studying English and trying to teach us Creole. His smile could melt the Arctic:

Ernst and his mother (see the post below for their story):

Keeping you all in my heart!

I had planned to sit down for several hours on this rainy Sunday to share about my recent experience in Jimani (He-man-ee...not Jumanji, although it's almost as intense), a small Dominican border-town where I got to spend a week volunteering in a hospital for Hatian earthquake victims. Then I realized that I've got classes to plan and American friends on the way. And my dog just rolled around in green poo. So my time is more limited than I thought. This post is therefore coming to you direct from my journal and from a letter I wrote to a friend. I am, like most of the volunteers privileged enough to spend time in Jimani or other hospitals since the quake, still processing all that I saw and felt, but I hope I can convey at least in part how deeply this experienced affected, devastated, and inspired me.

---

I celebrated a year in country yesterday. So strange, especially since I went down to Santo Domingo for the day to meet with the new group of trainees that just arrived in country. They seem great -- excited and pretty scared -- just like we were.

Anyway, the real reason I broke out my journal so early in the morning is to talk about Jimani. I finally got the chance to travel down south to the border to help earthquake victims in a small American NGO-run hospital. The experience was just...amazing. And terrible. I don't even really want to write about it. I want to put it off until I can make more sense of it. But I don't think that will ever happen, so here goes.

My official job for the week was to take care of the Creole translators: get their food, thank them, encourage them, listen to them, advocate for them. Most had spent the last 6 weeks assisting doctors, nurses, and other aid workers communicate with patients for no pay and, in many cases, very little respect. Amanda and Ben, the other two volunteers who came along for the week, were in charge of updating patient records and food distribution, respectively. Beyond our basic duties, we ended up acting as negotiators, translators, waterboys/girls, go-fors, X-ray technicians, organizers of medical supplies, brute strength laborers, singers of hymns, and much more. We stayed pretty busy, but also had plenty of time to get to know patients and other aid workers.

As Peace Corps Volunteers, the three of us often found ourselves playing cultural interpreters. The hospital felt like it sat directly upon it's own fault lines where racial, ethnic, and religious differences fell in constant tension with one another. Many Americans and other foreigners arrived, picked up on the pre-existing conflict between Dominicans and Hatians, and allowed themselves to be drawn into it. Many decided that they didn't like Dominicans or the Dominican Republic. The racism and discrimination against Hatians that I have occasionally witnessed here pisses me off, but I also have a year's worth of wonderful experiences in the DR that have shown me that Dominicans are extremely kind and generous. Furthermore, being prejudiced against someone else for being prejudiced is just exacerbating the problem. Hate + Hate = (guess!). I realized what a blessing it is to actually get to share your life with people from another country and culture for an extended period of time.

That's a funny thing about travel and exposure to other places; it can make you more worldly and compassionate, but it can just as easily (perhaps more easily) create or reinforce negative stereotypes. It can make you more proud of where you're from, but it can also make you more xenophobic. Real understanding and intercultural friendship is hard work that involves patience and intention. For me, it still requires a constant suppression of my own highly-acute sense of self-righteousness and an encouragement of my sense of humor. We have to reserve judgement and even let people off the hook sometimes. I'm so bad at it, but this experience has forced me to examine myself and others in a way I never have before. It's like a hall of mirrors where you can see yourself from all these new angles, and some of them are not pretty. But you work on it. People -- their lives and beliefs, histories and behaviors -- are just too complicated and important to dismiss on first or even twentieth impressions.

Anyway, aside from the working part of the experience, I got to know some of the incredible survivors of this tragedy. Over 300,000 died in the quake. Who knows how many more are currently recovering from injuries? But in a small country like Haiti, everyone is a survivor. Everyone lost someone and all have a story to tell. As we got to know translators and patients and their family members, they began to share these stories. Some got told through tears and some even got told through laughter. It always seemed like it was painful and cathartic and hopeful for them all at once. Obviously, it hurt unimaginably to remember, and it was maybe purifying and cleansing at the same time to be able to connect and empty themselves of the pain. And God knows how, but they seemed hopeful and thankful too.

One woman's story really just gutted me. She started, "Before the quake, I never knew that God was good." Then she went on to tell about leaving her house and 4 children to go shopping on the day it happened. The earthquake hit, and as she worked her way back home, people repeatedly told her that her house had collapsed and that she shouldn't return. She went anyway, but couldn't move the rubble alone. Three days passed, and she eventually found a team of rescue workers who helped her dig. She had lost all hope, but then heard someone calling out "Mom!" "That was Ernst," she said, and pointed to her sweet, rail-thin adolescent son in the hospital bed next to where she was sitting. And then she just sobbed, eyes closed and mouth open, for the three days he spent buried there with his siblings that didn't survive, and for the day she'd have to go back to Port-au-Prince and face it all. And God is good?

This story made me simultaneously deeply reverent and deeply angry at God. Maybe for the first time in my life. So angry I wanted to punch God in the face. I know that the Pat Robertson comments were made forever ago, and that they have probably been dissected and defended and refuted millions of times over, but I haven't participated in that dialogue. As much as I wanted to deny it (and punch Pat Robertson in the face), what he said about divine punishment is biblical. And the more I thought about it, the more I got pissed off that the God I love and believe in could be that way. My friend Amanda mentioned that she doesn't necessarily believe God still acts and punishes through natural disasters like in the Old Testament, and reminded me that many things have changed since Jesus´death. All that is well and good, but I still felt completely unsettled and confused. I don´t know how blessings and hellfire get doled out, but I see very clearly how little I deserve all that I have and how little those kids like Ernst deserved the retribution and suffering of that earthquake. I spent a long time trying to pick this apart and put it back together in a way that I could make sense of and defend, but I realized that I might be at it forever. Besides, there are a lot of people who know more about the Bible and who can express themselves far more eloquently than me, so why bother?

Then I remembered one verse that gave me maybe the only hope and consolation I can have about this: ¨Be still and know that I am God.¨ It´s not my job (or within my ability) to know the mind of God. I will never understand how this stuff works. It´s also not my or anyone else's job to point fingers at the babies who died and suffered in this tragedy, or to their ancestors who may or may not have sold their souls hundreds of years ago. Pointing fingers is easy. Extending a hand and opening your heart is infinitely harder, and therein lies the real work of God. Not the destruction or punishment, but the redemptive powers of love and mercy and hope enacted and embodied by people. That´s the place where God calls us to be instruments and co-creators. So many patients and aid workers there in Jimani were examples to me not just of preaching faith, but of actually living it. I felt deeply and profoundly humbled -- crushed even -- that I might be so enlightened by the suffering and brokenness of others. So I´m thinking that the will of God may just be to be broken alongside them so that divine grace can work its way through all this mess and give us peace and strength together.

On this subject, the Catholic theologian Thomas Merton has some wonderful insights:

But every expression of the will of God is in some sense a ¨word¨of God and therefore a ¨seed¨of new life.

In all the situations of life the ¨will of God¨comes to us not merely as an external dictate of impersonal law but above all as an interior invitation of personal love. Too often the conventional conception of ¨God´s will¨as a sphinx-like and arbitrary force bearing down upon us with implacable hostility, leads men to lose faith in a God they cannot find it possible to love.

Our idea of God tells us more about ourselves than about Him. We must learn to realize that the love of God seeks us in every situation, and seeks our good.

If in all things I consider only the heat and the cold, the food or the hunger, the sickness or labor, the beauty or pleasure, the success and failure or the material good or evil my works have won for my own will, I will find only emptiness and not happiness. I shall not be fed, I shall not be full. For my food is the will of Him Who made me and Who made all things in order to give Himself to me through them.

But in all that happens, my one desire and my one joy should be to know: Here is the thing that God has willed for me. In this His love is found, and in accepting this I can give back His love to Him and give myself with it to Him. For in giving myself I shall find Him and He is life everlasting. And by accepting all things from Him I receive His joy into my soul, not because things are what they are but because God is Who He is, and His love has willed my joy in them all.

To me, all this says that we are meant to love and seek God in all things -- blessings and disasters and boring-ass nothing days -- and that in return God will continue to reveal Godself to us and draw us into the process of co-creation according to "truth, justice, mercy, and love."

I'm sorry to have rambled on so endlessly. Thank you for reading, and thank you for supporting me with your friendship and love! And please continue to keep Haiti in your prayers and good works.

Jean

Dominicans generally don't celebrate Halloween. Unless, of course, a Peace Corps Volunteer lives in their town. In that case, they will be forced to celebrate at multiple parties, where said volunteer will subject them to verbal flagellation for not dressing up. Just a warning...these pictures are full of paranormal activity, which really screwed with the lighting. Not my fault.

First come the parties I threw for my English classes. Here, Yamile and I are terrorized by a hobo ghost!

TIGUERE! It's terrifying, I know. Here she is getting ready to tirar un piropo:

The whole crew...

Princesses...

Vaquera:

Some students even brought their adorable babies:

Me too! (PS...yes...I went as a tourist. You can't see my money belt right now, but I'm rockin' it.)

Wally got inappropriately drunk somehow (smuggled in ron?!) and dressed as a plastic bag:

The kiddies in my barrio:

Freddie, my beloved German volunteer (more on her later) went as a transvestite, I think. There's no other explanation. While she looks slightly, errr, indeseable here, Freddie is a superbabe. She is even more rubia than me, meaning people regularly approach me in the street to tell me that she's prettier. At least she's drawing some of my tiguere fire.

Yami, bobbing for apples:

*Cackle, cackele* "Here little children...put your hands in this bowl of eyeballs!!!" *Cackle*

Belatedly,

It's been a while. Instead of doing the organization thing and updating sequentially (or even thematically), I will be updating according to nothing whatsoever! So brace yourselves for an aguacero of photos and stories from the last several months!

Let's kick things off where we left them off...with my baby love AKA snuggle munchkin AKA Wally Ollie Doodle. This 20-second clip effectively encapsulates the month of September:

For your viewing pleasure, here are some shots of my new baby dog Wally. It's pretty amazing that I haven't posted anything about him yet, because he is the light of my life. I let him sleep inside and I buy him food and take him for walks on a leash...my town is convinced that I am insane.

This was my shoe:

Our first meeting...soulmates...

Looking angelic:

Hanging out with his big brother Obie (hijo de Amanda) and some muchachas in Imbert:

I wake up to this little face and these daggar claws between 5:45 and 6 each morning. This is why my mosquitero is now my perroquitero:

So…it was a rough morning. My friend Amanda visited Janico this weekend to help me get my computer lab in order. Thanks Amanda! We ran into some rather large problems and spent the better part of Sunday googling and unsuccessfully trying to download “Fuck Deep Freeze” from the web (if you have ever tried to passwordlessly dismantle this particular program, you understand the aggression and hatred it inspires). Gracias a Dios, we eventually managed to accomplish a big chunk of work.

Now I’m on my own. Ever since the day my PC Placement Officer called and suggested she move me from “Rural Community Development” to “ICT Education,” I’ve known this moment would arrive: just me and 18 ornery, third world computers. I managed to defragment the one I’m working with, which sounded really cool and techie until I realized it only involves about three clicks in the Start Menu. Hopefully I’ll get the rest of the kinks worked out and we’ll be up and running with new programs and virus-free machines by next week.

Back to the rough morning. I’m mid-defrag and we’ve got a class in the lab. It’s the first week of school, so absolutely nothing is going on (classes started on Monday and they still haven’t made the daily schedule). The encargado (computer teacher and lab tech) is showing a series of motivational videos to the class to fill time and, uh, motivate the students? I’ll give it to him; I was grudgingly moved by the first, which featured a man born with no arms who ends up learning to play the guitar with his feet.

Then we get to the second. The title is something like “Dear Mother.” My encargado announces that it’s about teenage pregnancy, which is a huge problem in my town. Immediately, I understand that we will not be talking about pregnancy, or abstinence, or birth control, or facts of any kind, but rather about why abortion is murder. During the next ten minutes, we read a heartrending letter from an unborn baby to its mother, who ends up disregarding its pronouncements of love and pleas to live by aborting it. There’s sleek design and italicized script. There are pictures of a fetus, nearly full-term, swimming in uterine soup. Head and shoulders knees and toes. All of it flushed away.

“How was the movie?,” asks the encargado. “Muy bien!,” everyone agrees. The hands fly up and begin the inevitable reproaches. I’m thinking about the girls I know who aren’t here because they have babies, and the ones who won’t be here in a few months because their bellies are growing. I don’t know any of the fathers; they’re blanks. Looking around, I wonder where we’ve just sown a seed of shame, or distrust, or fear. I can’t bear it, so I raise my hand.

“Hey guys…this year, we’re going to start a new club called Escojo Mi Vida (I Choose My Life)! We’ll talk about healthy decisions, including healthy decisions about sex, without judgement. We can discuss ways women and men can avoid putting themselves in a difficult position. If you’re interested, let me know!”

And then I walked out of the classroom and tried not to burst into tears. I don’t know what you think about abortion. Ultimately, even though I’m pro-choice, I don’t know what I think about abortion. I certainly don’t like it. But that is not the way to talk about it, especially in a public school setting.

Anyhow, I start paging through my phone looking for someone to commiserate with when an older woman who cleans the school approaches me. “Excuse me, but I just have to ask you something. My son is looking for someone to get him into the U.S. Can you help?”

It was the wrong request at the wrong moment. “NO. I can’t do that. Lot’s of people have already asked and offered to pay. The only way to get someone into the country is to marry him, and I think it’s a SIN to marry someone like that. It’s like prostitution. Blah blah blah I can’t help you. ” Yeah…I laid it on thick and strident. Then I offered a sissified apology and walked away.

Now it’s a few hours later. I talked with the encargado and our school’s awesome principal about the need for more balanced, fact-based, and non-ridiculous-religiosity-fueled-rampage sex education. They agreed, and I feel better. Oh, and my friend Geoffrey is coming to my site next week to help me finish up with the computers. Thanks Geoffrey! I’m not engaged, and I spent an hour after lunch cogiendolo suave (taking it easy) at my neighbor’s house. Back on track. Whew.

If I could rewind time to about six months ago, I would find myself buried to my neck in clothes, power cords, papers, and sundry other possessions from my former life, desperately sorting them into boxes and suitcases and trashcans. I would find myself overwhelmed, either with elation or abject terror. I would probably be twitching.

So if you're doing that right now -- if you're coming to the DR with out next training class in a week -- you're in good company. Pre-PC jitters and packing woes are pretty universal. Don't worry too much, though. First of all, you're about to fall in love with the cincuenta-y-pico personas that are arriving with you. And those of us who are already here will be wishing you a warm welcome. Don Romeo (he's our fearless leader AKA Country Director) is going to hug you when you step off the plane. It's a sweet life you're about to lead...

Anyway, if you are struggling with packing ideas, my friend Lindsey recently posted a great list of must-have items here:

http://dominicanmully.wordpress.com/those-prepping-for-peace-corps-dr/

Best of luck and see you soon!

...is taking over the world.

First off, we all know U.S. Senator Chris Dodd, who served in the DR from '66-'68.

Next, Barack Obama nominates Aaron Williams ('67-'70) as the new Peace Corps director (his confirmation hearing was 2 days ago).

Finally, Joe Acaba ('94-'96) recently became the first RPCV in space!

It makes me just a little proud :).

Okay, this time I really have a reason for not updating my blog. I've been WORKING. Lots of work.

Next week, all the volunteers in my group have our 3-month In-Service Training (IST). That means we are handing in big reports about our communities and presenting the results of our diagnostics. Collecting, reviewing, synthesizing, and presenting all that data (over 200 interviews with families, community leaders, IT workers, students, and teachers!) takes time.

I'm also planning a training session on ESL. Apparently, a TEFL certificate and 5 weeks of teaching experience makes me an expert, or at least expert enough to moderate the discussion during the session.

In these past two weeks, I have accomplished something utterly new and amazing: I have entered the "no procrastination" zone! Believe it, people. The girl who wrote her entire senior thesis in three agonizing weeks in April 2006 is finally on her game. I had the report written last Friday, leaving plenty of time for reviews and corrections by my committee. And the presentation? Finished it yesterday, meaning I have a full three days to mess around with PowerPoint and practice my lines. AND I made my bed this morning.

So I'm maybe less of a deadbeat at life but definitely a big blog deadbeat. Sorry. But coming at you very soon are more pictures, a video of adorable Dominican children attempting the Hokey Pokey, and a summary of a 3:00am "discussion" I had with a drunken neighbor that ended rather hilariously.

For the time being, I'm looking forward to having some formal project plans and to seeing all my PC buddies. We're going to go swimming in the embassy pool and see a movie! Big fun...

For July 4th, a big group of volunteers from PCDR got together to celebrate America's birth and our super-awesome new president! We went to Las Galeras in beautiful Samana (accent on the third "a," but if you haven't noticed I am seriously floja with my accents on this blog), a peninsula in the northern part of the country known for stunning beaches and whale-watching. Here are some shots from the weekend:

Playa las Galeras:

Alanna and me on the boat to the famous Playa Rincon:

Adventuring PCVs:

Rocky shores viewed from the boats:

GOD BLESS AMERICA:

Playa Rincon:

The beaches here induce serious joy:

A closer look at some rocks by the beach:

The day winding down:

On the way home, our boat ran out of gas. The driver sanely decided that it would be a good idea to jump in the water and try to pull all 18-or-so of us back to shore with brute strength. When that didn't work, he called his buddy to tow us in:

July 4th celebration! Sarah and Katie:

Jim, Amanda (fellow Atlantan!), and Brittany:

Heading home on the back of a truck with Leeann and Mark:

Bekah, Sarah, and Amanda (with windswept forehead combover):

She's irresistible. Here she is pretending that she is me and mine is hers.

I’m adjusting. I’m melting into this Caribbean world.

I bought a pair of pants that are bien pega’o in a colmado. (For those who do not speak Dominican, they are essentially denim tights.)

I hate to miss a single episode of Mas Sabe el Diablo, and I feel my heart flutter every time Angel and Manuela kiss.

I no longer hate fans. In some parts of the country, I believe it may be near impossible to sleep without them. While celebrating the 4th of July in balmy Samana, I washed my hair one night before bed. After a near-sleepless night of sweating through my sheets, I arose to discover that my hair had started to mildew.

I cannot get enough fresh air. It’s not sufficient to open the shutters and let the outside flow in. I have to open the door. And then find my way outdoors and into a ubiquitous plastic chair on somebody’s porch or in some tree’s shade. Too much time inside and I’m suddenly asphyxiating.

I simultaneously fear the sun. It’s as if we’re living in outer space, and stepping into direct sunlight constitutes leaving the safety of your spaceship, exposing yourself to air so suffused with suffocating humidity and penetrating ultraviolet light it sizzles like a sky-sized neon sign. Leaves you roasted red and gasping for a single clean, fresh, moisture-free breath. My umbrella is my interstellar escape pod, and without it I would surely dissolve into space slush.

When I leave my site, I don’t necessarily feel the relief and excitement to get out and travel one might expect. Each day spent away, I find myself missing my room, my house, my family. The tranquilidad. It’s never long before I’m anxious to get back. And when I do finally squeeze myself into the back of the guagua to travel that long, bumpy road out of Santiago – when I see the sweltering flat city recede into palmy emerald mountains – the worry and prickliness evaporate de una vez.

And what about all the shit that grates, boils blood, doesn’t compute? It hasn’t been long enough for me to see or process the half of it, yet I’m already feeling my rigid sense of moral uprightness and strict adherence to legality relax in delightful and horrifying ways.

If I were allowed, I would absolutely ride on a motorcycle with a small child sandwiched between the driver and me. It used to seem reprehensible, and I suppose it still is. But I live here and that is how people get around.

I hug my students and no longer recoil when the other professors do the same. The DR is brimming with huggers, kissers, knee-touchers, and close-talkers: people who have grown up with a highly different sense of personal space. I have not become touchy-feely, but I am learning to be more comfortable with people who are.

I am no longer shocked or even all that offended when someone asks me if I’ll llevar them to the United States (a euphemism for “marry me for the visa”). Sometimes the above offer is proffered in the presence of the guy’s wife or girlfriend. My palpable indignation and chiding don’t ever seem to register or accomplish anything, and I’ve (somewhat grudgingly) come to accept that people truly don’t understand why the idea is so upsetting and distasteful to American sensibilities. In some cases, it seems to boil down to the fact that they want to go so badly that they can’t grasp why someone like me wouldn’t be willing to help or at least entertain the dream for a few moments. So now I just respond with a firm “No,” and try my best to leave righteous anger out of it.

I regularly associate with two or three men who I consider to be child molesters and rapists. At best statutory rapists. It hurts to even type it, but it’s true. These are grown men who nurture relationships with teenagers, who impregnate 12-year-olds. It’s disgusting, exploitative, and fucked up beyond my ability to understand. But the bottom line is that I understand even less than I thought I did: the police doing nothing, the education failing, the man dispassionately copying what he’s always seen, the girl perceiving no other way out of her broken home, the community barely batting an eyelash. I can’t begin to grasp the parts of the problem, let alone the sum. It’s still sorting itself out in my head; I’m stewing with rage and venom in one moment and, in the next, calmly exchanging quotidian pleasantries with the offenders. I can’t explain or justify it, but for now that’s how I’m handling it.

Slowly, slowly, I’m faking my way toward feeling genuinely at home.

As I mentioned before, I helped out with a summer camp in my community's botanical park. I was in charge of the theatre group, so we did a reenactment of the fantastic children's book, The Great Kapok Tree. (Those of you who are my mother may remember Lauren Skalina and my breathtaking depiction of bumblebees during a second-grade performance of the same story.) Below: "Please don't cut down my home!"

Nayeli with some homemade play-doh (I taught the children how to make it, and now their parents despise me).

THE POOL:

Races:

Swinging:

El himno nacional:

The highlight for me came on the second day as I walked down the long drive into the park. As I approached, approximately 15 children came bounding up the street. They were so excited that I figured they must be chasing after an ice cream truck or pony. But instead of rushing past, they swarmed me in one big knotty embrace.

Here are some shots of my amazing PC host family. Above, my dona Esmeralda and brother Anthony.

Below: Esmeralda's two-year-old granddaughter Daniela. Daniela loves, and I mean LOVES, my pictures. She looks at them at least 5 times a day and has memorized everyone's names. She regularly asks to see Sarah and Kathryn. If you come visit, try not to be too creeped out when this child recognizes and embraces you like an old friend.

My sister Fanny, fellow volunteer Amanda, dona Esmeralda, don Manyango, and Daniela:

I cannot describe how much I adore this child:

This is a typical May afternoon: torrential downpour, flooding, and hurried (somewhat bootleg) provisions to keep the house dry.

It's foto time! Above: One of the main streets in my town. These hills explain why, despite eating approximately one hundred servings of empty carbohydrates per day, I remain stubbornly flaquita. My doña is pissed

Below: Lovely mountain view from my street.

Taken on a moto ride through el campo:

My beloved little Janico, seen from afar:

My liceo! This is my home base for the next two years:

Volleyball tournament:

I’ve been in my site for exactly a month now. This is the diagnostic phase of my service, meaning I’m gathering information and getting to know people (a little thing we call building confianza) before diving headfirst into projects. As such, my schedule isn’t exactly fixed and orderly. Still, I thought I might share what a typical day as a new PCV in the DR looks like. It’s not all sitting around pantsless under a mosquitero praying that the luz returns so you can prender your fan, you know.

6:30am

Wake up to either my alarm (highly rare) or to the chorus of birds that live in my backyard (infinitely more likely and much more pleasant). Apart from the normal roosters that know absolutely no bounds in this country, we have 4 “doves” (they are actually pigeons, but it sounds nicer to say paloma) and approximately seven billion baby chicks. They all live together in a 3’x3’ cube, cooing and cheeping all day and often at night too.

(One particularly fun morning, I woke to our neighbor Yunior stumbling around the driveway with a bottle of Brugal in hand and the base in his car blasting a heartfelt ode to “una muujeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer.” This is the DR, mind you, so when I say that it was loud, please understand that it was inflicting structural violence on my house. Apparently, Yuniol’s woman left him a few months back (because he was – you guessed it – CHEATING), and he is dealing by indulging in alcohol and Mexican love ballads. Now, I know I need to integrate and accept that life here is different and all, but everyone knows I have very little tolerance for belligerence and even less for not getting enough sleep. I marched outside and did my best to get his attention: “YUNIOR! ESTO ES INDECENTE! INDECENTE!” After a few attempts, he smiled back warmly and yelled, “SI, SI…ES VICENTE!!!!” Apparently that was the name of the artist. Anyway, he didn’t turn the music off, but fear not! About 10 minutes later, he got in the car and drove off. Maybe I should start wearing my motorcycle helmet at all times to protect me against love-scorned Dominicanos.)

7:30am

After throwing on some clothes and putzing around my room, I sit down to breakfast. It could be anything from eggs to fresh fruit to mashed potatoes. A few times, I’ve gotten a plate full of fried cheese. (Anna and Katie-it’s delicious, but I laugh out loud thinking about what it would do to your digestional tracts).

8:30am

I leave the house. If I’m walking with my dona, Esmeralda, we do the Dominican shuffle and cover approximately ½ mile in 30 minutes. If I’m alone, I’ll zip along at my normal long-legged American lady clip, and everyone I pass will subsequently comment, “Te gusta caminar! Rapidisimo!” (Incidentally, if you walk ever, people think you’re a novelty and look on with great mirth from their motorcycles.) Regardless of pace, I will greet or be greeted by absolutely everyone I pass. It’s a beautiful thing.

9:00am

I arrive at my destination. Before the school year ended, I spent mornings at the high school surveying students and shooting the breeze with teachers. Because my town is small, we only have a tanda matutina, or morning shift of classes. My mission is to open up the computer lab to the community during the afternoon and evening.

After classes ended, I started hanging out at our community botanical park in the mornings. No…it is not common to have a botanical park in your site. It’s called suerte. Anyhow, I helped run their first-ever summer camp this past week and am super pumped to start an environmental club for youth there in the coming months.

12:00pm

The dreaded walk home. It’s summer, it’s the Caribbean, and it’s Janico, which is nothing if not hilly. I arrive home covered in sweat and foaming at the mouth. Manyango, my host dad, hands me an icy homemade lemon juice (with CRUSHED ICE…turns out you don’t need a machine…just elbow grease and a pestle) and I collapse into my bed to cool down and cover my mosquito-bite-pocked legs in Vicks, known here as ViVaPoru. I read a little, nap a little, and wait for the heat to subside.

2:00pm

By now it’s lunchtime and the storm clouds are rolling in. As I sit down to eat my habichuelas con arroz, it starts to rain, washing away my and everyone else’s afternoon plans. Depending on how hard it falls and how long it lasts, I may have an indoor day: practice yoga, work on my community surveys, or try to teach myself how to properly operate a computer. If the sky clears up, I might venture out for a run or just a paseo to look at those beautiful hills and chat with neighbors along the way. They inevitably invite me in and stuff me full of simple carbohydrates and purple soda. I worry that I’m bugging them and hanging around too long, feel the familiar anxious fist clench in my chest, and then…release. They aren’t worrying about that shit. They’re just cogiendolo suave (enjoying the day and taking it easy). Quick! Make like a Dominican!

7:00pm

Attend a community meeting. Well, if it’s raining, you can forget it. No one will show. But in the case of clear skies, you can find me sticking my nose into the business of just about every club and initiative here in Janico. Once again, people don’t seem to mind that a random gringa who dresses funny and doesn’t speak properly or understand jokes is crashing their lives.

8:30pm

Settle in for a light dinner and family time. If there’s luz, we gather around the TV to watch a telenovela. I sit at the dinner table reading a book, occasionally looking up to laugh at the melodrama unfolding on the screen.

9:30pm

Shower. Remember how I used to dislike showering? You would think that moving to a country where cold bucket baths are a daily reality would kind of reinforce that hatred. Au contraire…I LOVE showering now. I might go so far as to say that I am obsessed. There is really nothing better than the feeling of cool clean freshness running down your back after a day hiking around town in the Caribbean sun. Cleanliness in general has really grown on me. I’ll admit it; I used to be a little floja with things like washing my face and tidying my room. Now I’ve started taking real joy in these things. Making my bed, sweeping the floor…it’s all good.

10:00pm

Insert my earplugs to drown out the birds, bugs, television, and Yuniol’s occasional drunken midnight serenades to his long lost love. Or, if the power’s out, relish in the relative quiet. My clean underwear is draped all over my bedframe, drying and smelling like peppermint Dr. Bronner’s soap. I tuck my mosquitero into my mattress to avoid sharing my bed with anything other than my pillow, and then I fall asleep.

Due to serious cell phone malfunctioning, I am back in Santo Domingo for a day. That means:

a) high-speed wireless Internet

b) SALAD (red tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, capers, and green, non-iceberg, parasite-free lettuce) at the US embassy

c) my first real case of "campo guilt" (this is a startling PCDR phenomenon in which volunteers experience nagging feelings of guilt and failure for leaving their campos (rural communities) for even a day)

So I've been in Janico for two weeks now. I've actually been doing a lot of writing, but it's taken the form of letters and journal entries. Combined with the semi-difficulty of accessing internet in my site, there's a lot of catching up to do. Instead of summarizing it all, I'm just gonna cop out and post a slightly modified version of a letter I wrote to my cousins. I hope it doesn't make you feel any less special, A and K. I omitted the "----log." That's just between us.

Dear amores,

How are you? Right now I’m sitting in my bed in my host family’s house typing away on my computer in the dark. We’ve been having CRAZY rain for the past week or so, and it’s making the power surge. It’s already blown out two light bulbs in my room in the past two hours, so I gave up. I really hope that my surge protector works, or my computer is going to be a goner in no time flat.

Anyway, I wanted to write you a letter. I wish it were just to talk, but I’ll just be honest and say that it’s because I’m feeling lonely. Not horribly or terribly. As far as the Peace Corps goes, I have it made here. In some moments I think that’s part of the problem. I’m in the same time zone as Atlanta and Philadelphia. You don’t even need an international code to call the DR. I have a computer loaded with music and American movies. Right now I even have a toilet that’s clean and that occasionally flushes (although I cannot say the same of my last two host family bathrooms). Also, Dominicans love Americans. People think you’re smart, beautiful, hardworking, and a good person if you have light skin and blond hair. It works in my favor, but it’s kind of messed up. More on that later.

Anyway, I was struggling a little bit about all this. I mean, where are the naked children with distended bellies covered in flies? Where’s my mud hut and pit latrine? There are, like, relatively wealthy people in my community. Relatively, but still. I remember my country director giving us a speech at the beginning of training where he said, “You’re not here to suffer.” And I laughed, but secretly knew that that’s precisely what I signed up for. Isn’t that ridiculous? But it’s true. I joined the Peace Corps to push myself so far past the limit that I would be transformed into another person. I thought I could murder my ego with rats, cold bucket baths, and pooing in a hole.

The funny thing is, I am getting pushed and prodded and tested, but not at all in the way I thought. I mean, people can get used to physical discomforts really quickly. Maybe it’s because mine are relative, but it’s just not that big a deal to lose power and have my room flood and hear mice in my roof. In fact, those things almost make it easier, because you can process them and manage them and get used to them. You can laugh about them and tell your friends so that they think you’re a bigger badass or more dedicated altruist. They remind you: Hey! I’m really here! I’m really doing it!

The really tricky part, and the interesting part (duh!), is the subtler, deeper stuff; living day to day in a culture that consistently surprises you with how different it is. Like, it’s the DR. It’s two hours from Miami and like a tenth of the population lives in the United States. Everyone is obsessed with going to the United States. But it’s really, really different. People don’t want to be American. They want to move to the U.S. to live well, but they don’t want to stop eating viveres, or start using spices in their food, or listen to anything aside from merengue, bachata, and the occasional reggaeton.

This is a good thing. This is the Peace Corps. But no matter how many times I heard it, I just plain underestimated the plainest, dumbest, simplest reality there is when it comes to life in another country: culture shock is real.

So I find my throat constricting and eyes widening throughout each day. There’s an old drunk who works in a general store I always pass who grabs me by the waist, cups my face in his hands, and calls me muneca. He forces free potato chips, juice, and Milky Way bars on me, and I eat them in spite of myself because they remind me of home. Yesterday I was sitting around a kitchen table with a group of women riding out the rain when they all started making fun of a little boy to his face for crying too often. I could just feel that shame seeping into his skin and festering into pure unadulterated machismo. And there are the endless catcalls, and litterbugs, and the woman beating her kid with a shoe, and animal abuse, and people treating me like a child because I just don't understand. It’s more overwhelming than I imagined and it sometimes makes me want to hole up in my room with my pictures from home, English books, and episodes of Flight of the Conchords.

I also find my heartbeat quickening with the newness I encounter each day: my whole self utterly dumbfounded with the beauty of my surroundings and the generosity and openness of people here. My family giving me by far the nicest room in the house. Wincing when I try to wash even a single dish. The school receiving me like an honored colleague and the Janiqueros eagerly accepting me as one of their own. And everyone, everyone is “a la orden.” At your service. They like spending time with each other (and with me!), even if it just means sitting in silence and sipping overly sweetened coffee together for hours.

There are some moments when I just can’t stop thinking about home. I miss understanding people and having a sense of humor. I miss sarcasm and subtlety and irony. I feel more American, and more proud to be American, than ever before in my life. I also feel really, really blessed to be here. And aware of myself. Not so much in the normal shitty way where I’m always watching my own every move. More like Awareness. I feel purposeful: like I am doing something really consciously and with all my intention and desire.

Love to infinity,

Jean

After 5 long weeks of separation, the Environment and ICT volunteers get together to celebrate!

During our last week at CBT, we had the chance to spend a morning visiting a batey: a primarily Hatian community within the DR. I'll be sure to post more on this in the future, but for now you can just enjoy the pictures of the adorable children. And for you, mom, I took this picture of the community clinic.

These are going to be a bit out-of-order, but I've only got a few minutes to post before I head to my site for good (hooray for being an official volunteer!). Over the next few days, I'll try to get more fotos up. Above: the ICT volunteers make a scene in the streets of El Seibo before heading out to Discoteca Wow (the actual name of the club). Below: my host brother Breilin and me:

Below: the carnage before the family reunion. I'll spare you the photo of the entrails, but you should know that they used them to make intestine stew!

Meat in a bucket!

I get my permanent site...Janico here I come!

Stay tuned for more!

Well…I’ve gone and done it again: my life is over three weeks ahead of my blog. In Peace Corps training terms, three weeks is equivalent to at least a decade’s worth of meaningful life experiences. Since I last wrote, I have…

…attended the aforementioned family reunion. (Nobody talked to me for more than thirty seconds. Not even creepy Uncle Fulano. So instead of socializing, I spent the day stuffing my face and fulfilling my sacred duty as the official event photographer.)

…gotten horrifically ill, presumably from eating bad lettuce and pork empanadillas. (My host mom told me they were chicken. I spent one interminable night vomiting and wondering if I would ever eat anything again. I’m glad to say that I’m fine now, but me and meat are pretty much done. Sorry Scott…I tried.)

…bid farewell. (A volunteer living close to El Seibo happened to be closing her service during our training there, so we got to attend her goodbye party. It took the form of a chivo (goat) roast. In true Dominican fashion, about a dozen people spoke eloquently and lengthily about her contributions to the community. The ceremony was beautiful and I [predictably] choked up several times. And then we danced. I don’t think I’ve ever loved the Peace Corps any more than during that evening.)

…revisited lovely Playa Esmeralda. (This time we explored a bit more and found a lagoon so gorgeous that I couldn’t stop cartwheeling for joy in the sand.)

…eaten over 100 ants in one sitting. (My host mom decided to install a new stove in our kitchen, meaning she couldn’t cook anything for an entire day. Instead of my normal breakfast of yuca and fried eggs, she gave me hot chocolate and three huge hamburger buns. Plain white hamburger buns. So I did what anyone would do and asked if I might have a bit of jelly. She disappeared into the kitchen closet for a few moments and emerged holding a rather beat-up jam jar. I did a quick cursory inspection and noticed that there were dozens upon dozens of small black dots swirled throughout the jar:

“Hmmm…I wonder what kind of jelly this is? It has so many funny little seeds! They’ve got to be seeds, because what else could they be?!”

So I went ahead and slathered it all over the bread and cheerily commenced eating my breakfast. I was just about finished when I happened to look down and focus in a bit more clearly:

“Wait a minute…that looks like a thorax! And tiny little legs! Hundreds of thoraxes and legs!”)

…returned to Santo Domingo! (That’s right…we finished technical training and headed back to La Capital to wrap things up. This meant reuniting with our first host families and with the environment volunteers. I didn’t know I could be so ecstatic to see people I’ve only spend a month with, but I guess human hearts are easily imprinted.)

I swear I swore off bullet points, lists, and parentheses, but my oaths are apparently good for nothing. Sorry.

Anyway, the really exciting news that I saved for last is that I found out my permanent site. How can I type out the words to express how big and exciting and scary this is? To hear your name called and reach for the binder: feel your heart beat and remember the past year of essays, interviews, doctors appointments, and waiting, waiting, waiting that’s all over now. You imagine fates and stars and prayers aligning to bring you to this moment and this place. And then you read the name and…

You still have a million questions. You’re elated. And you also wonder if it’s the right fit for you: if it’s too something-or-other. If you’re cut out for this. If you can really go it alone. Will they like you and you them? Is so-and-so’s site cooler than mine?

All doubts and anxieties aside, though, mostly you just want to see it and live it.

So where will I be spending the next two years? In a small mountain town called Janico (pronounced Hanico) about 40 minutes outside of Santiago. I’ll be working in a liceo (high school) as a computer and English teacher. I also want to help transform the school’s computer lab into a community resource, form a youth group, and organize an environmental awareness program. And hopefully we’ll figure out a way to do it all sustainably.

I spent 5 days visiting Janico last week and I feel like I won the lottery. The site is tucked into beautiful rolling hills and surrounded by several winding rivers. The people have been incredibly warm and welcoming, and seem genuinely excited to work with me (and to marry me. I got my first marriage proposal, but politely declined.). On Saturday nights, the thing to do is attend mass and then hang out in the tiny central plaza, where they blast bachata and people of all ages hug and chat and dance the night away.

It’s still a bit daunting to imagine myself alone there, bumbling through awkward introductions and PTA meetings: struggling to understand the Cibao accent and build relationships that mean something. But I also couldn’t be more excited to begin my life as a real live Peace Corps Volunteer. We swear in TODAY!

My new host family is absolutely wonderful! They are kind, hilarious, and feeding me more than I know how to eat. I thought you might enjoy some additional stories/information about them. These first three occurred during my first weekend in their house. Welcome to El Seibo!

1. My host mother, Magalis, told two PC friends and me that she wanted to take us to a motorcycle rally. Instead, she took us to her cousin’s husband’s funeral. We had no idea until we were ushered into a random house and saw the photograph of the deceased. Apparently, it is customary to wear ALL WHITE to an event like this. We were wearing yellow, red, and purple, respectively. (To those of you who think my Spanish must really suck if I can’t tell the difference between the words for ‘funeral’ and ‘motorcycle rally,’ let it be known that the two friends I brought along are both fluent in Spanish and were just as confused as I was.)

2. Magalis asked me if I wanted to help her cook. I said “Sure!” A bit later, a man with a live chicken materialized on our back patio. It began squawking and shaking violently, so the man began hitting it. I ran into the house with eyes closed and ears covered. When I dared to look up, my 5-year-old host brother was dancing around the lifeless, bloody chicken body. We ate it for dinner. Local? Yes. Cruelty-free? Dubious.

3. My host dad, Vaucilio, arrived home from a month-long stay in the United States on the Sunday after I got here. Everyone was twittering with excitement all weekend for his return, so I was expecting a grand homecoming with hugs and kisses and plenty of stories. Instead, he walked in the house and the entire family proceeded to tear through the contents of his suitcases, which had been stuffed to bursting with American electronics. Cell phones, an entertainment system, remote controls…I have never seen so much bubble wrap in all my life. After a few minutes of stupefied observation, I was instructed to grab my pocketknife and get cutting!

4. Vaucilio comes from a family of 13 kids. Magalis is from a family of 18. Both sides will be in town for reunion at our house TOMORROW. How does this work?!

5. Despite the fact that I look like the spawn of a Viking and a Von Trapp, Magalis endearingly refers to me as “mi negra.”

6. My host mom is intent upon finding me a Dominican man. Last weekend, she didn’t let me leave the house until I had brushed my hair, plucked my eyebrows, and put on earrings. As I type, she is discussing an “opportunity” for me with a friend’s nephew.

7. Who in the heck lives in my house? I know I do, but what about these other people?! There’s Magalis and Vaucilio and their daughter Corix. And Breilin, who is the son of their son Wascar. Wascar is always here, but he doesn’t sleep here. That takes care of all the available beds. Simple enough. So why is there a 15-year-old boy standing in a towel in our kitchen? Oh, he lives in the shack out back? It’s starting to make sense. (I still don’t know how everyone who comes in and out of my house is related, but I am getting a feel for familial relationships here. We haven’t talked about it, but I’m fairly certain my host mother is feeding and, in one or two cases, sheltering people who aren’t blood relatives. This is highly generous of her, and also something that you see a lot of.)

I hope you all enjoyed these! It’s been a fantastic week of training, so I’ll be sure to update again soon. Wish me luck at the fiesta tomorrow!

Above: The ICT crew out together for "Mexican" food. My stomach hasn't been the same since. Below: DOMINO PARTY!

Here I am holding Stephanie's new dog Gerry (in Spanish, sounds more like "Yeti"):

At the mercado de pulgas (flea market). Nobody would haggle with us!

The countryside surrounding El Seibo:

My new host brother, Breilin. He is adorable and poorly-behaved. If only I could introduce him to Alfred...

Here is my new host mom Magalis. This is the night that I took her out to the discoteca:

Community-mapping project with local youth:

Here we get our first look at the lab we are fixing up during training:

Hopefully these give you all a (slightly mish-mashed) idea of what it's like to be here. It's only a matter of time until I can find a connection that lets me upload video. In the meantime, check out the PCDR blogs on the right for stories and pictures from my fellow trainees!

Last week was Semana Santa, meaning no work, no school, all party (unless, of course, you're a Peace Corps Trainee, in which case it's your holy duty to spend the week fixing up an old broke-down computer lab at the local high school. I have to say, it was a blast, and I've pretty much been transformed into a computer wiz!).

We spent Easter Sunday relaxing at the river. Pictured above: Stephanie teaching us how to skip stones. Below: Alanna and Mike balancing on a log that they later pushed downstream. This log was the source of endless poo-related humor. Being in the Peace Corps, you have to laugh at pooping so you don't cry!

These children had a water war like you wouldn't believe:

Parting shot:

He is risen indeed!

Here are some of my favorites from our day at the most gorgeous beach I've ever laid eyes on. Above, Alanna, Katie, and I enjoy the view.

The drive was BEAUTIFUL and BUMPY. Above, you'll see the yipeta (pickup). Below is our official Peace Corps wagon. Between the two, you can transport a slew of Peace Corps volunteers just about anywhere.

I live here:

Playa Esmeralda:

Playa Esmeralda is a virgin beach, meaning it was pretty much just us and the waves for an entire day. Our host mothers collectively packed us enough food to sustain a small nation for several weeks, so it's a pity we couldn't stay longer (Sidebar: When my host mother asked me what I wanted to bring, I answered, "Oh, hmmm...how about fruit and a sandwich?" She gave me the "Silly gringa!" look and sent me with a corningware dish full of fried eggs and mashed potatoes).

I looked like a langosta (lobster) by the end of the day, but I can't remember ever having had more fun at the beach!

It’s been almost two weeks since we arrived at Community-Based Training. The transition has been equal parts weird and wonderful. At the outset, the move even proved to be a bit difficult. Before you start worrying, please remember that difficulty is relative when you’re living out your dream on a Caribbean island.

Here is what my routine looked like in Santo Domingo:

Wake up. Fumble for headlamp. Shower with bucket and, if the power’s out, candle. Dress. Greet host mother and force down mayonnaise-coated breakfast sandwich. Walk to school with the volunteer crew living in my barrio, Los Cocos (Los Cocos Locos!). Learn with the other gringos. Walk home. Stop along the way at the neighborhood colmado to share a beer or a Coke. Stop at the empanada stand (specify “SIN MAYONESA!”) to gorge myself. Eat dinner. Play with Alfred and Alber. Chat with host family, possibly playing a game of dominos or participating in a sing-a-long. Sigh with contentment. Fall fast asleep.

The newness and fullness of everything was completely overwhelming in the best possible way. Sometimes life is so vivid that it overrides your ability to think about or analyze it. You just be in it. Under normal circumstances, we’re very good at not being (or maybe it’s not being aware of being). Still, it’s also pretty lonely living in the space between the great wide world and your thoughts about it. Maybe that’s why people jump out of planes and become drug addicts and join the Peace Corps. We’re all just trying to escape the ironclad grip of our own minds. I get it.

So what was it that jolted me out of Presence and landed me squarely back in the center of my head? Well, it’s going to sound funny. In Santo Domingo, I didn’t really have a mirror. Except for a rare glimpse in a piece of glass or a compact, or a stolen glance in dim, irregular bathroom light, I didn’t see myself.

Then I arrived in El Seibo and was escorted to my new room. There it was: a full-length mirror. I just stood there looking at myself for several minutes. It started out simple and slow: “Whoa…my hair is a mess. And my face is going to break out. Has it been like this the whole time?”…and then snowballed…”I wonder what the other people in my group really think about me. I mean, I really like them, but do they really like me? I wonder if I’ll do anything worthwhile while I’m here. Have I ever done anything worthwhile? What does that even mean? How am I supposed to live my life?!”

Yes, I went from simple vanity to existential crisis in 60 seconds flat. I’m not really interested in dissecting the relationship between the two right now. The point is that there is always a way out of the present moment and into worry, anxiety, and fear. There’s also always a way back in. Thank God for deep breaths.

Why did I join the Peace Corps? Well, you can get a good idea by scrolling back through this blog to my aspiration statement. It has to do with ideals and hard work and humanity and adventure. But let’s simplify things and quit beating around the bush (here I am going to roughly paraphrase/plagiarize something that my dear wise cousin Anna once wrote): I came here to reconcile myself to myself and to other people. And them to themselves and to other people, including me. And all of us to the great wide world we inhabit.

When I accepted my invitation to the DR, I didn’t have any delusions about instantaneous inner peace or harmony with everything around me. I still don’t. How can I when my own reflection is a source of metaphysical tailspin? I did anticipate a bit of a spiritual boost, though, and I got it. I got caught up in the excitement and beauty of living and went with it. That kind of inadvertent presence and the resulting joy is a true gift, but doesn’t seem to be sustainable in the long run. It takes intention and acceptance and mindfulness. Being here is a blessing and I know it will change me profoundly and maybe even let me impact other people. At the end of the day, though, I’m not here for any real reason other than to be here.

Anyway, I know you guys are probably sick and tired of educational/mystical posts, so I’m gearing up to post pictures from a wild day at the most gorgeous beach in the world. Check back soon! Love to you all!

We have officially departed from Santo Domingo and arrived in El Seibo, a pueblo of approximately 30,000 located in the eastern part of the country. Why? We have commenced phase 2 of training. Okay, it started over a week ago, but I’m blogging on island time! What does phase 2 mean? After 3 weeks of studying the fundamental, big-picture stuff, we’ve initiated our technical training within our specific project sectors. The sad part is that I had to bid (temporary) farewell to my old host family and to the 16 environmental volunteers in my group (their technical training is in the Cibao…I miss you Sarah and Mark y todos!). The great part is that I’m living with another wonderful family, deepening friendships with the trainees in my sector, and learning a lot.

As many of you know, I’ll be serving as an Information and Communication Technology Educator (Yes. I know I called you at 11pm one night asking how to turn on my DVD player and that I possess absolutely no technological savvy. Snort and laugh…you know you want to). More specifically, my job will be to work with youth, IT workers, and my community to improve knowledge, teaching methodology, and sustainability as it relates to technology.

Why is this important? Well, you’re reading a blog on a computer, so I probably don’t have to tell you. Just in case, though, communication is what makes our world turn. How we relate to one another – how we relate information to one another – is incredibly important for our livelihoods and our LIVES. Let’s imagine how different our days would be if we didn’t have reliable internet access at home or at work. If we didn’t know how to type. Or use a mouse. If we had never touched a computer.

Moreover, how would all this be affected if we couldn’t read? If we didn’t have reliable power or even potable water? How can you progress if you can’t find work, or are overworked, or lack anything resembling effective medical coverage?

Let’s throw a few DR facts into the mix:

-42% of Dominicans live below the poverty line.

-25% are undernourished.

-7.6% of the GDP goes to social spending, as compared to a 13.6% average for other Latin American countries.

-The DR’s education system is ranked 10 out of 13 countries in Latin America.

-13% of the population 15 and older is illiterate

-There’s a gender gap. Boys are dropping out, but girls are still less employed.

-The quality of public schooling is shoddy at best. More on this in a future post. It’s not pretty.

Technical training allows us to go beyond just reading about the issues. We’re experiencing them and hopefully learning how we can help to make things a bit better in the long run. These problems are big and complicated here and everywhere, but this is a change to diagnose them at the local level – alongside the local community – and look for holistic solutions.

Do I sound idealistic and stupid? Damn straight. I’ve got a lot to learn, and that’s why I’m here. I also believe we all have something to offer. So why not me? All this is to say that even as the difficult realities of volunteer life are becoming increasingly apparent, I’m feeling more blessed and purposeful with every passing day. Thanks again for reading and sharing this experience with me.

Saludos!  Because I have yet again failed to update my blog regularly, I have a slightly obscene amount of catching up to do.  Remember how I said that life here feels really real and really full?  That my former life in the USA -- fabled land of hot showers and men who don't hiss -- seems very small and very dim?  I wasn't kidding.  Every day here is epic.  So what have I been up to?

Training.As many of you know, I am not actually a Peace Corps Volunteer.  I am a Trainee, or aspirante, until I swear in as a full-fledged member of PCDR in early May (for good measure and a taste of Dominican speech, I'll throw in a "Si Dios quiere" here...see "Churching" for more information).  In the meantime, my group is completing a rather extensive training that focuses on everything from health to development to technology.  I can now tell you how to: recognize the symptoms of Dengue and malaria (would have been useful when I thought I was infected with mosquito-related illness after Costa Rica), make rehydration fluid from scratch (much more economical than Gatorade), and ride a motoconcho (always board on the left side, wear a helmet, ask for "sin aire").  I've also learned some pretty interesting stuff about Dominican language and culture, the Millennium Development Goals, and the Peace Corps in general.  You're sure to hear much more on all this in the future.

Traveling.Our first major Peace Corps challenge was to successfully navigate public transportation on our own while visiting a current volunteer for a long weekend.  I had the great fortune of being assigned to Amanda, a Nebraskan serving in a pueblo just outside of the city of Santiago.  Amanda has been in-country for a year and gave me incredible advice about being a successful volunteer.  She has an amazing attitude and is utterly adored by her community.  I utterly adore her because she is fun and smart and great, AND because she made me grilled cheese, heated up water for my bucket bath, and let me watch a cheesy fantasy movie on her computer!

Churching.Since arriving in the DR, I have been highly surprised by the religiousity I've witnessed.  Everybody, and I mean everybody, is Christian.  It's not like Chile where the population is Catholic and hangs saints on their walls but never goes to church.  Nope.  People here go and want you to come along.  They want to know what you believe in.  Don't get me wrong... they are not out to judge.  On the contrary, I've found Dominicans to be incredibly warm and welcoming.  Religion is simply a fundamental piece of culture, language, and worldview here.  I have been blessed by more sweet old ladies than I can count, and I have heard the phrase "Si Dios quiere" so many times that even I am using it on a daily basis.  More on this in the future as well..

Piropo-dodging.Catcalls.  When you arrive, you think they're funny and stupid.  A month in, you want to tear out the throat of every man you pass on the street.  Some are cheesy: "se cayo el cielo." (loosly, "the heavens fell down")  Most are uncreative: "Rubia!  Hey you!  Come here!"  But they're part of life here and we are learning to live with them.  Most of the time, we just ignore it.  I know to cross to the other side of the street when I see a group of men playing dominos.  I can successfully identity a "tiguere" (literal translation is "tiger."  These are basically listless young men who have nothing better to do than pop wheelies on their motoconchos and harass female passersby).  Still, it's hard to keep your mouth shut when a 14-year-old tells you he wants to plant a banana tree in your yard.

Hovering.An odd thing about many Dominican toilets is that they don't have toilet seats.  The ones that do are often covered in the urine of your 3-year-old host brother.  So you have to find creative ways to "relax."  I still haven't figured out why so many Dominicans removed what I can only imagine were perfectly good toilet seats from otherwise highly functional toilets.  I'll keep you posted.Another instance in which you may find yourself hovering -- this time on top of the furniture -- is when you discover a mouse in your house, or when you discover a recently-born litter of baby mice in your house.  You shriek as your host-mother fetches a shoe and bats the mice to death.  Your act of hovering will then be recounted and reenacted time and time again to the delight of your entire barrio.

So there's quite a bit more to tell: funny things and more substantive things that are swimming around in my head.  Thanks so much for the emails and words of encouragement I've been receiving.  I have more reliable internet now and will be responding to everything in the next few days!  Please keep the messages coming!

These are fotos from our training center.  3-hour-long Spanish classes sound terrible, until you realize that they take place here:

This little piece of heaven has been our home for the past three weeks.  We study language, Dominican culture, health, and safety from 8-5.  Then we get together and practice yoga in the Caribbean breeze.  It's a sweet life.

PC prison?

Our first mosquitero encounter:

The view from our retreat center:

Talented PC jugglers:

I will (finally!) be uploading a series of pictures!  Due to slow connectivity, I can only do about three or four at a time.  Stay posted!

Here is Helen, my staging roommate and our group yoga instructor, with her 80 pounds of luggage:

The staff at the Miami airport was thrilled to process all 36 of us at once.

We have arrived!

Here is a news article I stumbled upon (a bit lit) that discusses the current plight of the United States Peace Corps:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/laurence-leamer/the-tragedy-of-the-peace_b_175389.html

If you think like I think (if you value service, cross-cultural understanding, and development from the ground-up), please check out the More Peace Corps campaign. You can find additional information at:

http://www.morepeacecorps.org/

It´s been too long since I posted. I´m resolving here and now to do better, but it´s going to take a bit of time to get caught up. Unfortunately, I won´t be able to upload any pictures today. Fortunately, you all finally get to hear about my amazing and crazy host family here in the DR!

I am currently living with a family of 4 in a small barrio to the northwest of Santo Domingo. They are:

Rossi, about 30

Alfonso, about 30

Alfred, 3

Alber, 9 months

Something that you must understand about home life here, though, is that the family is a lot bigger than it appears. It includes aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, friends, friends´cousins, random children you´re taking care of...you get the picture. Most of these individuals live within a one-mile radius and constantly drop in on one another´s homes througout the day and night. They also commonly stick their heads out the door and yell down the street until the desired relative responds. Entire conversations follow. All while the merengue is blasting at full volume from every house on the street.

So our nuclear families here may be small, but our extended families - the people that really count - are quite large. Many volunteers don´t ever really figure out who actually lives in their home and how they´re all related. For example, my host grandmother, grandfather, and aunt live directly above my host mother. Another volunteer, Mark, stays with them. Mark and I have met at least 15 members of the family in a two-week span of time, and that´s just the people who live within walking distance. So I´ll spare you the details of everyone (for now) and stick to filling you in on just the people I live with.

First off, they are totally and indescribably wonderful. They have completely opened their home to me, smiled patiently at my attempts to speak Spanish properly, and essentially done everything they can to make me feel welcome. Second, they are even more loco than my actual family in the USA. I call Rossi my mama-hermana (mother-sister) because she takes care of me and makes me laugh at least twenty times every day. She is also an excellent chef and is introducing me to the wild world of Dominican food. Most of it is quite tasty, although I have forced down more than one ham-cheese-ketchup-mayonaise sandwich for breakfast. Alfredo, my host-dad, is constantly asking me questions about myself and America and what all us volunteers are actually doing here. Also, he took me to an Amway meeting on my first night in the house.

The kids are the two most gorgeous children I´ve ever laid eyes on. Alber is doe-eyed and just about to start walking. Alfred is utterly charming and irresistable. He is also terribly - I mean TERRIBLY - behaved. Since I have arrived, he has:

-stolen my headlamp

-stolen Mark´s trumpet (Alfred is quite musical, as you´ll see when I get around to uploading video. It´s pretty amazing.)

-repeatedly removed his pants

-repeatedly peed his pants

-spent an entire evening sucking his fingers and rubbing them all over my arms

-run away

-pushed a little girl

-shaved off his own right eyebrow

I love this little boy. It has, however, been a real challenge to keep him in line and out of my room. After a few days, I realized that it is almost impossibly to thwart or threaten him in any meaningful way. Almost. I noticed that whenever he behaved particularly badly, his parents picked up their cell phones and pretended to call the "Guatchimon." Poof. Alfred became a model child. So I set out to understand who is this Guatchimon and why he is so uniquely intimidating. At first, I had him pegged as the Dominican version of the Chupacabra or Boogeyman. But a bit of investigating and a conversation with my Spanish teacher revealed that "Guatchimon" is simply a hispanicized version of the word "Watchman." Alfred is petrified of some guy who carries a gun and patrols the neighborhood.

This is horrible, right?! Threatening a child with a gun-toting militiaman? I thought so too...for about a week. And then Alfred threw a butter knife at my face. I looked at him, composed myself, and calmly informed him that I was going to call the Guatchimon to look after him for a while. Things with Alfred have been going a bit more smoothly since then.

All in all, I´m settling in quite well and feeling uncommonly blessed to be living with such a warm and wonderful group of people. It´s like I have a real family and a real home right here in the DR.

I´m thinking of you all and gearing up to begin sending postcards. Stay tuned for exciting updates about training, roaches, rats, and my very first motorcycle ride (Peace-Corps-sanctioned...I promise!). Love!

I spent the past hour or so sitting in a wireless café typing up a post for you all. My time ran out, though, and I lost every word. I’m kind of glad. I spent the entire time agonizing over clever and insightful ways to describe everything that’s happened since last Wednesday. I wasn’t successful at all, although there was a pretty funny joke about the prevalence of Chacos and Timbuk2 messenger bags amongst my group members.

Anyway, if you’re reading this, it’s probably because you a) love or at least like me, or b) are sitting at your desk feeling bored and wanting to hear about someone doing something adventurous. Those are the reasons I used to read blogs, anyway. So you probably want to hear about things like:

-my fellow trainees and how awesome they are (they are)

-my host family and how awesome they are (they are, too!)

-the Peace Corps staff (our PCDR director greeted all 36 of us with a hug)

-the Peace Corps training center (verdant, gorgeous, palm-studded)

-how loud and how late people play their music (very loud and very late)

-how miserable I feel while taking a bucket bath (not that miserable at all!)

You may also expect to see some pictures of me eating a spiky piece of fruit, or hanging up my mosquito net, or playing a game of street baseball with the kids in my barrio. You may just want to imagine how psychotically exciting and delightful and overwhelming it all is.

It’s all true. It’s all happening. And it’s surprisingly difficult to write about. With each day, I feel my life before shrinking away and my vida dominicana taking shape. If it makes sense, I find myself really here, really experiencing and enjoying the moments that fill the day. The act of reflecting on it is important, but also somehow jarring…like bumping into my self from a week ago.

So hopefully it’ll be easier to reconnect after this first entry. I promise (si Dios quiere and the internet is working well) to include actual descriptions and maybe even a few fotos next time around. Love to you all!

Wednesday, March 4th. 4:41am.

I'm up! I'm eating a banana! I'm ready to go!

Love to you all.

This is it. I'm leaving in less than 12 hours. It's been an intense, awesome, and terrifying lead-up to departure, and I haven't even set foot on the plane.

Packing occupied the entire last week. Unpacking all the unnecessary stuff I initially wanted to take has occupied the past day. So far, I've filled a full-size laundry basket with these items. At this rate, I'll arrive in the DR with only a laptop and a bikini! (Okay...not so much. I'm still dangerously close to the 80 lb. weight limit for my two carry-ons, even though I've followed the packing list quite faithfully. In the words of my Chilean host mom, "Que podemos hacer? Es lo que hay.")

I cannot lie. I was doing a fair share of freaking out today. Composed freaking-out, but still harboring everything from basic butterflies to full-blown catastrophic thoughts just beneath the surface. Thank God for my mom, who made delicious lasagna for dinner, and my brother Stephen, who has been putting up with me as I shriek at my computer for the past several hours. Also for the phone call to my grandparents and the emails and encouraging notes I've received today. Emily Gold is forever my hero for effectively reminding me exactly why I'm doing this in a crisis moment. All in all, I'm pretty pumped.

For your viewing pleasure, here are some images from the past day or so. I have no idea when or where I'll be able to check internet and update more fotos, but I feel fairly safe in promising palm trees. Until then...

I didn't feel like actually venturing outside to take a real winter picture because it was so cold. Besides, I was busy checking boxes off my packing list. You can't really read it, but it seems comprehensive, no?

Since I'm an ICT volunteer, I thought you might like to see our first family computer. My dad still uses it. Note the artful use of a dollar bill to demonstrate the puniness of the screen. I'm fighting an uphill battle with technology, folks.

This is what my packing space looked like as of yesterday afternoon. Bonus points if you can correctly identify my preferred brand of running shoes and locate the fantastic world famous board game Rail Baron (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rail_Baron_(game)). Minus points for thinking, "That's what your room always looks like."

Finally, here is my special helper Lou. He rolled in the slush outside and ran across my stuff more than once. Let's hope my host family doesn't have any pet allergies, because there is enough dog hair clinging to my clothes to weave a throw rug.

Thanks again for reading and for your support. This is the biggest adventure of my life. I'm so blessed and so excited!

Besos!

So it's Sunday night...my last one in the U.S.  As you probably know, my Sunday nights are usually spent sitting around a big old dinner table with my extended family.  We debate.  We laugh.  We consume unimaginable quantities of bleu cheese and healthful vegetarian foods, resulting in unforgivable levels of bad breath and flatulence.  

I'm missing it hardcore.  And it's got me thinking about some of the things I'll covet from afar over the next couple of years.  I'm all for enjoying the present moment, but I think I'd like to commemorate some of my favorite aspects of my recent life in the ATL.  Here goes...

Dinners and outings (particularly those involving Latin dancing) with the Liaison ladies.  Watching LOST and gchatting interminably with Scott Gold.  Calling my mother at least five times each week to shoot the breeze straight to hell.  Bottomless Trader Joe's hummus.  Laughing about my purple obsession with Jordan.  Piedmont Park!  Everybody's Pizza.  Granny's stories and Papa's lessons.  Walking the Emory quad.  Leering at the Cockmaster (you know who I'm talking about) at the corner of Ponce and Briarcliff.  Being a Midtown anti-snob snob.  Brickstore Pub.  Concerts at Variety and the Fabulous Fox.  Waxing nostalgic every time I drive by Highland Lake.  Daytime wandering through Little 5 and the Highlands.  Sheepishly ordering the veggie burger at The Vortex.  Turning up my nose at Atlantic Station.  Running for my life down Ponce.  The Georgia Marathon.  Zipping through downtown on 85 at night.  Coddling my cousins' cats.  Engaging in shameless gossip with the tour guides.  Listening to my brother's music selections on the drive back to Emory.  Laughing at jokes no one else thinks are funny with AJK (you deserve your own post...let's talk it over with some cokes and fettucini alfredo at the Olive Garden?).  A never-ending selection of good Thai and Indian restaurants.  And, yes, MARTA.

Atlanta...

I'm leaving for the Dominican Republic in 5 days!  Let me paint a picture of what I've been up to during the past month.  My last day of work was February 6th.  Here is a sample of some of the things I found while cleaning out my office:

-two toothbrushes, two tubes of toothpaste, and a spool of floss (for days I forgot to brush my teeth before work)-an Emory card from freshman year (I look particularly surly in the photo!)-a block of wood that a prospective student chopped in half and mailed me directly (to demonstrate his karate skills, of course)-a key (to what?!) in an unmarked envelope-20 Chilean pesos-73 cents-9 pairs of shoes (mostly ones with 3+ inch heels that I wore to work and abandoned for flats midday).  Two pairs were actually stowed in the back corner of a lower shelf.  I presume I did this because they stunk to high hell.

But back to the last day.  It was, in a word, emotional.  Everyone was incredibly supportive and kind, making it particularly difficult to say goodbye (thanks guys).  Emory has been my home for 6 years now; I feel like it's where I grew into a person.  As exciting as it is to move on, leaving is still bittersweet.  Luckily, I had one last rendezvouz with some of the awesome tour guides the next week when they totally surprised me with not one but two cakes.  To all the tour guides: you all made my day every day.  I miss you terribly already.  

During the next week or so, I packed up my life in Atlanta, spent time with friends and extended family, and choked up about once an hour.  Just thinking about it makes me begin to sniffle afresh, so I'd better quit while I'm ahead.  Suffice it to say that I have been blessed beyond reason in my life there and I will be back.  After hauling out, I drove up to DC to see some friends (and got my first ever speeding ticket at the South Carolina border).  Dropped my things off in Philadelphia before boarding a bus to New York to see some other friends and dance the night away.  And now I'm finally back in Philly for a few final days with the family.

How am I doing with packing?  Well, clothes, computer accessories, books, and general detritus litter not just my room but the entire house.  Very few items have actually made their way into my suitcase.  I  thought I'd done remarkably well with unloading and donating much of my stuff before leaving Atlanta, but it appears my self-congratulations were premature.  Where am I supposed to store my college notebooks?  I can't just throw them away; what if those notes on the Aztec pantheon hold the key to ending world poverty?  And what to do with my collection of concert tickets?  And old birthday cards?  And tie-dyed t-shirts from second grade?  Is it unreasonable to bring 15 or so novels along for the ride?

I suppose these questions will answer themselves over the next few days and that things will come together just fine.  In the meantime, thanks to all you people (and to Lou the dog) who love me and support me and help me to keep perspective and presence amidst the chaos.

Yes.  It happened.  I ate meat for the first time in 12 years.

Take the photo-journey here: 

www.summerofscott.com/?p=132#more-132

My sincerest thanks to Scott Gold, who came out of early retirement for a day to prepare me a gourmet steak.

The Peace Corps has us each write an "Aspiration Statement" before the beginning of our service. So this is what I aspire to. Keep me accountable.

A: The professional attributes that you plan to use, and what aspirations you hope to fulfill, during your Peace Corps service.

As a Peace Corps Volunteer in the Dominican Republic, I hope to use and build upon the professional skills I have acquired through both work and volunteering. My experiences as an Admission Counselor and tutor have led me to take on a number of different roles and responsibilities: listener, speaker, facilitator, interpreter, learner, informer, confidante, and more. The uniting current of these roles, however, is communication. They all involve creating and maintaining points of connection with other people in varied modes using varied means. They all enable the formation and fulfillment of shared strategies and goals.

I expect that my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer and, more specifically, IT Educator, will require an even more exaggerated multiplicity of roles underpinned and sustained by respectful and caring human relationships. I hope to emphasize genuine and effective communication as both the process and the ultimate objective. To me, working in the IT field means helping people use media and technology to better communicate and further their goals for themselves and their communities on scales large and small. It also means being willing to adapt and sometimes let go of my own ideas, techniques, and expectations to meet the aspirations, needs, and realities of the community I serve. My impact may be very small, but I do believe that I can serve others in a meaningful way. I aspire to let myself undergo meaningful change as a result of the people and places I encounter as well.

B: Your strategies for working effectively with host country partners to meet expressed needs.

My strategies for collaborating with host country partners involve developing my own skill set and knowledge base while also connecting with the people and resources that surround me. I need to work diligently to improve my Spanish and get to know my community and its members. When it comes to undertaking projects and programs, I plan to focus on open-mindedness, attentive listening, and relationship-building.

Beyond just learning about the people and the place, though, I also hope to learn from them and rely on their capacities. I cannot and will not have all the answers, but I can ask questions and find people who have ideas, abilities, and a desire to help. I can identify leaders and ask for their counsel and assistance. When facing challenges, I know I will be grateful for these relationships, and that they will help me maintain flexibility, creativity, and humor.

C: Your strategies for adapting to a new culture with respect to your own cultural background.

I tend to approach cultural learning with curiosity, excitement, and openness. While I anticipate that I will struggle in predictable and unpredictable ways while living in another country, I also believe in my own ability to adapt and grow. As I have done in past overseas experiences, I plan to start by establishing a solid support system of friends in my host community. These individuals can serve as educators and allies, helping me to understand new ideas and traditions and to find myself within them. After twelve years of vegetarianism, I am ready to eat meat, and after a lifetime of being pitifully uncoordinated, I am eager to learn to dance merengue.

I also hope to incorporate some of the things that are important to me in the United States into my life in the Dominican Republic. Reading, writing, running, yoga, and keeping in touch with loved ones can help me practice flexibility and compassion and keep me feeling grounded and supported. I am eager to share anecdotes, stories, and traditions from my own life with members of my host community. Remembering gratitude is another important factor in adjustment; I remind myself every day that I am being given an incredible opportunity. My time as a Peace Corps Volunteer may involve a tremendous amount of work, but is also something to savor and enjoy.

D: The skills and knowledge you hope to gain during pre-service training to best serve your future community and project.

During pre-service training, I look forward to deepening my knowledge and abilities in the IT field. Working in several office environments has given me a basic knowledge of computer systems and applications, and has also afforded me an immense appreciation for the ways technology can connect people and ideas. That being said, I lack formal technical training and would also benefit from a greater understanding of the current technological infrastructure in the Dominican Republic. In the same vein, I am eager to study the nation’s history and culture. I can learn a great deal from books, articles, and films, but nothing can substitute for the experience of living with a host family and spending substantial time overseas. Finally, I hope that the pre-service training will give me the opportunity to enhance my Spanish skills and to learn words specific to the language as it is spoken in the Dominican Republic.

E: How you think Peace Corps service will influence your personal and professional aspirations after your service ends.

It is difficult for me to forecast the ways that my Peace Corps service will influence me personally and professionally. I imagine revelations and changes will unfold slowly, and that I’ll probably smile or even chuckle at my own projections two years from now. Still, I feel reasonably certain that volunteering will effectively explode my world. At the very least, it will dramatically expand my experience of it. While I do not necessarily believe that the majority of my days will be filled with excitement and measured, tangible progress, I do think that they will help me develop skills that I can use in the future to pursue further studies and a long-term profession. Patience, persistence, and adaptability are just a few examples. I love reading, writing, travel, and teaching, and I could see those seeds of interest germinating into a career in education or journalism. Undoubtedly, I will want to share my experiences and insights from my time abroad with everyone I meet. Most importantly, I believe that the Peace Corps will deepen my capacity for empathy and magnify my appreciation of human relationships.

I'm joining the Peace Corps! This is the beginning! Sort of...

Back in 10th grade, my fabulous U.S. History teacher Miss Sharp had the class undertake a major research paper on one aspect or another of our nation's history. I browsed several dozen of her suggested areas of study before one caught my eye: Write about the United States Peace Corps. At that point, I didn't know very much about what the Peace Corps was or what it did, but it sounded pretty great to my idealistic, wanderlusting 15-year-old self.

As it turns out, it's almost 10 years later and I haven't really outgrown the idealism or the fascination with faraway people and places. So much so that I applied. All it involved was writing two essays, completing an almost 30-page application, answering over 200 health questions, and submitting to a series of invasive (and, in the case of the rectal exam, humiliating) medical screenings with various doctors. And waiting. 10 months and 7 days later, my wonderful placement officer gave me the good news that she was inviting me to a program! The next day, a big blue portfolio arrived with news of my assignment...

DOMINICAN REPUBLIC!

Starting in early March, I'll be spending 27 months there volunteering as an IT Educator. Frankly, I don't know if I've ever been more excited about anything in my life; I feel scared and ready. That being said, I know I'll really miss my friends, family, and glorious ATL. That's why I hope you'll keep in touch and send letters...perhaps even put yourself on a plane? It is, after all, the Caribbean :).

Hasta...