I am leaving you.

My mind is made up. We both knew this day would come. I'm outta here. And I'm not going to feel bad about it either. Don't expect any remorse from me. I'm sorry, but I'm just that kind of guy. The kind that offers ZERO apology.

I tried. I really did. Okay, to be fair, we BOTH tried. But mostly me. Our working relationship just didn't work. If we were honest with ourselves and one another a long time ago, we would have accepted that we just weren't cut out for each other. But we were more stubborn than your emblematic donkey. We plowed on. We put on brave smiles of community partnership for the in-laws, and showcased a convincing united front of cross-cultural grass-roots development at our cocktails parties. And in the bedroom, let's face it: we mostly only went through the motions of capacity building.

I must admit that walking out on you prematurely did cross my mind. But as you are aware, early termination is against my religion and thus, I was going to honor my commitment to you and uphold the vows from our swear-in day. I took you to be my island of assignment. In sickness and in health. No, wait. Only in health. For richer or for poorer. Um, no hold on. Only for poorer. Til medical or administrative separation do we part, for as long as we both shall live until my COS date.

I know I wasn't the best volunteer. Far from it. I know now that I made you insecure, jealous, and possessive by spending an inappropriate amount of time with other villages. I knew it bothered you, but I didn't meant to hurt you by it. I just needed to get out every week, you know? And be with communities for a while that would just let me be me. Communities that didn't judge me for my antics at carnival. Communities that didn't ask me to do stuff all the time.

Hey, it's not like you didn't go out of your way to make me jealous first. I didn't need to constantly hear about your former Peace Corps volunteers and how they were so wonderful.

'Warren was so funny!' 'Warren learned my language!' 'Warren introduced me to James Madison University!'

Yeah, yeah. Rub my face in his legacy.

And Mario.

I can't count the times you and I were right there, hot and heavy in the middle of a project, or in flowing social intercourse, and you shamelessly mistakenly call me by his name. Well, newsflash, mountain village! I'm not Mario! Name's Jose, good to meet ya! <door slam>.

Alright, alright. I'm back. I'm better now. Truth is, it doesn't matter whose fault it was. My friends say your expectations were too high. Your friends say I just wasn't mature enough to be a stable, providing volunteer. But we saw it through and basically stayed together for the kids. The sweet, saucy, bright-faced, energetic little kids who are oblivious to my faults except when they overhear you criticizing me.

And I'm glad that I did stay.

No hard feelings. We're both better off for having been together these past two years. Well, let's be honest. I'm better off for having known you. You're better off not from me serving you, but because of your own progression from the development that you are cultivating on your own two feet. And at those two feet lies the crux, little rural community. You never really needed me. And that's nothing to be ashamed of.

You tired me out. But I'll rest on the fond memories we share.

love always,

your peace corps.

I am leaving you.

My mind is made up. We both knew this day would come. I'm outta here. And I'm not going to feel bad about it either. Don't expect any remorse from me. I'm sorry, but I'm just that kind of guy. The kind that offers ZERO apology.

I tried. I really did. Okay, to be fair, we BOTH tried. But mostly me. Our working relationship just didn't work. If we were honest with ourselves and one another a long time ago, we would have accepted that we just weren't cut out for each other. But we were more stubborn than your emblematic donkey. We plowed on. We put on brave smiles of community partnership for the in-laws, and showcased a convincing united front of cross-cultural grass-roots development at our cocktails parties. And in the bedroom, let's face it: we mostly only went through the motions of capacity building.

I must admit that walking out on you prematurely did cross my mind. But as you are aware, early termination is against my religion and thus, I was going to honor my commitment to you and uphold the vows from our swear-in day. I took you to be my island of assignment. In sickness and in health. No, wait. Only in health. For richer or for poorer. Um, no hold on. Only for poorer. Til medical or administrative separation do we part, for as long as we both shall live until my COS date.

I know I wasn't the best volunteer. Far from it. I know now that I made you insecure, jealous, and possessive by spending an inappropriate amount of time with other villages. I knew it bothered you, but I didn't meant to hurt you by it. I just needed to get out every week, you know? And be with communities for a while that would just let me be me. Communities that didn't judge me for my antics at carnival. Communities that didn't ask me to do stuff all the time.

Hey, it's not like you didn't go out of your way to make me jealous first. I didn't need to constantly hear about your former Peace Corps volunteers and how they were so wonderful.

'Warren was so funny!' 'Warren learned my language!' 'Warren introduced me to James Madison University!'

Yeah, yeah. Rub my face in his legacy.

And Mario.

I can't count the times you and I were right there, hot and heavy in the middle of a project, or in flowing social intercourse, and you shamelessly mistakenly call me by his name. Well, newsflash, mountain village! I'm not Mario! Name's Jose, good to meet ya! <door slam>.

Alright, alright. I'm back. I'm better now. Truth is, it doesn't matter whose fault it was. My friends say your expectations were too high. Your friends say I just wasn't mature enough to be a stable, providing volunteer. But we saw it through and basically stayed together for the kids. The sweet, saucy, bright-faced, energetic little kids who are oblivious to my faults except when they overhear you criticizing me.

And I'm glad that I did stay.

No hard feelings. We're both better off for having been together these past two years. Well, let's be honest. I'm better off for having known you. You're better off not from me serving you, but because of your own progression from the development that you are cultivating on your own two feet. And at those two feet lies the crux, little rural community. You never really needed me. And that's nothing to be ashamed of.

You tired me out. But I'll rest on the fond memories we share.

love always,

your peace corps.

I am leaving you.

My mind is made up. We both knew this day would come. I'm outta here. And I'm not going to feel bad about it either. Don't expect any remorse from me. I'm sorry, but I'm just that kind of guy. The kind that offers ZERO apology.

I tried. I really did. Okay, to be fair, we BOTH tried. But mostly me. Our working relationship just didn't work. If we were honest with ourselves and one another a long time ago, we would have accepted that we just weren't cut out for each other. But we were more stubborn than your emblematic donkey. We plowed on. We put on brave smiles of community partnership for the in-laws, and showcased a convincing united front of cross-cultural grass-roots development at our cocktails parties. And in the bedroom, let's face it: we mostly only went through the motions of capacity building.

I must admit that walking out on you prematurely did cross my mind. But as you are aware, early termination is against my religion and thus, I was going to honor my commitment to you and uphold the vows from our swear-in day. I took you to be my island of assignment. In sickness and in health. No, wait. Only in health. For richer or for poorer. Um, no hold on. Only for poorer. Til medical or administrative separation do we part, for as long as we both shall live until my COS date.

I know I wasn't the best volunteer. Far from it. I know now that I made you insecure, jealous, and possessive by spending an inappropriate amount of time with other villages. I knew it bothered you, but I didn't meant to hurt you by it. I just needed to get out every week, you know? And be with communities for a while that would just let me be me. Communities that didn't judge me for my antics at carnival. Communities that didn't ask me to do stuff all the time.

Hey, it's not like you didn't go out of your way to make me jealous first. I didn't need to constantly hear about your former Peace Corps volunteers and how they were so wonderful.

'Warren was so funny!' 'Warren learned my language!' 'Warren introduced me to James Madison University!'

Yeah, yeah. Rub my face in his legacy.

And Mario.

I can't count the times you and I were right there, hot and heavy in the middle of a project, or in flowing social intercourse, and you shamelessly mistakenly call me by his name. Well, newsflash, mountain village! I'm not Mario! Name's Jose, good to meet ya! <door slam>.

Alright, alright. I'm back. I'm better now. Truth is, it doesn't matter whose fault it was. My friends say your expectations were too high. Your friends say I just wasn't mature enough to be a stable, providing volunteer. But we saw it through and basically stayed together for the kids. The sweet, saucy, bright-faced, energetic little kids who are oblivious to my faults except when they overhear you criticizing me.

And I'm glad that I did stay.

No hard feelings. We're both better off for having been together these past two years. Well, let's be honest. I'm better off for having known you. You're better off not from me serving you, but because of your own progression from the development that you are cultivating on your own two feet. And at those two feet lies the crux, little rural community. You never really needed me. And that's nothing to be ashamed of.

You tired me out. But I'll rest on the fond memories we share.

love always,

your peace corps.

Ever since my booster shots in kinder, whenever someone approaches me with a needle, my body gets weak and I start to laugh as if being descended upon by a tickle monster. It earned me extra praise and Alf stickers from the doctor that one time. Maybe that's why, to this day, a needle in my arm continues to elicit the same response. Immunization clinics, blood donation drives, shooting galleries(kidding!). It never fails. And if I actually watch the needle penetrate, I'll literally be in...stitches. ahem.

SO, I'm sitting across from the techie lady, my arm down and exposed, my fist clenched, with a blue-green vein throbbing and asking for it. My face is turned away and suppressing stupid giggles as I feel the tiny pinch. Then I hear the rubbery snap of the latex band shoot off my bicep by itself and a woman's short gasp. I look across from me and the medical assistant has peeled off her gloves and is holding her hand as if she slammed it in a car door.

The blood vial thingy is on the floor but intact, and there are drops of blood trickling from her thumb.

Let me just tell you, it's really disconcerting to watch someone so professional-looking in a white lab coat lose composure. A little thin trail of blood starts oozing down my forearm from where the needle was in me.

I offer her a look of shock and horror and say, "Oh, my god." Immediately followed by, "What the hell happened?"

"I pricked myself," she says.

More shock and horror.

Then I say, "Have you done that before?" For a second, I thought maybe it wasn't a big deal. That she would say, "no worries, this happens all the time", instead of "No!" then yelling for a colleague before going into the bathroom to wash her hands and cry.

"Jesus," I say, as another lady sits down to finish me up. I'm too stunned so my chuckle reflex is disabled this time.

Poor woman. Came into work expecting a typical morning at her job. Instead, she gets a traumatic brush with contamination by icky young foreign peace corps volunteer poison blood. I really do feel bad for scaring her. But little does she know…at the next full moon, the brooding, esoteric magical properties of my blood will enhance her abilities through a twisted Sailor-Moon-like transformation. She will be supercharged with levels of superhuman awesomeness and charm that she won’t know what to do with herself. Remember my good woman, with great kick-ass awesomess, comes great kick-ass responsibility. It’s a blessing….and a curse!

Ever since my booster shots in kinder, whenever someone approaches me with a needle, my body gets weak and I start to laugh as if being descended upon by a tickle monster. It earned me extra praise and Alf stickers from the doctor that one time. Maybe that's why, to this day, a needle in my arm continues to elicit the same response. Immunization clinics, blood donation drives, shooting galleries(kidding!). It never fails. And if I actually watch the needle penetrate, I'll literally be in...stitches. ahem.

SO, I'm sitting across from the techie lady, my arm down and exposed, my fist clenched, with a blue-green vein throbbing and asking for it. My face is turned away and suppressing stupid giggles as I feel the tiny pinch. Then I hear the rubbery snap of the latex band shoot off my bicep by itself and a woman's short gasp. I look across from me and the medical assistant has peeled off her gloves and is holding her hand as if she slammed it in a car door.

The blood vial thingy is on the floor but intact, and there are drops of blood trickling from her thumb.

Let me just tell you, it's really disconcerting to watch someone so professional-looking in a white lab coat lose composure. A little thin trail of blood starts oozing down my forearm from where the needle was in me.

I offer her a look of shock and horror and say, "Oh, my god." Immediately followed by, "What the hell happened?"

"I pricked myself," she says.

More shock and horror.

Then I say, "Have you done that before?" For a second, I thought maybe it wasn't a big deal. That she would say, "no worries, this happens all the time", instead of "No!" then yelling for a colleague before going into the bathroom to wash her hands and cry.

"Jesus," I say, as another lady sits down to finish me up. I'm too stunned so my chuckle reflex is disabled this time.

Poor woman. Came into work expecting a typical morning at her job. Instead, she gets a traumatic brush with contamination by icky young foreign peace corps volunteer poison blood. I really do feel bad for scaring her. But little does she know…at the next full moon, the brooding, esoteric magical properties of my blood will enhance her abilities through a twisted Sailor-Moon-like transformation. She will be supercharged with levels of superhuman awesomeness and charm that she won’t know what to do with herself. Remember my good woman, with great kick-ass awesomess, comes great kick-ass responsibility. It’s a blessing….and a curse!

Ever since my booster shots in kinder, whenever someone approaches me with a needle, my body gets weak and I start to laugh as if being descended upon by a tickle monster. It earned me extra praise and Alf stickers from the doctor that one time. Maybe that's why, to this day, a needle in my arm continues to elicit the same response. Immunization clinics, blood donation drives, shooting galleries(kidding!). It never fails. And if I actually watch the needle penetrate, I'll literally be in...stitches. ahem.

SO, I'm sitting across from the techie lady, my arm down and exposed, my fist clenched, with a blue-green vein throbbing and asking for it. My face is turned away and suppressing stupid giggles as I feel the tiny pinch. Then I hear the rubbery snap of the latex band shoot off my bicep by itself and a woman's short gasp. I look across from me and the medical assistant has peeled off her gloves and is holding her hand as if she slammed it in a car door.

The blood vial thingy is on the floor but intact, and there are drops of blood trickling from her thumb.

Let me just tell you, it's really disconcerting to watch someone so professional-looking in a white lab coat lose composure. A little thin trail of blood starts oozing down my forearm from where the needle was in me.

I offer her a look of shock and horror and say, "Oh, my god." Immediately followed by, "What the hell happened?"

"I pricked myself," she says.

More shock and horror.

Then I say, "Have you done that before?" For a second, I thought maybe it wasn't a big deal. That she would say, "no worries, this happens all the time", instead of "No!" then yelling for a colleague before going into the bathroom to wash her hands and cry.

"Jesus," I say, as another lady sits down to finish me up. I'm too stunned so my chuckle reflex is disabled this time.

Poor woman. Came into work expecting a typical morning at her job. Instead, she gets a traumatic brush with contamination by icky young foreign peace corps volunteer poison blood. I really do feel bad for scaring her. But little does she know…at the next full moon, the brooding, esoteric magical properties of my blood will enhance her abilities through a twisted Sailor-Moon-like transformation. She will be supercharged with levels of superhuman awesomeness and charm that she won’t know what to do with herself. Remember my good woman, with great kick-ass awesomess, comes great kick-ass responsibility. It’s a blessing….and a curse!

There is only one appropriate kind of sense of humor for a young bloke who unconventionally spells his name with a "y". the type of humor where a person is funniest when they're not trying to be. Such is Tym.

Laughing at someone's unintended jokes sounds a little like laughing at them, but it most definitely isn't. But you aren't really laughing with the person either. It's more like a laughing towards the person, maybe? Laughing in their general direction?

Anyway, there is just something sweeter about these morsels because for their rarity and off-the-cuff freshness. Such is Tym.

Alot of it is contextual and in the delivery, so basically, you "really had to be there". And I'm sure there are better examples from the past two years but here are some of my faves/most recent quips from Tymothy:

Concerning Latin Night

(over blaring salsa rhythms, edge of the dance floor, yelling in my ear)

Tym: All the men here are very short!

Me: (shrugging) Don't know what to tell ya. Alot of Latino guys are generally pret-(interrupted by Tym, who's getting caught up in the disorientation/awe he's feeling in this new hot-blooded, hobbity world of caribbean latin music that he's entered )

Tym: I feel like a giant!

The next morning, hungover/over breakfast:

Tym: That whole culture is something I'm very unfamiliar with. When I see it, it just feels the most foreign.

Me: Hispanic culture? Really?

Tym: No, dancing.

Concerning Putting a Couchsurfer on the couch

me: (teasing) Tym, why didn't you let him share your bed? you homophobe...

Tym: What?! I'm no homophobe, he was a shower-phobe, that's why.

Alright, that last one doesn't count. It was an actual attempt at a little joke. But it got a rise out of me at the time.

There is only one appropriate kind of sense of humor for a young bloke who unconventionally spells his name with a "y". the type of humor where a person is funniest when they're not trying to be. Such is Tym.

Laughing at someone's unintended jokes sounds a little like laughing at them, but it most definitely isn't. But you aren't really laughing with the person either. It's more like a laughing towards the person, maybe? Laughing in their general direction?

Anyway, there is just something sweeter about these morsels because for their rarity and off-the-cuff freshness. Such is Tym.

Alot of it is contextual and in the delivery, so basically, you "really had to be there". And I'm sure there are better examples from the past two years but here are some of my faves/most recent quips from Tymothy:

Concerning Latin Night

(over blaring salsa rhythms, edge of the dance floor, yelling in my ear)

Tym: All the men here are very short!

Me: (shrugging) Don't know what to tell ya. Alot of Latino guys are generally pret-(interrupted by Tym, who's getting caught up in the disorientation/awe he's feeling in this new hot-blooded, hobbity world of caribbean latin music that he's entered )

Tym: I feel like a giant!

The next morning, hungover/over breakfast:

Tym: That whole culture is something I'm very unfamiliar with. When I see it, it just feels the most foreign.

Me: Hispanic culture? Really?

Tym: No, dancing.

Concerning Putting a Couchsurfer on the couch

me: (teasing) Tym, why didn't you let him share your bed? you homophobe...

Tym: What?! I'm no homophobe, he was a shower-phobe, that's why.

Alright, that last one doesn't count. It was an actual attempt at a little joke. But it got a rise out of me at the time.

There is only one appropriate kind of sense of humor for a young bloke who unconventionally spells his name with a "y". the type of humor where a person is funniest when they're not trying to be. Such is Tym.

Laughing at someone's unintended jokes sounds a little like laughing at them, but it most definitely isn't. But you aren't really laughing with the person either. It's more like a laughing towards the person, maybe? Laughing in their general direction?

Anyway, there is just something sweeter about these morsels because for their rarity and off-the-cuff freshness. Such is Tym.

Alot of it is contextual and in the delivery, so basically, you "really had to be there". And I'm sure there are better examples from the past two years but here are some of my faves/most recent quips from Tymothy:

Concerning Latin Night

(over blaring salsa rhythms, edge of the dance floor, yelling in my ear)

Tym: All the men here are very short!

Me: (shrugging) Don't know what to tell ya. Alot of Latino guys are generally pret-(interrupted by Tym, who's getting caught up in the disorientation/awe he's feeling in this new hot-blooded, hobbity world of caribbean latin music that he's entered )

Tym: I feel like a giant!

The next morning, hungover/over breakfast:

Tym: That whole culture is something I'm very unfamiliar with. When I see it, it just feels the most foreign.

Me: Hispanic culture? Really?

Tym: No, dancing.

Concerning Putting a Couchsurfer on the couch

me: (teasing) Tym, why didn't you let him share your bed? you homophobe...

Tym: What?! I'm no homophobe, he was a shower-phobe, that's why.

Alright, that last one doesn't count. It was an actual attempt at a little joke. But it got a rise out of me at the time.

It's time. For that special, momentous point in every PCVs service where we produce three different poop samples and store them in our refrigerators until it's time to take them to the lab in the capital. Just want to be sure no various parasites and ova manage to hitch a ride stateside.

I'm particularly looking foward to carting these Caribbean steamers on an hour and half long bus ride from my village. Should be fun. If the COS conference didn't mark it enough, this little medical indignity does so in earnest: The end of service is near.

It's time. For that special, momentous point in every PCVs service where we produce three different poop samples and store them in our refrigerators until it's time to take them to the lab in the capital. Just want to be sure no various parasites and ova manage to hitch a ride stateside.

I'm particularly looking foward to carting these Caribbean steamers on an hour and half long bus ride from my village. Should be fun. If the COS conference didn't mark it enough, this little medical indignity does so in earnest: The end of service is near.

It's time. For that special, momentous point in every PCVs service where we produce three different poop samples and store them in our refrigerators until it's time to take them to the lab in the capital. Just want to be sure no various parasites and ova manage to hitch a ride stateside.

I'm particularly looking foward to carting these Caribbean steamers on an hour and half long bus ride from my village. Should be fun. If the COS conference didn't mark it enough, this little medical indignity does so in earnest: The end of service is near.

Alright, so let’s fast forward through the Sunday chapter and get to Monday, the big day of the first annual Dominica Treasure Trek. It was a race to end all races. Starting at the international dateline, we were to traverse around the globe. The queen herself would drop the checkered flag…well, maybe not that momentous. It started at the Kairi Fm radio station in town and would end eight miles up the western coast of island. So still kinda momentous, right? I mean, we like, had to show up there at totally 4:30 am in the morning and stuff. They actually awarded points for teams who managed to get there on time, which was a good call when wanting to start an organized event before sunrise in a location accustomed to running on island time. There were 13 teams, all made up of people from local workplaces and organizations, except for the two teams comprised of Peace Corps Volunteers. They consisted of the BEST INDIES represented by myself, Jerome, Amanda, Tym, and Anna. And BEACH CORPS (pffft, yeah, real original) put together by Nate, Brenden, Zac, Veronica, and Becky. There were five challenges along the way that had to be completed as a team for points if successfully done, and the finish line had to be crossed by all members if the team was to finish and place. There was no dramatic, definitive cap gun start to signify that the race had started. There was a reiteration of the rules by one of the promoters, then a sort of confused stare-down between her and all the teams. And then she gave a sort of, “well, go on, get outta here.” And thus, the race began. No one intended to run the entire way. But I suggested we run 5 minutes and walk 1 minute the entire way, not having trained whatsoever for the event. “Anyone can do that indefinitely!” I said. It turns out this is very untrue. Running 1 minute and walking 5 minutes to recover over the course of 8 miles of asphalt was excruciating enough. We were off to a shaky start. You see, the Beach Corps had decided to implement tortoise-steady pacing approach to the race, meaning they didn’t intend to run AT ALL. The hares on my team were ready to mock this brisk-walking approach as they pulled ahead of Beach Corps and tried to make their way in front of the Dominican teams. At least, they would have, if I wasn’t walking briskly alongside the Beach Corps members. Remember, nothing counts unless all your team members are together. I’m kind of known for being chronically non-competitive and putting too much emphasis on trivial things like fun and self-esteem, and thus, the vulnerable link in the BEST INDIES super chain of awesomeness. I chatted up Brenden, who I hadn’t seen in a while. I talked to Veronica, who I hadn’t seen since the Derby party and we remarked on the sunrise. I received backward glances from my team mates who had jogged ahead, trying to set a lead. Amanda was getting annoyed that I was fraternizing with our competition. I already knew what she was thinking: I swear to god, if you try and sabotage our team later because we’re winning by too much… Well, I don’t really know how she would finish that thought, I don’t really want to. So I just yelled, “What’s this race going to matter in 30 years? It’s the friendships that’ll last a lifetime!” Beach Corps agreed and Veronica put her arm around me. “Tym, go get him,” said Amanda, Tym jogged back to find me talking to Zac about how Robert Downey Jr. makes a great Iron Man.

-“Let’s go.”

-“Aww, but a muscle-y boy is talking to me about comic books!”

-“Now.” I ran with Tym as we crossed the bridge out of town and joined our team where we moved into prime position and I never looked back. I winded myself once, trying to catch a chicken in a gutter and had to stop to catch my breath. And another time I stopped to smell a pretty flower, but other than that, my head was back in the game. We were the first to reach the first station. The task was to put together a 100 piece puzzle of teddy bears getting married and then continue the race. The BEST INDIES were on fire. We delegated edges, assigned colors, negotiated backgrounds, consulted box tops. Well, by we, I mean my team mates. How do you expect someone with no drive to win to do at a leisure activity turned into a scored event? I really helped my team there by getting out of the way. We were the first to finish. There were reporters actually commentating this stuff. I was hoping to have a mic thrust in my face so I could say, “It’s all about communication, Davidson. Communication. But we’d like to thank Almighty God.” The BEST INDIES take the lead. After each completed task, we were given a small inflated ball we had to carry safely to the finish line.

The Beach Corps arrived a long time later but finished the puzzle in a matter of seconds and continued on their way. Puzzle arrangement may be slanted in American favor as all the other Dominican teams struggled visibly. “Hurry, the white people are done, we have to catch them!” was rumored to have been remarked. The police force had a team who took about an hour to complete the cardboard puzzle. Tym (whose home was invaded twice this year and had to do his own investigative work) said dryly and hilariously, “How can they expect to solve crimes if they can’t even solve a jigsaw puzzle?” The next station was a trivia bombardment. The answers were kangaroo, soccer, Brazil, your name, and Selena. That last one was my time to shine. In between the stations, it was a cross-country course along the Caribbean sea, across rivers, along palm tree forests, and mountain cliffs, through villages, past heavy construction equipment, and under wide, expansive sky. We got to the third station. We were still leaders of the pack but paranoid that Beach Corps was going to speed walk around the corner any given second. Anyway, we were met by white, long thin fiberglass tubes are placed on wooden cross planks. Finally! Almost two years in the Caribbean and not a single opportunity for me to limbo had arisen until this point. Amanda, Anna, and I bent over backwards like pros. Jerome and Tym, gangly, tall and with agonizing knee pain had to attempt it repeatedly. Jesus, let me just say that it’s good the judges weren’t scoring points on looking pretty. It was not fun to watch the back-breaking struggle. Especially poor Tym. A trooper, that guy. Very proud of him. Although, I have to come clean here. It happened. We all saw it happen. And we never spoke of it. To this day. Tym really was trying very hard. He fell down, once on his back and then again on his front and always knocking the bar down. I seriously thought he was going to break in thirds at the knees. He finally cleared the bar without falling or making it fall, but not without lifting it slightly with his schnozze. The judges let us have it, even though the rules said WITHOUT TOUCHING the limbo stick. I didn’t have the heart to make Tym do it again and if I refused the points, it would look like I was sabotaging us like I do during Cranium. So we just went on. But technically, we don’t deserve our perfect score. There, I said it. I can sleep now. Anyway, whenever we saw a white umbrella advertising the sponsoring cell phone company that marked the next challenge station, no matter how tired and sore we felt, we ran at full sprint in excitement of reaching our next challenge. At this one, we were met by a table with pasties in blue Styrofoam bowls with glasses of water next to them. Anyone who’s ever read Arthurian legends or any other childhood fantasy stories or questing myths, knows that when you’re on a physical journey with a group of companions, especially a journey full of tasks and tests, you never just grab and eat food or drink something that just appears unexpectedly and invitingly. But like Abu the monkey, picking up a big ruby and making the Cave of Wonders collapse on Aladdin’s head, Amanda was all,

“Oooh, a snack! I’m famished!” and reached out to grab the raisin Danish. “Amanda, wait!” I yelled. Organizers from the radio station rushed forward, put their hands out, and themselves yelled, “No!” We mustn’t touch the buns with our hands at any point. Or we would be disqualified. Phew, talk about your close calls. The coordinator explained, “You will eat these buns doggy-style.”

Ahem.

Meaning, with our hands behind our backs, the challenge would not completed until all team members had each finished their own bun. There was no rush, we had plenty of time. The bun was tasty. Amanda and I offered advice to the team: I said, “Hey, it’s easier if you press the air out of it with your face!” Amanda said, “Just spit water on it and slurp it down!” Both suggestions were gross but hers worked best. Score another victory for the BEST INDIES! We ran. We walked. We were full of morale, blistered feet and ruined knees. We won first place. The last challenge was an anti-climactic carrying of a bag of sand to the finish line. It was great. The organizers made a beach the end of the race. So we could continue jogging right into the water to cool off. Everyone hung out until all teams crossed the finish line and Beach Corps even came in third place. We won a schnazzy trophy, 1500 dollars, and a spa day. Yay.



Best Indies had the balls needed to win.

I stretched out my aching hammies. God smiled his approval of our victory with a rainbow. I begin to think I could grow to like winning.

Alright, so let’s fast forward through the Sunday chapter and get to Monday, the big day of the first annual Dominica Treasure Trek. It was a race to end all races. Starting at the international dateline, we were to traverse around the globe. The queen herself would drop the checkered flag…well, maybe not that momentous. It started at the Kairi Fm radio station in town and would end eight miles up the western coast of island. So still kinda momentous, right? I mean, we like, had to show up there at totally 4:30 am in the morning and stuff. They actually awarded points for teams who managed to get there on time, which was a good call when wanting to start an organized event before sunrise in a location accustomed to running on island time. There were 13 teams, all made up of people from local workplaces and organizations, except for the two teams comprised of Peace Corps Volunteers. They consisted of the BEST INDIES represented by myself, Jerome, Amanda, Tym, and Anna. And BEACH CORPS (pffft, yeah, real original) put together by Nate, Brenden, Zac, Veronica, and Becky. There were five challenges along the way that had to be completed as a team for points if successfully done, and the finish line had to be crossed by all members if the team was to finish and place. There was no dramatic, definitive cap gun start to signify that the race had started. There was a reiteration of the rules by one of the promoters, then a sort of confused stare-down between her and all the teams. And then she gave a sort of, “well, go on, get outta here.” And thus, the race began. No one intended to run the entire way. But I suggested we run 5 minutes and walk 1 minute the entire way, not having trained whatsoever for the event. “Anyone can do that indefinitely!” I said. It turns out this is very untrue. Running 1 minute and walking 5 minutes to recover over the course of 8 miles of asphalt was excruciating enough. We were off to a shaky start. You see, the Beach Corps had decided to implement tortoise-steady pacing approach to the race, meaning they didn’t intend to run AT ALL. The hares on my team were ready to mock this brisk-walking approach as they pulled ahead of Beach Corps and tried to make their way in front of the Dominican teams. At least, they would have, if I wasn’t walking briskly alongside the Beach Corps members. Remember, nothing counts unless all your team members are together. I’m kind of known for being chronically non-competitive and putting too much emphasis on trivial things like fun and self-esteem, and thus, the vulnerable link in the BEST INDIES super chain of awesomeness. I chatted up Brenden, who I hadn’t seen in a while. I talked to Veronica, who I hadn’t seen since the Derby party and we remarked on the sunrise. I received backward glances from my team mates who had jogged ahead, trying to set a lead. Amanda was getting annoyed that I was fraternizing with our competition. I already knew what she was thinking: I swear to god, if you try and sabotage our team later because we’re winning by too much… Well, I don’t really know how she would finish that thought, I don’t really want to. So I just yelled, “What’s this race going to matter in 30 years? It’s the friendships that’ll last a lifetime!” Beach Corps agreed and Veronica put her arm around me. “Tym, go get him,” said Amanda, Tym jogged back to find me talking to Zac about how Robert Downey Jr. makes a great Iron Man.

-“Let’s go.”

-“Aww, but a muscle-y boy is talking to me about comic books!”

-“Now.” I ran with Tym as we crossed the bridge out of town and joined our team where we moved into prime position and I never looked back. I winded myself once, trying to catch a chicken in a gutter and had to stop to catch my breath. And another time I stopped to smell a pretty flower, but other than that, my head was back in the game. We were the first to reach the first station. The task was to put together a 100 piece puzzle of teddy bears getting married and then continue the race. The BEST INDIES were on fire. We delegated edges, assigned colors, negotiated backgrounds, consulted box tops. Well, by we, I mean my team mates. How do you expect someone with no drive to win to do at a leisure activity turned into a scored event? I really helped my team there by getting out of the way. We were the first to finish. There were reporters actually commentating this stuff. I was hoping to have a mic thrust in my face so I could say, “It’s all about communication, Davidson. Communication. But we’d like to thank Almighty God.” The BEST INDIES take the lead. After each completed task, we were given a small inflated ball we had to carry safely to the finish line.

The Beach Corps arrived a long time later but finished the puzzle in a matter of seconds and continued on their way. Puzzle arrangement may be slanted in American favor as all the other Dominican teams struggled visibly. “Hurry, the white people are done, we have to catch them!” was rumored to have been remarked. The police force had a team who took about an hour to complete the cardboard puzzle. Tym (whose home was invaded twice this year and had to do his own investigative work) said dryly and hilariously, “How can they expect to solve crimes if they can’t even solve a jigsaw puzzle?” The next station was a trivia bombardment. The answers were kangaroo, soccer, Brazil, your name, and Selena. That last one was my time to shine. In between the stations, it was a cross-country course along the Caribbean sea, across rivers, along palm tree forests, and mountain cliffs, through villages, past heavy construction equipment, and under wide, expansive sky. We got to the third station. We were still leaders of the pack but paranoid that Beach Corps was going to speed walk around the corner any given second. Anyway, we were met by white, long thin fiberglass tubes are placed on wooden cross planks. Finally! Almost two years in the Caribbean and not a single opportunity for me to limbo had arisen until this point. Amanda, Anna, and I bent over backwards like pros. Jerome and Tym, gangly, tall and with agonizing knee pain had to attempt it repeatedly. Jesus, let me just say that it’s good the judges weren’t scoring points on looking pretty. It was not fun to watch the back-breaking struggle. Especially poor Tym. A trooper, that guy. Very proud of him. Although, I have to come clean here. It happened. We all saw it happen. And we never spoke of it. To this day. Tym really was trying very hard. He fell down, once on his back and then again on his front and always knocking the bar down. I seriously thought he was going to break in thirds at the knees. He finally cleared the bar without falling or making it fall, but not without lifting it slightly with his schnozze. The judges let us have it, even though the rules said WITHOUT TOUCHING the limbo stick. I didn’t have the heart to make Tym do it again and if I refused the points, it would look like I was sabotaging us like I do during Cranium. So we just went on. But technically, we don’t deserve our perfect score. There, I said it. I can sleep now. Anyway, whenever we saw a white umbrella advertising the sponsoring cell phone company that marked the next challenge station, no matter how tired and sore we felt, we ran at full sprint in excitement of reaching our next challenge. At this one, we were met by a table with pasties in blue Styrofoam bowls with glasses of water next to them. Anyone who’s ever read Arthurian legends or any other childhood fantasy stories or questing myths, knows that when you’re on a physical journey with a group of companions, especially a journey full of tasks and tests, you never just grab and eat food or drink something that just appears unexpectedly and invitingly. But like Abu the monkey, picking up a big ruby and making the Cave of Wonders collapse on Aladdin’s head, Amanda was all,

“Oooh, a snack! I’m famished!” and reached out to grab the raisin Danish. “Amanda, wait!” I yelled. Organizers from the radio station rushed forward, put their hands out, and themselves yelled, “No!” We mustn’t touch the buns with our hands at any point. Or we would be disqualified. Phew, talk about your close calls. The coordinator explained, “You will eat these buns doggy-style.”

Ahem.

Meaning, with our hands behind our backs, the challenge would not completed until all team members had each finished their own bun. There was no rush, we had plenty of time. The bun was tasty. Amanda and I offered advice to the team: I said, “Hey, it’s easier if you press the air out of it with your face!” Amanda said, “Just spit water on it and slurp it down!” Both suggestions were gross but hers worked best. Score another victory for the BEST INDIES! We ran. We walked. We were full of morale, blistered feet and ruined knees. We won first place. The last challenge was an anti-climactic carrying of a bag of sand to the finish line. It was great. The organizers made a beach the end of the race. So we could continue jogging right into the water to cool off. Everyone hung out until all teams crossed the finish line and Beach Corps even came in third place. We won a schnazzy trophy, 1500 dollars, and a spa day. Yay.



Best Indies had the balls needed to win.

I stretched out my aching hammies. God smiled his approval of our victory with a rainbow. I begin to think I could grow to like winning.

Alright, so let’s fast forward through the Sunday chapter and get to Monday, the big day of the first annual Dominica Treasure Trek. It was a race to end all races. Starting at the international dateline, we were to traverse around the globe. The queen herself would drop the checkered flag…well, maybe not that momentous. It started at the Kairi Fm radio station in town and would end eight miles up the western coast of island. So still kinda momentous, right? I mean, we like, had to show up there at totally 4:30 am in the morning and stuff. They actually awarded points for teams who managed to get there on time, which was a good call when wanting to start an organized event before sunrise in a location accustomed to running on island time. There were 13 teams, all made up of people from local workplaces and organizations, except for the two teams comprised of Peace Corps Volunteers. They consisted of the BEST INDIES represented by myself, Jerome, Amanda, Tym, and Anna. And BEACH CORPS (pffft, yeah, real original) put together by Nate, Brenden, Zac, Veronica, and Becky. There were five challenges along the way that had to be completed as a team for points if successfully done, and the finish line had to be crossed by all members if the team was to finish and place. There was no dramatic, definitive cap gun start to signify that the race had started. There was a reiteration of the rules by one of the promoters, then a sort of confused stare-down between her and all the teams. And then she gave a sort of, “well, go on, get outta here.” And thus, the race began. No one intended to run the entire way. But I suggested we run 5 minutes and walk 1 minute the entire way, not having trained whatsoever for the event. “Anyone can do that indefinitely!” I said. It turns out this is very untrue. Running 1 minute and walking 5 minutes to recover over the course of 8 miles of asphalt was excruciating enough. We were off to a shaky start. You see, the Beach Corps had decided to implement tortoise-steady pacing approach to the race, meaning they didn’t intend to run AT ALL. The hares on my team were ready to mock this brisk-walking approach as they pulled ahead of Beach Corps and tried to make their way in front of the Dominican teams. At least, they would have, if I wasn’t walking briskly alongside the Beach Corps members. Remember, nothing counts unless all your team members are together. I’m kind of known for being chronically non-competitive and putting too much emphasis on trivial things like fun and self-esteem, and thus, the vulnerable link in the BEST INDIES super chain of awesomeness. I chatted up Brenden, who I hadn’t seen in a while. I talked to Veronica, who I hadn’t seen since the Derby party and we remarked on the sunrise. I received backward glances from my team mates who had jogged ahead, trying to set a lead. Amanda was getting annoyed that I was fraternizing with our competition. I already knew what she was thinking: I swear to god, if you try and sabotage our team later because we’re winning by too much… Well, I don’t really know how she would finish that thought, I don’t really want to. So I just yelled, “What’s this race going to matter in 30 years? It’s the friendships that’ll last a lifetime!” Beach Corps agreed and Veronica put her arm around me. “Tym, go get him,” said Amanda, Tym jogged back to find me talking to Zac about how Robert Downey Jr. makes a great Iron Man.

-“Let’s go.”

-“Aww, but a muscle-y boy is talking to me about comic books!”

-“Now.” I ran with Tym as we crossed the bridge out of town and joined our team where we moved into prime position and I never looked back. I winded myself once, trying to catch a chicken in a gutter and had to stop to catch my breath. And another time I stopped to smell a pretty flower, but other than that, my head was back in the game. We were the first to reach the first station. The task was to put together a 100 piece puzzle of teddy bears getting married and then continue the race. The BEST INDIES were on fire. We delegated edges, assigned colors, negotiated backgrounds, consulted box tops. Well, by we, I mean my team mates. How do you expect someone with no drive to win to do at a leisure activity turned into a scored event? I really helped my team there by getting out of the way. We were the first to finish. There were reporters actually commentating this stuff. I was hoping to have a mic thrust in my face so I could say, “It’s all about communication, Davidson. Communication. But we’d like to thank Almighty God.” The BEST INDIES take the lead. After each completed task, we were given a small inflated ball we had to carry safely to the finish line.

The Beach Corps arrived a long time later but finished the puzzle in a matter of seconds and continued on their way. Puzzle arrangement may be slanted in American favor as all the other Dominican teams struggled visibly. “Hurry, the white people are done, we have to catch them!” was rumored to have been remarked. The police force had a team who took about an hour to complete the cardboard puzzle. Tym (whose home was invaded twice this year and had to do his own investigative work) said dryly and hilariously, “How can they expect to solve crimes if they can’t even solve a jigsaw puzzle?” The next station was a trivia bombardment. The answers were kangaroo, soccer, Brazil, your name, and Selena. That last one was my time to shine. In between the stations, it was a cross-country course along the Caribbean sea, across rivers, along palm tree forests, and mountain cliffs, through villages, past heavy construction equipment, and under wide, expansive sky. We got to the third station. We were still leaders of the pack but paranoid that Beach Corps was going to speed walk around the corner any given second. Anyway, we were met by white, long thin fiberglass tubes are placed on wooden cross planks. Finally! Almost two years in the Caribbean and not a single opportunity for me to limbo had arisen until this point. Amanda, Anna, and I bent over backwards like pros. Jerome and Tym, gangly, tall and with agonizing knee pain had to attempt it repeatedly. Jesus, let me just say that it’s good the judges weren’t scoring points on looking pretty. It was not fun to watch the back-breaking struggle. Especially poor Tym. A trooper, that guy. Very proud of him. Although, I have to come clean here. It happened. We all saw it happen. And we never spoke of it. To this day. Tym really was trying very hard. He fell down, once on his back and then again on his front and always knocking the bar down. I seriously thought he was going to break in thirds at the knees. He finally cleared the bar without falling or making it fall, but not without lifting it slightly with his schnozze. The judges let us have it, even though the rules said WITHOUT TOUCHING the limbo stick. I didn’t have the heart to make Tym do it again and if I refused the points, it would look like I was sabotaging us like I do during Cranium. So we just went on. But technically, we don’t deserve our perfect score. There, I said it. I can sleep now. Anyway, whenever we saw a white umbrella advertising the sponsoring cell phone company that marked the next challenge station, no matter how tired and sore we felt, we ran at full sprint in excitement of reaching our next challenge. At this one, we were met by a table with pasties in blue Styrofoam bowls with glasses of water next to them. Anyone who’s ever read Arthurian legends or any other childhood fantasy stories or questing myths, knows that when you’re on a physical journey with a group of companions, especially a journey full of tasks and tests, you never just grab and eat food or drink something that just appears unexpectedly and invitingly. But like Abu the monkey, picking up a big ruby and making the Cave of Wonders collapse on Aladdin’s head, Amanda was all,

“Oooh, a snack! I’m famished!” and reached out to grab the raisin Danish. “Amanda, wait!” I yelled. Organizers from the radio station rushed forward, put their hands out, and themselves yelled, “No!” We mustn’t touch the buns with our hands at any point. Or we would be disqualified. Phew, talk about your close calls. The coordinator explained, “You will eat these buns doggy-style.”

Ahem.

Meaning, with our hands behind our backs, the challenge would not completed until all team members had each finished their own bun. There was no rush, we had plenty of time. The bun was tasty. Amanda and I offered advice to the team: I said, “Hey, it’s easier if you press the air out of it with your face!” Amanda said, “Just spit water on it and slurp it down!” Both suggestions were gross but hers worked best. Score another victory for the BEST INDIES! We ran. We walked. We were full of morale, blistered feet and ruined knees. We won first place. The last challenge was an anti-climactic carrying of a bag of sand to the finish line. It was great. The organizers made a beach the end of the race. So we could continue jogging right into the water to cool off. Everyone hung out until all teams crossed the finish line and Beach Corps even came in third place. We won a schnazzy trophy, 1500 dollars, and a spa day. Yay.



Best Indies had the balls needed to win.

I stretched out my aching hammies. God smiled his approval of our victory with a rainbow. I begin to think I could grow to like winning.

At about 8:30 or 9pm, this little guy was all tuckered out. I asked Zac to take me home so that I could pass out on his floor. The next morning, I stayed over at his place reading the beginning chapters of novels, grilling sandwiches on the George I-have-a-home-in-St-Lucia-and-I-can-be seen running-through-the-village-of-Micoud Foreman grill. Whenever I visit someone or have someone over on comfortably lazy Saturdays it makes me wish sometimes Peace Corps volunteers were set up as roommates in their sites. The village rests on an outcropping of headland that divides the easy-flowing type B personality of the Caribbean Sea from the neurotic agitation and occasional roughness of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a great snorkeling spot that I had never been to before then. I made Zac take me swimming. The water and tiny little beach near his home was idyllic. The island has great spots like these. Its not wide, soft, white-sanded manicured beachfronts. But an obscure little area with signs warning of toxic plants; with dark volcanic soil peppered a little with fishnet, line, shiny colored plastic and other fishing refuse and local rubbish. But the water is still and clear. I waded and somersaulted in. I didn’t have goggles but I still kept my hungry eyes open underwater to eat up the turquoise blues and emerald greens and mossy browns. It's all very blurry and ethereal. Try to picture this with strong midmorning sun rays penetrating the water surface above you lighting up everything like Annie Leibovitz’s Little Mermaid portrait of Julianne Moore and Michael Phelps. Only exponentially better than CGI photography.

We shared the seashore with other passing bathers. A young very tan French mom with an adorable, excitable little French boy in blonde dreadlocks. A young, affectionate fit black Caribbean family. A not-so-fit middle-aged Martiniqaise man in an unsettling black thong speedo. Thong speedo. Zac and I hung out on the rocks for a few hours during which he came out to me as a fanboy. I was very happy and supportive. I enjoyed discussing comics, superhero movies, and sci-fi with him. Eventually in the day, I headed over to town again. It was Saturday and the day of the 134th Kentucky Derby. Danielle who is from Louisville, planned a party to be held at her house to commemorate the occasion. I went to her village near the capital with a bunch of other volunteers and Danielle’s Dominican host family. I was never interested much in thorough-bred horseracing but the party’s theme touches (sugary mint juleps, a derby hat contest and place-betting) and the climactic two minutes of the actual race makes it easy to get excited over.

Danielle's host mom chose the best entry from Nate and these camptown ladies. Nate's hat won with his Nature Isle theme. Way to pander to the judges.

It was also really sweet to see Danielle’s nostalgia for the traditions of the event and what it meant for her. I hadn’t realized how synonymous horse breeding and racing is with the Bluegrass region of the United States and it was interesting to see someone’s homesickness hinge on a lavish, fanfare, equestrian event. I feel that came across in her hosting. It made for a fun time. A great time for her to surround herself with her current friends and surrogate family. Rhi won the pool of money, having her money ride on Big Brown. What was disconcerting to watch though was Eight Belles, the only filly in the race and first female in almost a decade to run the Kentucky Derby. She came in second place but not without fucking snapping both her front ankles and being euthanized on the track, It was commented later that this was the first fatality like that at the derby but Danielle says that sort of thing happens all the time at races. So it was only that, and watching the Southern aristocratic joy of wealthy, connected people winning money and becoming slightly richer (“Huzzah! A jackpot return on our stable investments!”) that makes the race not entirely tasteful for me. Maybe some more mint and bourbon would do the trick. Later in the evening, randomly, a group of agriculture administrators from China assigned to Dominica, swung by with a bottle of red wine and Beijing Olympic Games lapel pins. They live in a house not far from Danielle. Only a young man named Roy from their group spoke English decently so there was a lot of very general communication reduced to thumbs up, high-fives, and pantomime. I got the impression they were a little lonely, isolated, hungry for company outside each other, hoping to interact with the American and Dominican ladies sequestered in the living room, but they had to settle for primary attention from Tym, Jerome, and I sectioned off in the kitchen. They were so interested in Americans and so proudly representative of China, it kind of threw me off. They asked us at one point to list Chinese pop culture references that we were familiar with in the States. This was a very gracious, appropriate party-kitchen cross-cultural conversational request. Better than being quizzed on Chinese economics or history. I wouldn’t know where to begin to ask a fairly intelligent question if that were the case. And the Newsweek articles concerning China I’ve been reading feel too sticky to ask about just having met them.

I wish language worked that way. I would say : Steven Chow Zang Zi Yi! Jackie Chan bok choy orangechicken hidden dragon?

And Roy would answer: Oh, hilaryclinton google cowboy newyork playboy barack obama!Then I would throw my head back in laughter at his impeccable timing and great delivery.

The best I could do was make sure I didn’t reference something Japanese incorrectly as Chinese. I’m sure they would have been forgiving but god, I would have beaten myself up about it for days. Sadly, the way I kept the cultures straight was by replaying memorable scenes from the Simpsons-go-to-Japan! episode alongside the Simpsons-go-to-China! episode in my head.

But I didn't do anything that night worse than give one of them a very confusing jello shot. Poor guy was so politely repulsed.



Though our new Chinese friends were very "western" in mannerisms and affect, I found myself unconsciously speaking with out contractions, acting very deferentially, and actually bowing when offering and receiving compliments. I just couldn't help it. And if you notice in the picture, I even made it a point to drink from a Hello Kitty mug.

ps. Also notice in that pic that I wore the same t shirt the day before at the channel crossing. I've been photographed in that tee far too many times since 2005. The mooing giraffe shirt is hereby retired.

pps. I just remembered Hello Kitty's Sanrio company is Japanese. D'oh!

At about 8:30 or 9pm, this little guy was all tuckered out. I asked Zac to take me home so that I could pass out on his floor. The next morning, I stayed over at his place reading the beginning chapters of novels, grilling sandwiches on the George I-have-a-home-in-St-Lucia-and-I-can-be seen running-through-the-village-of-Micoud Foreman grill. Whenever I visit someone or have someone over on comfortably lazy Saturdays it makes me wish sometimes Peace Corps volunteers were set up as roommates in their sites. The village rests on an outcropping of headland that divides the easy-flowing type B personality of the Caribbean Sea from the neurotic agitation and occasional roughness of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a great snorkeling spot that I had never been to before then. I made Zac take me swimming. The water and tiny little beach near his home was idyllic. The island has great spots like these. Its not wide, soft, white-sanded manicured beachfronts. But an obscure little area with signs warning of toxic plants; with dark volcanic soil peppered a little with fishnet, line, shiny colored plastic and other fishing refuse and local rubbish. But the water is still and clear. I waded and somersaulted in. I didn’t have goggles but I still kept my hungry eyes open underwater to eat up the turquoise blues and emerald greens and mossy browns. It's all very blurry and ethereal. Try to picture this with strong midmorning sun rays penetrating the water surface above you lighting up everything like Annie Leibovitz’s Little Mermaid portrait of Julianne Moore and Michael Phelps. Only exponentially better than CGI photography.

We shared the seashore with other passing bathers. A young very tan French mom with an adorable, excitable little French boy in blonde dreadlocks. A young, affectionate fit black Caribbean family. A not-so-fit middle-aged Martiniqaise man in an unsettling black thong speedo. Thong speedo. Zac and I hung out on the rocks for a few hours during which he came out to me as a fanboy. I was very happy and supportive. I enjoyed discussing comics, superhero movies, and sci-fi with him. Eventually in the day, I headed over to town again. It was Saturday and the day of the 134th Kentucky Derby. Danielle who is from Louisville, planned a party to be held at her house to commemorate the occasion. I went to her village near the capital with a bunch of other volunteers and Danielle’s Dominican host family. I was never interested much in thorough-bred horseracing but the party’s theme touches (sugary mint juleps, a derby hat contest and place-betting) and the climactic two minutes of the actual race makes it easy to get excited over.

Danielle's host mom chose the best entry from Nate and these camptown ladies. Nate's hat won with his Nature Isle theme. Way to pander to the judges.

It was also really sweet to see Danielle’s nostalgia for the traditions of the event and what it meant for her. I hadn’t realized how synonymous horse breeding and racing is with the Bluegrass region of the United States and it was interesting to see someone’s homesickness hinge on a lavish, fanfare, equestrian event. I feel that came across in her hosting. It made for a fun time. A great time for her to surround herself with her current friends and surrogate family. Rhi won the pool of money, having her money ride on Big Brown. What was disconcerting to watch though was Eight Belles, the only filly in the race and first female in almost a decade to run the Kentucky Derby. She came in second place but not without fucking snapping both her front ankles and being euthanized on the track, It was commented later that this was the first fatality like that at the derby but Danielle says that sort of thing happens all the time at races. So it was only that, and watching the Southern aristocratic joy of wealthy, connected people winning money and becoming slightly richer (“Huzzah! A jackpot return on our stable investments!”) that makes the race not entirely tasteful for me. Maybe some more mint and bourbon would do the trick. Later in the evening, randomly, a group of agriculture administrators from China assigned to Dominica, swung by with a bottle of red wine and Beijing Olympic Games lapel pins. They live in a house not far from Danielle. Only a young man named Roy from their group spoke English decently so there was a lot of very general communication reduced to thumbs up, high-fives, and pantomime. I got the impression they were a little lonely, isolated, hungry for company outside each other, hoping to interact with the American and Dominican ladies sequestered in the living room, but they had to settle for primary attention from Tym, Jerome, and I sectioned off in the kitchen. They were so interested in Americans and so proudly representative of China, it kind of threw me off. They asked us at one point to list Chinese pop culture references that we were familiar with in the States. This was a very gracious, appropriate party-kitchen cross-cultural conversational request. Better than being quizzed on Chinese economics or history. I wouldn’t know where to begin to ask a fairly intelligent question if that were the case. And the Newsweek articles concerning China I’ve been reading feel too sticky to ask about just having met them.

I wish language worked that way. I would say : Steven Chow Zang Zi Yi! Jackie Chan bok choy orangechicken hidden dragon?

And Roy would answer: Oh, hilaryclinton google cowboy newyork playboy barack obama!Then I would throw my head back in laughter at his impeccable timing and great delivery.

The best I could do was make sure I didn’t reference something Japanese incorrectly as Chinese. I’m sure they would have been forgiving but god, I would have beaten myself up about it for days. Sadly, the way I kept the cultures straight was by replaying memorable scenes from the Simpsons-go-to-Japan! episode alongside the Simpsons-go-to-China! episode in my head.

But I didn't do anything that night worse than give one of them a very confusing jello shot. Poor guy was so politely repulsed.



Though our new Chinese friends were very "western" in mannerisms and affect, I found myself unconsciously speaking with out contractions, acting very deferentially, and actually bowing when offering and receiving compliments. I just couldn't help it. And if you notice in the picture, I even made it a point to drink from a Hello Kitty mug.

ps. Also notice in that pic that I wore the same t shirt the day before at the channel crossing. I've been photographed in that tee far too many times since 2005. The mooing giraffe shirt is hereby retired.

pps. I just remembered Hello Kitty's Sanrio company is Japanese. D'oh!

At about 8:30 or 9pm, this little guy was all tuckered out. I asked Zac to take me home so that I could pass out on his floor. The next morning, I stayed over at his place reading the beginning chapters of novels, grilling sandwiches on the George I-have-a-home-in-St-Lucia-and-I-can-be seen running-through-the-village-of-Micoud Foreman grill. Whenever I visit someone or have someone over on comfortably lazy Saturdays it makes me wish sometimes Peace Corps volunteers were set up as roommates in their sites. The village rests on an outcropping of headland that divides the easy-flowing type B personality of the Caribbean Sea from the neurotic agitation and occasional roughness of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a great snorkeling spot that I had never been to before then. I made Zac take me swimming. The water and tiny little beach near his home was idyllic. The island has great spots like these. Its not wide, soft, white-sanded manicured beachfronts. But an obscure little area with signs warning of toxic plants; with dark volcanic soil peppered a little with fishnet, line, shiny colored plastic and other fishing refuse and local rubbish. But the water is still and clear. I waded and somersaulted in. I didn’t have goggles but I still kept my hungry eyes open underwater to eat up the turquoise blues and emerald greens and mossy browns. It's all very blurry and ethereal. Try to picture this with strong midmorning sun rays penetrating the water surface above you lighting up everything like Annie Leibovitz’s Little Mermaid portrait of Julianne Moore and Michael Phelps. Only exponentially better than CGI photography.

We shared the seashore with other passing bathers. A young very tan French mom with an adorable, excitable little French boy in blonde dreadlocks. A young, affectionate fit black Caribbean family. A not-so-fit middle-aged Martiniqaise man in an unsettling black thong speedo. Thong speedo. Zac and I hung out on the rocks for a few hours during which he came out to me as a fanboy. I was very happy and supportive. I enjoyed discussing comics, superhero movies, and sci-fi with him. Eventually in the day, I headed over to town again. It was Saturday and the day of the 134th Kentucky Derby. Danielle who is from Louisville, planned a party to be held at her house to commemorate the occasion. I went to her village near the capital with a bunch of other volunteers and Danielle’s Dominican host family. I was never interested much in thorough-bred horseracing but the party’s theme touches (sugary mint juleps, a derby hat contest and place-betting) and the climactic two minutes of the actual race makes it easy to get excited over.

Danielle's host mom chose the best entry from Nate and these camptown ladies. Nate's hat won with his Nature Isle theme. Way to pander to the judges.

It was also really sweet to see Danielle’s nostalgia for the traditions of the event and what it meant for her. I hadn’t realized how synonymous horse breeding and racing is with the Bluegrass region of the United States and it was interesting to see someone’s homesickness hinge on a lavish, fanfare, equestrian event. I feel that came across in her hosting. It made for a fun time. A great time for her to surround herself with her current friends and surrogate family. Rhi won the pool of money, having her money ride on Big Brown. What was disconcerting to watch though was Eight Belles, the only filly in the race and first female in almost a decade to run the Kentucky Derby. She came in second place but not without fucking snapping both her front ankles and being euthanized on the track, It was commented later that this was the first fatality like that at the derby but Danielle says that sort of thing happens all the time at races. So it was only that, and watching the Southern aristocratic joy of wealthy, connected people winning money and becoming slightly richer (“Huzzah! A jackpot return on our stable investments!”) that makes the race not entirely tasteful for me. Maybe some more mint and bourbon would do the trick. Later in the evening, randomly, a group of agriculture administrators from China assigned to Dominica, swung by with a bottle of red wine and Beijing Olympic Games lapel pins. They live in a house not far from Danielle. Only a young man named Roy from their group spoke English decently so there was a lot of very general communication reduced to thumbs up, high-fives, and pantomime. I got the impression they were a little lonely, isolated, hungry for company outside each other, hoping to interact with the American and Dominican ladies sequestered in the living room, but they had to settle for primary attention from Tym, Jerome, and I sectioned off in the kitchen. They were so interested in Americans and so proudly representative of China, it kind of threw me off. They asked us at one point to list Chinese pop culture references that we were familiar with in the States. This was a very gracious, appropriate party-kitchen cross-cultural conversational request. Better than being quizzed on Chinese economics or history. I wouldn’t know where to begin to ask a fairly intelligent question if that were the case. And the Newsweek articles concerning China I’ve been reading feel too sticky to ask about just having met them.

I wish language worked that way. I would say : Steven Chow Zang Zi Yi! Jackie Chan bok choy orangechicken hidden dragon?

And Roy would answer: Oh, hilaryclinton google cowboy newyork playboy barack obama!Then I would throw my head back in laughter at his impeccable timing and great delivery.

The best I could do was make sure I didn’t reference something Japanese incorrectly as Chinese. I’m sure they would have been forgiving but god, I would have beaten myself up about it for days. Sadly, the way I kept the cultures straight was by replaying memorable scenes from the Simpsons-go-to-Japan! episode alongside the Simpsons-go-to-China! episode in my head.

But I didn't do anything that night worse than give one of them a very confusing jello shot. Poor guy was so politely repulsed.



Though our new Chinese friends were very "western" in mannerisms and affect, I found myself unconsciously speaking with out contractions, acting very deferentially, and actually bowing when offering and receiving compliments. I just couldn't help it. And if you notice in the picture, I even made it a point to drink from a Hello Kitty mug.

ps. Also notice in that pic that I wore the same t shirt the day before at the channel crossing. I've been photographed in that tee far too many times since 2005. The mooing giraffe shirt is hereby retired.

pps. I just remembered Hello Kitty's Sanrio company is Japanese. D'oh!

A caveat about staying over at Amanda’s village: only one bus leaves to the capital for the entire day. And it leaves at an ungodly hour from the top of an ungodly hill. The time and the incline are made even more devilish by the fact that you just can’t have a sleepover without staying up late and/or drinking. So the following morning, you have to drag your drowsy, headache-y, dehydrated ass up a steep, winding road to the morning departure of the village cruiser. The only thing worse than this is standing by the side of the road and hitching my drowsy, headache-y, dehydrated ass all the way home if we were to miss the bus and I were to be stranded. Otherwise, I would opt to sleep in. The times I share with Amanda are among the best for me on the island, and I’m overjoyed with how fun it is to hang out with her, but I must admit I hate her a little during these arduous little early morning marches to the bus stop. I spent the day in town and when the afternoon rolled around, I decided last minute to check out the south of the island. I wanted to see the reenactment of the crossing of the Martinique passage by the Carib Amerindians by a group of white Martiniqaise rowing enthusiasts. A longboat of Frenchmen rowed from Martinique to Dominica.

An evening of festivities and cultural events anticipated their arrival.

The event was sponsored and hosted by Zac and Kat’s communities, so I mostly hung out with them and their overly- precocious village children who wouldn’t stop calling me Esteban.

Kat was tending bar for her village council. I was having such a chill, fun time that I lost track of the amount of drinks I bought others, and consequently myself. I bought a round for the kids, which I could only assume were non-alcoholic malts and Shandies. I definitely contributed to Kat’s village fundraiser more than I had intended to. Keisuke ended up showing up with a new Japanese volunteer from another program who recently arrived to the island. I like her because she looks like one half of AmiYumi. She’s a super-cute, hot, stylish young lady with great hair and awesome overly-animated expressions. Like a quintessential Manga heroine. She reacts to stories and information with wide smiles, boisterous school-girl laughs, hands pressed to cheeks, and beautiful, lashy crescent shaped eyes. It wouldn’t have been out of place to see a cartoonish giant water drop appear floating by the back of her head to signify whenever she felt embarrassed or exasperated. I know I would have had such a sweat-drop marking my sheepishness if I were an Anime character, when at one point, I discarded a chicken bone by throwing it to the sea as Zac suggested. As if letting myself down for littering wasn’t punishment enough, I hadn’t thrown the greasy chicken bone far enough. It didn’t clear the tent, but instead bounced off the tarp, slid off another and landed on a woman’s shoulder sitting ten feet away from me. I saw the whole thing but my reflexive reaction was to pretend I hadn’t and turned around. I know no one likes getting their clothes dirty, but Dominican women in particular are sensitive about stains and smudges. She yelled at Zac and threatened to toss me into the ocean. I regret not offering her a drink to make amends. And at another point in the evening, two very nice, lovely women I had never met before came up to me to tell me they read this blog. And they STILL went on to encourage me to keep writing. This is the nicest thing anyone could ever say. More flattering than being told you are good in bed. Though either compliment would induce an aww-shucks,-you-guys sort of reaction from me. I thanked them awkwardly and was all blushy and flustered and couldn’t pull it together before the women were too far away to hear me call, “Hey, let me buy you guys some drinks!”

A caveat about staying over at Amanda’s village: only one bus leaves to the capital for the entire day. And it leaves at an ungodly hour from the top of an ungodly hill. The time and the incline are made even more devilish by the fact that you just can’t have a sleepover without staying up late and/or drinking. So the following morning, you have to drag your drowsy, headache-y, dehydrated ass up a steep, winding road to the morning departure of the village cruiser. The only thing worse than this is standing by the side of the road and hitching my drowsy, headache-y, dehydrated ass all the way home if we were to miss the bus and I were to be stranded. Otherwise, I would opt to sleep in. The times I share with Amanda are among the best for me on the island, and I’m overjoyed with how fun it is to hang out with her, but I must admit I hate her a little during these arduous little early morning marches to the bus stop. I spent the day in town and when the afternoon rolled around, I decided last minute to check out the south of the island. I wanted to see the reenactment of the crossing of the Martinique passage by the Carib Amerindians by a group of white Martiniqaise rowing enthusiasts. A longboat of Frenchmen rowed from Martinique to Dominica.

An evening of festivities and cultural events anticipated their arrival.

The event was sponsored and hosted by Zac and Kat’s communities, so I mostly hung out with them and their overly- precocious village children who wouldn’t stop calling me Esteban.

Kat was tending bar for her village council. I was having such a chill, fun time that I lost track of the amount of drinks I bought others, and consequently myself. I bought a round for the kids, which I could only assume were non-alcoholic malts and Shandies. I definitely contributed to Kat’s village fundraiser more than I had intended to. Keisuke ended up showing up with a new Japanese volunteer from another program who recently arrived to the island. I like her because she looks like one half of AmiYumi. She’s a super-cute, hot, stylish young lady with great hair and awesome overly-animated expressions. Like a quintessential Manga heroine. She reacts to stories and information with wide smiles, boisterous school-girl laughs, hands pressed to cheeks, and beautiful, lashy crescent shaped eyes. It wouldn’t have been out of place to see a cartoonish giant water drop appear floating by the back of her head to signify whenever she felt embarrassed or exasperated. I know I would have had such a sweat-drop marking my sheepishness if I were an Anime character, when at one point, I discarded a chicken bone by throwing it to the sea as Zac suggested. As if letting myself down for littering wasn’t punishment enough, I hadn’t thrown the greasy chicken bone far enough. It didn’t clear the tent, but instead bounced off the tarp, slid off another and landed on a woman’s shoulder sitting ten feet away from me. I saw the whole thing but my reflexive reaction was to pretend I hadn’t and turned around. I know no one likes getting their clothes dirty, but Dominican women in particular are sensitive about stains and smudges. She yelled at Zac and threatened to toss me into the ocean. I regret not offering her a drink to make amends. And at another point in the evening, two very nice, lovely women I had never met before came up to me to tell me they read this blog. And they STILL went on to encourage me to keep writing. This is the nicest thing anyone could ever say. More flattering than being told you are good in bed. Though either compliment would induce an aww-shucks,-you-guys sort of reaction from me. I thanked them awkwardly and was all blushy and flustered and couldn’t pull it together before the women were too far away to hear me call, “Hey, let me buy you guys some drinks!”

A caveat about staying over at Amanda’s village: only one bus leaves to the capital for the entire day. And it leaves at an ungodly hour from the top of an ungodly hill. The time and the incline are made even more devilish by the fact that you just can’t have a sleepover without staying up late and/or drinking. So the following morning, you have to drag your drowsy, headache-y, dehydrated ass up a steep, winding road to the morning departure of the village cruiser. The only thing worse than this is standing by the side of the road and hitching my drowsy, headache-y, dehydrated ass all the way home if we were to miss the bus and I were to be stranded. Otherwise, I would opt to sleep in. The times I share with Amanda are among the best for me on the island, and I’m overjoyed with how fun it is to hang out with her, but I must admit I hate her a little during these arduous little early morning marches to the bus stop. I spent the day in town and when the afternoon rolled around, I decided last minute to check out the south of the island. I wanted to see the reenactment of the crossing of the Martinique passage by the Carib Amerindians by a group of white Martiniqaise rowing enthusiasts. A longboat of Frenchmen rowed from Martinique to Dominica.

An evening of festivities and cultural events anticipated their arrival.

The event was sponsored and hosted by Zac and Kat’s communities, so I mostly hung out with them and their overly- precocious village children who wouldn’t stop calling me Esteban.

Kat was tending bar for her village council. I was having such a chill, fun time that I lost track of the amount of drinks I bought others, and consequently myself. I bought a round for the kids, which I could only assume were non-alcoholic malts and Shandies. I definitely contributed to Kat’s village fundraiser more than I had intended to. Keisuke ended up showing up with a new Japanese volunteer from another program who recently arrived to the island. I like her because she looks like one half of AmiYumi. She’s a super-cute, hot, stylish young lady with great hair and awesome overly-animated expressions. Like a quintessential Manga heroine. She reacts to stories and information with wide smiles, boisterous school-girl laughs, hands pressed to cheeks, and beautiful, lashy crescent shaped eyes. It wouldn’t have been out of place to see a cartoonish giant water drop appear floating by the back of her head to signify whenever she felt embarrassed or exasperated. I know I would have had such a sweat-drop marking my sheepishness if I were an Anime character, when at one point, I discarded a chicken bone by throwing it to the sea as Zac suggested. As if letting myself down for littering wasn’t punishment enough, I hadn’t thrown the greasy chicken bone far enough. It didn’t clear the tent, but instead bounced off the tarp, slid off another and landed on a woman’s shoulder sitting ten feet away from me. I saw the whole thing but my reflexive reaction was to pretend I hadn’t and turned around. I know no one likes getting their clothes dirty, but Dominican women in particular are sensitive about stains and smudges. She yelled at Zac and threatened to toss me into the ocean. I regret not offering her a drink to make amends. And at another point in the evening, two very nice, lovely women I had never met before came up to me to tell me they read this blog. And they STILL went on to encourage me to keep writing. This is the nicest thing anyone could ever say. More flattering than being told you are good in bed. Though either compliment would induce an aww-shucks,-you-guys sort of reaction from me. I thanked them awkwardly and was all blushy and flustered and couldn’t pull it together before the women were too far away to hear me call, “Hey, let me buy you guys some drinks!”

It’s been a while since I’ve last updated. To make up for the delay, this one is going to be a long-haul. I’m just giving you a heads-up now in case you want to jump ship before the J-cruise leaves the dock. It’s basically been the same pattern for the past few months. A series of setbacks and small successes that average out to a balanced feeling of being blissfully-just-there. A feeling of settled contentment. Only now the settled feeling is shifting with the tilting slide towards the end of our two year service. More on that in later entries. On Thursday in the capital, Amanda and I and our community partners had our last meeting with Keisuke the United Nations volunteer on the status and progress of our village’s telecenters. His term on Dominica is also up and he’s going to leave this weekend to join his child and pregnant wife in Sweden. Instead of going home, I decided to go with Jasmine (a 77) to spend the night at Amanda’s for some smore-roasting bonfire goodness. The 19-year-old French Canadians who live next door to her are also leaving very soon. They are finally putting a close to their version of an Alfonso Cuaron-inspired coming-of-age saga set on the Nature Isle. Max looks good. He stuck to his resolve of abstaining from alcohol since his birthday two months ago when I visited Amanda’s village last and I found him drunk at the top of the road; oblivious to his bleeding foot. Where soon after I had to step in to stop a fight between he and a local, but not before the local thrust a Phillips-head screwdriver into Max’s chest three times. Aaron, Max, and Julien had constructed a thriving little garden where Jasmine, Max, Julien, and I sat and talked until Amanda came home from teaching her computer classes. The most entertaining thing to come from these discussions for me were the French Canadios’ mockery of the American accent. To them and many Dominicans, Americans speak English very nasally, nerdishly, high-pitched and overly pronounced. When we speak English, all they hear is ducks quacking. A few months ago I had asked a British dude I was having dinner with what American English sounded like to him. I asked him to stereotypically impersonate an American and his response was a cross between an 80's Cali valley girl and a southern country bumpkin. “That’s what I sound like to you?” I had asked. That made him laugh.

“Really, that's your impression of Americans?" I went on. "That we sound like idiots?” “That’s quite a lot of people’s impression of Americans, actually.” Whatever, dude.

Earlier during that meal he had listed Dan Brown novels as the only books he ever really reads. And let me tell ya, singing the praises of Digital Fortress doesn’t sound smart in any accent. Anyway, so Amanda finally came home and we eventually started a fire over a tire rim to roast and toast some fluffy, sugary, over-priced marshmallows. I learned that night, that you could actually just lightly brown marshmallows over hot coals without actually setting them on fire. Did you know this? Why didn’t you ever tell me?? It was news to me. Since I was a kid, my technique had always been to char the shit out of the marshmallow as if I needed to sterilize the white fluffy little puff. I would turn it into a black, flaky, ashen, sad, smoking little critter whose burnt skin I would peel off to suck in the gooey, sticky, yummy insides. Live and learn, I guess. So whether it’s a Japanese UNDP volunteer working on his thesis and ICT community empowerment, or teenage French Canadian backpackers searching for escapist adventure, or post-collegiate Americans pining for a quintessential Peace Corps experience, existing and acclimating to the same island begins to feel insular, simultaneously mundane and surreal. At least to me, someone not raised in the region; someone not meant to live here forever. I like how it ties us. The people you run into or interact with here. Tied up with the island. Like we’re all living in the same dream. And one by one, we’re beginning to wake up. Wether we want to or not.

It’s been a while since I’ve last updated. To make up for the delay, this one is going to be a long-haul. I’m just giving you a heads-up now in case you want to jump ship before the J-cruise leaves the dock. It’s basically been the same pattern for the past few months. A series of setbacks and small successes that average out to a balanced feeling of being blissfully-just-there. A feeling of settled contentment. Only now the settled feeling is shifting with the tilting slide towards the end of our two year service. More on that in later entries. On Thursday in the capital, Amanda and I and our community partners had our last meeting with Keisuke the United Nations volunteer on the status and progress of our village’s telecenters. His term on Dominica is also up and he’s going to leave this weekend to join his child and pregnant wife in Sweden. Instead of going home, I decided to go with Jasmine (a 77) to spend the night at Amanda’s for some smore-roasting bonfire goodness. The 19-year-old French Canadians who live next door to her are also leaving very soon. They are finally putting a close to their version of an Alfonso Cuaron-inspired coming-of-age saga set on the Nature Isle. Max looks good. He stuck to his resolve of abstaining from alcohol since his birthday two months ago when I visited Amanda’s village last and I found him drunk at the top of the road; oblivious to his bleeding foot. Where soon after I had to step in to stop a fight between he and a local, but not before the local thrust a Phillips-head screwdriver into Max’s chest three times. Aaron, Max, and Julien had constructed a thriving little garden where Jasmine, Max, Julien, and I sat and talked until Amanda came home from teaching her computer classes. The most entertaining thing to come from these discussions for me were the French Canadios’ mockery of the American accent. To them and many Dominicans, Americans speak English very nasally, nerdishly, high-pitched and overly pronounced. When we speak English, all they hear is ducks quacking. A few months ago I had asked a British dude I was having dinner with what American English sounded like to him. I asked him to stereotypically impersonate an American and his response was a cross between an 80's Cali valley girl and a southern country bumpkin. “That’s what I sound like to you?” I had asked. That made him laugh.

“Really, that's your impression of Americans?" I went on. "That we sound like idiots?” “That’s quite a lot of people’s impression of Americans, actually.” Whatever, dude.

Earlier during that meal he had listed Dan Brown novels as the only books he ever really reads. And let me tell ya, singing the praises of Digital Fortress doesn’t sound smart in any accent. Anyway, so Amanda finally came home and we eventually started a fire over a tire rim to roast and toast some fluffy, sugary, over-priced marshmallows. I learned that night, that you could actually just lightly brown marshmallows over hot coals without actually setting them on fire. Did you know this? Why didn’t you ever tell me?? It was news to me. Since I was a kid, my technique had always been to char the shit out of the marshmallow as if I needed to sterilize the white fluffy little puff. I would turn it into a black, flaky, ashen, sad, smoking little critter whose burnt skin I would peel off to suck in the gooey, sticky, yummy insides. Live and learn, I guess. So whether it’s a Japanese UNDP volunteer working on his thesis and ICT community empowerment, or teenage French Canadian backpackers searching for escapist adventure, or post-collegiate Americans pining for a quintessential Peace Corps experience, existing and acclimating to the same island begins to feel insular, simultaneously mundane and surreal. At least to me, someone not raised in the region; someone not meant to live here forever. I like how it ties us. The people you run into or interact with here. Tied up with the island. Like we’re all living in the same dream. And one by one, we’re beginning to wake up. Wether we want to or not.

It’s been a while since I’ve last updated. To make up for the delay, this one is going to be a long-haul. I’m just giving you a heads-up now in case you want to jump ship before the J-cruise leaves the dock. It’s basically been the same pattern for the past few months. A series of setbacks and small successes that average out to a balanced feeling of being blissfully-just-there. A feeling of settled contentment. Only now the settled feeling is shifting with the tilting slide towards the end of our two year service. More on that in later entries. On Thursday in the capital, Amanda and I and our community partners had our last meeting with Keisuke the United Nations volunteer on the status and progress of our village’s telecenters. His term on Dominica is also up and he’s going to leave this weekend to join his child and pregnant wife in Sweden. Instead of going home, I decided to go with Jasmine (a 77) to spend the night at Amanda’s for some smore-roasting bonfire goodness. The 19-year-old French Canadians who live next door to her are also leaving very soon. They are finally putting a close to their version of an Alfonso Cuaron-inspired coming-of-age saga set on the Nature Isle. Max looks good. He stuck to his resolve of abstaining from alcohol since his birthday two months ago when I visited Amanda’s village last and I found him drunk at the top of the road; oblivious to his bleeding foot. Where soon after I had to step in to stop a fight between he and a local, but not before the local thrust a Phillips-head screwdriver into Max’s chest three times. Aaron, Max, and Julien had constructed a thriving little garden where Jasmine, Max, Julien, and I sat and talked until Amanda came home from teaching her computer classes. The most entertaining thing to come from these discussions for me were the French Canadios’ mockery of the American accent. To them and many Dominicans, Americans speak English very nasally, nerdishly, high-pitched and overly pronounced. When we speak English, all they hear is ducks quacking. A few months ago I had asked a British dude I was having dinner with what American English sounded like to him. I asked him to stereotypically impersonate an American and his response was a cross between an 80's Cali valley girl and a southern country bumpkin. “That’s what I sound like to you?” I had asked. That made him laugh.

“Really, that's your impression of Americans?" I went on. "That we sound like idiots?” “That’s quite a lot of people’s impression of Americans, actually.” Whatever, dude.

Earlier during that meal he had listed Dan Brown novels as the only books he ever really reads. And let me tell ya, singing the praises of Digital Fortress doesn’t sound smart in any accent. Anyway, so Amanda finally came home and we eventually started a fire over a tire rim to roast and toast some fluffy, sugary, over-priced marshmallows. I learned that night, that you could actually just lightly brown marshmallows over hot coals without actually setting them on fire. Did you know this? Why didn’t you ever tell me?? It was news to me. Since I was a kid, my technique had always been to char the shit out of the marshmallow as if I needed to sterilize the white fluffy little puff. I would turn it into a black, flaky, ashen, sad, smoking little critter whose burnt skin I would peel off to suck in the gooey, sticky, yummy insides. Live and learn, I guess. So whether it’s a Japanese UNDP volunteer working on his thesis and ICT community empowerment, or teenage French Canadian backpackers searching for escapist adventure, or post-collegiate Americans pining for a quintessential Peace Corps experience, existing and acclimating to the same island begins to feel insular, simultaneously mundane and surreal. At least to me, someone not raised in the region; someone not meant to live here forever. I like how it ties us. The people you run into or interact with here. Tied up with the island. Like we’re all living in the same dream. And one by one, we’re beginning to wake up. Wether we want to or not.

It’s been a while since I’ve last updated. To make up for the delay, this one is going to be a long-haul. I’m just giving you a heads-up now in case you want to jump ship before the J-cruise leaves the dock. It’s basically been the same pattern for the past few months. A series of setbacks and small successes that average out to a balanced feeling of being blissfully-just-there. A feeling of settled contentment. Only now the settled feeling is shifting with the tilting slide towards the end of our two year service. More on that in later entries. On Thursday in the capital, Amanda and I and our community partners had our last meeting with Keisuke the United Nations volunteer on the status and progress of our village’s telecenters. His term on Dominica is also up and he’s going to leave this weekend to join his child and pregnant wife in Sweden. Instead of going home, I decided to go with Jasmine (a 77) to spend the night at Amanda’s for some smore-roasting bonfire goodness. The 19-year-old French Canadians who live next door to her are also leaving very soon. They are finally putting a close to their version of an Alfonso Cuaron-inspired coming-of-age saga set on the Nature Isle. Max looks good. He stuck to his resolve of abstaining from alcohol since his birthday two months ago when I visited Amanda’s village last and I found him drunk at the top of the road; oblivious to his bleeding foot. Where soon after I had to step in to stop a fight between he and a local, but not before the local thrust a Phillips-head screwdriver into Max’s chest three times. Aaron, Max, and Julien had constructed a thriving little garden where Jasmine, Max, Julien, and I sat and talked until Amanda came home from teaching her computer classes. The most entertaining thing to come from these discussions for me were the French Canadios’ mockery of the American accent. To them and many Dominicans, Americans speak English very nasally, nerdishly, high-pitched and overly pronounced. When we speak English, all they hear is ducks quacking. A few months ago I had asked a British dude I was having dinner with what American English sounded like to him. I asked him to stereotypically impersonate an American and his response was a cross between an 80's Cali valley girl and a southern country bumpkin. “That’s what I sound like to you?” I had asked. That made him laugh.

“Really, that's your impression of Americans?" I went on. "That we sound like idiots?” “That’s quite a lot of people’s impression of Americans, actually.” Whatever, dude.

Earlier during that meal he had listed Dan Brown novels as the only books he ever really reads. And let me tell ya, singing the praises of Digital Fortress doesn’t sound smart in any accent. Anyway, so Amanda finally came home and we eventually started a fire over a tire rim to roast and toast some fluffy, sugary, over-priced marshmallows. I learned that night, that you could actually just lightly brown marshmallows over hot coals without actually setting them on fire. Did you know this? Why didn’t you ever tell me?? It was news to me. Since I was a kid, my technique had always been to char the shit out of the marshmallow as if I needed to sterilize the white fluffy little puff. I would turn it into a black, flaky, ashen, sad, smoking little critter whose burnt skin I would peel off to suck in the gooey, sticky, yummy insides. Live and learn, I guess. So whether it’s a Japanese UNDP volunteer working on his thesis and ICT community empowerment, or teenage French Canadian backpackers searching for escapist adventure, or post-collegiate Americans pining for a quintessential Peace Corps experience, existing and acclimating to the same island begins to feel insular, simultaneously mundane and surreal. At least to me, someone not raised in the region; someone not meant to live here forever. I like how it ties us. The people you run into or interact with here. Tied up with the island. Like we’re all living in the same dream. And one by one, we’re beginning to wake up. Wether we want to or not.

hey bud. so yesterday, i was tutoring that kid i told you about with whom i've made ZERO progress in literacy with.

i try really hard not to get frustrated with him, but sometimes i can't help it.

he had come in from recess eating an icee (you know, those hielitos, frozen koolaid in little sandwich bags), and as a break from our exercises, i was reading him a story and asking him questions to follow along.

anyway, he was very obviously not paying attention. not in the usual ADHD sort of way, but in an unacceptable, dismissive, humoring-me sort of way.

that vexed me.

i said, "give me that." and i snatched the icee from his mouth and walked out the class room and threw it over a fence. he was all, "no, mr. jose!" it was actually pretty funny and satisfying for me.

i feel bad that it felt so good to do that. but it showed him i meant business. besides, its against the rules to eat a messy treat inside the classroom especially after recess was over and he knows it.

anyway, it was just weird to see a side of yourself you never knew was in you- like the strict educator jerk side.

hey bud. so yesterday, i was tutoring that kid i told you about with whom i've made ZERO progress in literacy with.

i try really hard not to get frustrated with him, but sometimes i can't help it.

he had come in from recess eating an icee (you know, those hielitos, frozen koolaid in little sandwich bags), and as a break from our exercises, i was reading him a story and asking him questions to follow along.

anyway, he was very obviously not paying attention. not in the usual ADHD sort of way, but in an unacceptable, dismissive, humoring-me sort of way.

that vexed me.

i said, "give me that." and i snatched the icee from his mouth and walked out the class room and threw it over a fence. he was all, "no, mr. jose!" it was actually pretty funny and satisfying for me.

i feel bad that it felt so good to do that. but it showed him i meant business. besides, its against the rules to eat a messy treat inside the classroom especially after recess was over and he knows it.

anyway, it was just weird to see a side of yourself you never knew was in you- like the strict educator jerk side.

hey bud. so yesterday, i was tutoring that kid i told you about with whom i've made ZERO progress in literacy with.

i try really hard not to get frustrated with him, but sometimes i can't help it.

he had come in from recess eating an icee (you know, those hielitos, frozen koolaid in little sandwich bags), and as a break from our exercises, i was reading him a story and asking him questions to follow along.

anyway, he was very obviously not paying attention. not in the usual ADHD sort of way, but in an unacceptable, dismissive, humoring-me sort of way.

that vexed me.

i said, "give me that." and i snatched the icee from his mouth and walked out the class room and threw it over a fence. he was all, "no, mr. jose!" it was actually pretty funny and satisfying for me.

i feel bad that it felt so good to do that. but it showed him i meant business. besides, its against the rules to eat a messy treat inside the classroom especially after recess was over and he knows it.

anyway, it was just weird to see a side of yourself you never knew was in you- like the strict educator jerk side.