As I haven´t been writing much lately, here is something I from my journal from some time ago...

When I first heard about Benito I pictured him as a younger guy. A teenager maybe and a little green behind the ears. Mario talked about how Benito lives in Leon and has been installing some filters in that area. I don’t know why I immediately made him a kid in my mind. Maybe for the name, as Benito sounds diminutive with the ito at the end. But as soon as I met Benito I saw how wrong my assumptions really were.

I was sitting and talking with Benito yesterday. He had his left leg crossed over his right, man style, and I noticed his boots. They were the heavy leather ones with thick soles whose traction was like that off a catipiller or other bulldozing machinery. Far from being athletic or dress up, they were actually the only shoes I can image Benito ever wearing. He needs something to support that gait of his. Extra wide to give him the steady base so he doesn’t tip over when he pounds his feet forcefully into the ground with each step.

As we were talking, Benito he had his hand gripping his crossed boot, his arm was bent and I noticed his elbow/forearm area. It looked like the land of Nicaragua right there at the back of his forearm. The muscle part of his forearm was strong and evlevated and pronounced. Then just dropped off and kind of dipped down like one of those lagoons that sit right below the many volcanos here in Nicaragua. He not only was bred on this spot of earth but has so internalized it he expresses it unknowingly in his muscles.

Another thing I am used to Benito doing, especially as we talk about the early ‘80s, is his simulation of shooting a gun. He doesn’t just elevate one week arm from his side and make the international gun sign with his thumb and index finger. What he does looks as if he was actually lifting a forty pound gun. He brings those trunks of arms up head high, the right one fully outstretched while the left one is bent, elbow out and hand near the face obviously on the trigger. He then closes one eye and squints with the other, looking down the length of, not only the gun, but maybe even his history.

It wasn’t long after I met Benito that we got into a conversation about his time with the Sandinista army up in the mountains somewhere. I mean when someone tells you there were in the army and lived in the mountains for two years you naturally want to know more about it. So I began to question him and paint his story in my minds eye.

My peaceful upbringing was spent on the square patch of grass in our front yard, with a soccer ball at my feet, and friends to kick with. When Benito was twelve years old, and he assures me he was skinny at this point, he was climbing down into manhole covers and running below the streets of Leon, delivering covert letters to various Sandinista leaders. He says once some guards stopped him. They spread his fingers and put their noses to the weby part between each digit to check for any bomb making residue. They beat him and kicked him and put their guns to his back. He remembers thinking he was going to dye, but one guard finally convinced the other not to kill the kid, and they let him walk with a stiff boot in the back as he left.

When Benito gets his mouth moving it is hard to slow him down. And it’s not just war stories he tells. He has plenty facts to share and opinions to let fly. Yesterday we were talking politics, the American variety. Our conversation floated over Obama’s election and previous decades and presidents. I was slightly surprised when Benito began speaking about Regan and Carter. I think I was surprised because from my campo time in the DR I became used to less than apt conversations about current American polotics much less past presidents. I remember Benito saying with his tongue flying, “Oh, Regan fue un…” except I don’t remember the adjective he used. I do know that Benito believes Regan is fully responsible for the ten years of war that his country went through.

In contrast to Benito’s feelings on Regan are his opinions of Bill Clinton. His eyes become happy and that pointy lipped smile of his pops onto his face when he begins talking of Clinton. Benito has repeated to me, at least twice, what Clinton said upon arriving to Nicaragua after some major flooding and a landslide that buried almost an entire city. He says Clintons words were to the affect of, I have not come in war but in peace, to support Nicaragua in development not destruction. Whatever Clinton said or didn’t say is irrelevant.

I realized then, while talking with Benito, how important our President is to other countries. I mean that, often when I hear of our presidents visiting other countries, I think not twice about it, much less once. I now see, from Benito’s smile while thinking of Clintons visit, how much a visit from the United States president means to people living in that country.

Here are a few pictures of Benito and what we do now.

It’s Friday afternoon. Thanks to the security guard, I took a new cow trail home on my way out of work. Just another example of how dependent I become on local knowledge when I am in a new city or country. It was the older guy in rubber boots who showed me the first trail which chopped my walk from the road to the Nehemiah Center in half. I remember I was hesitant to trust him. He came on pretty outgoing at first which is often my clue that something isn’t exactly right. They either want money or have ulterior motives. But I remember this guy’s motives were pretty genuine. He was headed down the same trail to the last house and why not point the gringo in the right direction?

Anyway, that trail worked well for a while. Cut out the worst part of my walk; the narrow gentle curve in road that dump trucks use on their way in and out of picking up a new load of dirt. I sometimes wonder how there can be enough dirt for their endless processions. They must have one heck of a hole going on. Maybe they are the guys who, when younger, believed their parents when they said China was only a matter of digging deep enough. And it’s not just an issue of one dump truck every now and again.

The trucks continuously rumble by, shifting gears while really not picking up much speed. Each shift throwing a heavy hand of gray smoke out of their charred stacks. It’s the kind of thick grey smoke that sticks to you, puts an invisible chalky layer on your forehead for the rest of the day. I have come to enjoy, if somewhat strangely, this kind of dirty grey smoke. It’s one of those immediate triggers to times and places of past, that I hold close to my heart. It’s also one of those very tangible things that remind me I am not in America. One of the uncomforts that makes the day to day more visceral, like the sweat that drowns my back while walking to or from work. This is all kind of my bent attempt at some kind of solidarity. Especially now as solidarity is not part of my job description. Whether the people I am trying to live in solidarity with actually notice my effort is another story. I mostly get looks like, “why’s the weird gringo coming out of the cow pasture with a backpack and sweat rolling down his temples?”

Should a tick so full of doggy blood that it looks like a grey raison gross me out? I don’t know. It looks more curious to me then anything. Its body so distorted from the other features like the numerous legs and head that protrude from it. The little head, so pointy with its two horizontal jaws still chomping back and forth, searching for the next meal that it has no room for. Should numerous swollen ticks on our tiled patio floor be worse than one? They are spread out like some kid threw a handful of small clumps of dirt, except they are little sacks of blood from the dogs, Forthy and Lucy.

The roosters have gotten it all wrong. It’s a little after 11 pm and I hear them going to town with their cock a little do. Maybe they are Chinese roosters and still haven’t grasped they are on the other side of the world now. Or maybe they’ve been sleeping all day, seeing as it is Saturday and rained straight through the afternoon and evening. That’s what I would have done had I not gone exploring.

I did catch a hole in the clouds this morning; big enough for me to go do check out Managua, public transportation style. It’s always interesting (read frightening) to test the waters of a different developing country’s transportation systems. I did have a few things going for me this morning. One, it was sunny for the most part and no matter how many twists and turns we made, I had a clear read on the shadows. Two, I had time, all day in fact, to get lost and straighten it out if need be. Thirdly, it’s really kind of hard to get lost when you speak Spanish. It’s like if you were in New York and spoke English…I mean you just stop and ask for directions.

So Managua’s transportation resembles Panama’s in that they both rely on the old yellow American school bus. They just differ in the extent to which they use said school bus. Panama’s drivers, probably do to heavy American influence over the years, are some what more respectful of personal space. They must read the capacity sign on the front of their buses. In Panama, if capacity says 60 they may stretch it to 70, and everybody’s still ok. But in Managua they take the capacity sign down to make space for one more person! Think of a school bus with 1,000 people in it. I’M NOT LYING! I dare say they give Dominicans a run for their pesos. I actually would like to see a bus stuffing competition between Dominicans and Nicas. Nicas might win, seeing as they make full use of not only the inside of the bus but the top of the roof as well.

I know it might sound like, “wow, I don’t think I would have enough room to even breath!?” And while that is a legitimate concern, it should not be the principal worry. You need to be worried about how you’re going to get off the thing. And you don’t have the Jaws of Life coming to cut you out. Oh and actually before that, you first need to figure out where you are going to get out. Have you ever tried to orientate yourself while standing up inside a yellow school bus? You can’t! Unless you’re a midget. You have about five feet from the side of the bus to study the road/sidewalk and figure out where you are. And don’t think your going to duck or bend over to steal a glimpse out the window. Remember there’s no space for that nonsense!

Anyway, I also felt more at ease figuring out the whole transportation system as I studied a Budget Rent-A-Car map relentlessly over the past week. Although no street names are used in real life, I did have a basic understanding of the layout of the town. So I knew that when I arrived to Bello Horizonte after about an hour winding through the Managua streets I was much too far east, almost to the airport. My goal had been to make it to the central shopping area where I could exchange my somehow overly complicated cell phone for one that was actually sensible. Although I knew I had been going east for far too long I let myself wander. For one thing, I had a seat and could actually see out the window. I took advantage of the view and the opportunity to see a bit of Managua.

If you are like me and really didn’t learn much about Nicaraguan history in High School/College – did they even teach it? here’s your ten minute history review. And if you are in the movie making business, here’s your Oscar winning script; a script spanning four continents and featuring numerous tyrants and rebellions; not one, not two, but five (if I’m counting right). Add in violence and war, although unfortunately no big love scenes, even though I’m sure there had to be some loving going on somewhere in country. So anyway, here’s your run down. And if you want to go straight to the source for all the greasy details read this book…Blood of Brothers by Stephen Kinzer. You will be amazed. We all know how the story starts (as far as takeovers go) for most of South America and even North America at that. The Spanish come with their guns and colds and wipe out the Indians and make all who are left speak Spanish and eat Mexican food – ok, just in Mexico. So that basically was the fate of Nicaragua until 1821 when all the Central American countries united for a United States of Central America. This fell apart a few years later and Nicaragua became the ruler of its own independent country. Well until America stepped in, particularly the adventurer William Walker, who took manifest destiny to heart, seeing internal conflict as an opportunity for him to grab up his own small country. With a ragtag bunch of other Americans he came down to Nicaragua, forced his way to power, and in 1856 held corrupted elections where he magically came out on top.

Obviously, the home town folks didn’t like the idea of this gringo ruling their country so they kicked him out, but not before Walker could burn to the ground everything he had built. So for forty years after, power was shared between a handful of wealthy Nicaraguans, until our next star of this tale appears. Jose Zelaya was his name and he was a reformer, a change maker, an Obama or even a McCain if you believe it to be, and he brought the goods. Zelaya did great things for Nica, among them funding for education and infrastructure, grating rights to all citizens including women, and outlawing slavery. But unfortunately he was a little to Nationalistic for American mining and timber interests, and even began talks with the Germans, Japanese, and British for a competing trans-isthmian Canal.

Well American president Taft had something to say about all of this even going so far as calling Zelaya a “medieval despot”. Through the Knox Note in 1909 the US demanded Zelaya’s resignation calling for a government “capable of responding to demands…”etc, etc. Zelaya got the point, packed his bags, and left for exile. US marines came in and did the next logical thing, installed a new government that knew, if you will, who their daddy was. As before, the locals didn’t like this American intervention so much either, and one of them, Zeledon decided to organize and fight back knowing good and well he was signing his own death warrant. He died, and his rebellion was quieted, but his spirit and ideas were carried on in the national and international superstar of Augusto Cesar Sandino.

Sandino was born a poor Nicaraguan and went to work for United Fruit and a US petroleum company in Mexico. Like the nerdy kid in school, he and his country were generally picked on by Mexicans and other Central Americans, for living under and allowing the rule of the North American Big Daddy. Sandino took this to heart and being inspired by the rebellion started by Zeledon began to fight back, to “recover its national sovereignty, stolen from us by the Yankee Empire.” After much fight back and afforded luck by the oncoming Great Depression the US retreated in 1932. So Sandino won and in turn brokered a peace deal with the American puppet and president Sacasa. But before the marines left, they installed Anastacio Somoza as jefe of the National Guard.

Somoza, not unlike most of the rest of us, wanted power and wealth and decided to do something about it - and I guess it’s easier when you have the National Guard under your command. Anyway, after Sandino and President Sacasa had a festival sort of ball one evening, the NG stops Sandino on ride home, kidnaps him, takes him to an airport runway and shoots him. This puts Somoza in good position to nudge out Sacasa, which he does, then calls for elections, which he wins in 1936. Somehow only 169 people found the courage to vote against him.

“He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s ours,” were Roosevelt’s comments upon Somoza’s lavish reception in Washington soon after all the smoke settled. Upon completing his 5 year term, and given Nicaragua’s constitution bans re election, Somoza hand picked a friend, Arguello, and held corrupt elections to get him elected. Once elected Arguello throws his hands up, or washes them clean, and says he has no commitments with anyone. Of course Somoza doesn’t like to hear this, so he calls up his army lead a coup and reinstates himself as dictator.

Well to shorten things, three Somozas ruled Nicaragua with much US support, until 1979. To be sure, they were all dictators – doing much of what dictators normally do: amassing much wealth and power by “controlling railroad and steamship lines, factories, fishing fleets, gold mines, lumber companies, and Nicaraguas largest brewery.” They also traded in drugs, gambling, and prostitution for fun. They censored the press while torturing and killing dissidents appropriately.

After the country had enough of this, which I can imagine they did, they became more sympathetic to a growing nationalistic movement, with Marxist leanings, called the Sandinistas. These Sandinistas fought their way into power and were set on “destroying a system that had created so much injustice.” They redistributed farm lands, launched literacy campaigns, and even kicked out my favorite organization the Peace Corps for a mistrust of motives. Although after so much past American influence, I don’t know if I can fault their misconceived beliefs.

So this book, Blood of Brothers, spends over 200 pages on the years ’79 to ’90. But the basics of all of it is this: the US didn’t like the Sandinistas, so the CIA funded and trained (clandestinely at first) an anti-revolutionary movement (contras) and pretty much an all out civil war. Add to this a devastating earthquake in ’72 and you have the basis for a country that went from being one of the most developed in all of Central America at the turn of the 20th century to being the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere at this current time.

So our story of tyranny and rebellion ends in 1988 with a peace deal brokered by Costa Rica’s President and Nobel Laureate Oscar Arias. This established the democratically elected government that still functions today in Nicaragua.

I have never been to a country so recently torn by civil war and I'm interested to see for myself what Nicaragua looks like and feels like today. I can not really image.Here's your wiki...http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicaragua

I guess I'm a sucker for familiarity. Or maybe its balance. Whatever it is, I'm sending out from where I set in. Three last nights at la casa de carmen to match the first three nights I spent at this comfy courtyared and hammocked of a hostel on arrival in country. If I had some weird form of amnesia I might fool myself into believing my tarzan life never really existed. I mean what do I have to show for it? No parasites according to three straight days of pooping in a cup. No malaria, dengue, or really any other jungle fever you can faintly remember the name of, but heard its really bad. And they're bad, I promise you. Never got it, but I promise you don't want it. I also seem to have narrowly escaped the Chicken Pox outbreak over the past month in my community and the neighboring one. Anyone that hadn't had the ohh so attractive welts covering their body before a month ago has had them now.

So unfortunately, my immune system doesn't like to hear me share cool sickness stories with my friends. That's all right. I still have the head full of bees stinging story. Our best crocodile hunter impression story. The tree ripened banana eating in the rain while hiding under cacao leaves in the jungle story. General living with indians in the jungle stories, including monkey alarm clocks and spear fishing. I have Amaranto's epic quest to find a wife in the Darien and bring her back home no matter her age or the amount of time he has known her...that story as well. Along with Amaranto's epic quest goes his ability to out fish anyone anytime, bringing home 20 fish or more whenever he wants, giving him the right to go to the Darien and find whichever wife suits him...as long as they aren't alergic to fish. I have other stories as well...they are just buried deep and maybe (but hopefully not) be called up only by certain trigger words. So excuse me if I have random flash backs and burst into laughter while sitting quietly listening to you talk to me. It's just that this is going to be on my mind for a while.

Something I found stored away from about 4 months ago. An interesting peek at things back then (especially for me). Seems like this was written after a probably frustrating day as I sense my cynical side coming through. So maybe this is a small picture of Peace Corps on one of those days. But I also must say my thoughts have changed and evolved since. Maybe I could do a response to this sometime. Anyway, here you go...

Some good things happening. Computers are now in Spanish and the unknown “file” is now a more understandable “archive”. The keyboard also jumped around on people, with the @ sign now being hidden behind the alt and 2 key. I guess now I will be keyboard translating instead of file menu translating. But that’s all right; at least now the accent doesn’t take an alt plus a three digit number to get to. If they could only place their fingers on asdf jkl; the world could be so much easier for them. Or me? Actually they probably could care less, they just ask me the same question a hundred times over when they get stuck.

Zuleika is slowly progressing with her mouse range. Although still wanting to drive her finger through the mouse button on a double click. Madeline got the right click down today. I think.

I do wonder sometimes as I walk under Aristides et al. on my way to the computer room. As I fill myself with worry and hurry and sometimes even double step it there to download a Service Pack 2 or install the entire office suite. The pounding of his makeshift wooden hammer log and homemade al against the cocobolo turtle he is working on summon me back to earth. My minds eye sees the turtle held between his feet, as he sits bent over and 6 inches off the floor on his simple wooden stool. I’ve seen the image so many times already. Really every time I take a peak over his way. He works, dark red wood chips cover his clothes and surround him like rose petals around a bride. More veins then I ever knew a person to have cover his forearms and hands as they maneuver tightly around his rough masterpiece.

I wonder as I look back and see Huma on the floor, eight feet off the ground, and leaning to her left, legs bent to her right as she plays with her three year old granddaughter. She always says something to me in Wounaan, still so foreign to my ear. I wonder as I see the three sisters, three wives of three brothers, weaving up there, shy and only now starting to smile at me first. I wonder. Who is going to use this Microsoft suite I am rushing to install? Huma, Aristides, etc. don’t even show face in the computer converted side of their bathroom. Actually, Aristides did once, the first class. I feel it was more like a show of support and a welcoming gesture then any interest whatsoever in the subject matter. I mean really, he’s going to be carving Cocobolo every day for the rest of his life. And he doesn’t mind that or even should you.

So I wonder, how many people is all this currently impacting? Well unless a huge flood of tourists come as a result of the new web page, which I’m pretty sure won’t happen, the current impact of all this is very small. But then the potential is big. It’s big for the younger residents of San Antonio, I tell myself.

I was in the middle of one of my tranquilo early morning and pre-breakfast guitar sessions when my host mom butted in. Well, not exactly “butted in” as I was not in the privacy of my own room with the door closed...if I did in fact have a room, or even a door. It was more like I was off in guitar land; the far off place where only Jack Johnson rhythms can take you.

Anyway, without any provocation at all Luciada held out a small shinny white strip of freshly cut fish belly. “Aquí esta tu carnada Mateo,” she said not so fluently, handing me the small ribbon of flesh. It caught me off guard for a second. I had not spoken, much less thought, about fishing for some time now, and here is Lucianda handing me precious bait. I usually have a hard time picking up on subtle hints. But this was not one of them. It was more than obvious what she wanted me to do with that bait.

“Here’s your lure, now go out and catch some fish if you want breakfast,” I saw her saying with that outstretched piece of fish flesh. And even with my empty stomach, I sat there and considered the proposition for a second or two. I was really enjoying my music up until this point; kind of like being woken from one of those heavy sleeps where you don’t want to get out of bed or even roll over. But I got up, reluctantly, and a little angry at the interruption, and grabbed that slimy smelly strip of fish belly with one hand and put my guitar away with the other; making certain not to get my guitar dirty.

I hadn’t been fishing for a few weeks and this was actually on purpose. I was tired of cast after cast with nothing on the reel in. Although the small piece of real meat was far superior to the usual narrow piece of frayed white cloth from the bottom of my t-shirts, I was still doubtful. And I in fact went over two hours without the slightest indication that fish actually still lived in water. Right around 10 I gave in to the empty feeling in my belly and put my pride aside to call it quits after one more cast.

Not really even paying much attention to the somehow still shiny piece of meat, I felt something trying to pull the rod from my hands. I gave a look, to make sure it was indeed a real live fish and not some mean combination of seaweed and current. As soon as I saw some commotion down there at the end of my line I started pulling and reeling about as subtly as my host mom told me to go fishing. And about 5 seconds later it was over, my line floated up to the surface with no hook on the end.

“Damn it!” I probably said out loud. Had I still had my hook, this excitement would have given me at least another hour of hopeful fishing. I even looked down to my body for more bait, but dressed in only a green pair of shorts and some dark colored boxers, I had no other options. Nothing to tempt this guy, even if he would consider swallowing another hook. So I slung my rod and reel back in the canoe and was forced home. If only to rub my luck in my face, I passed by at arms length a ginormous fish sitting next to a fallen log. I cussed that guy a few times too I think.

Once home, I threw my pole up into the house, and prepared myself to explain what just happened. Having somehow managed to get it all out, my host mom reminded me, “ahh, Mateo, tu iba a comer mmuuuucho pescado hoy,” (Mateo, you were going to eat a LOT of fish today) as if I was the one wanting fish to begin with. She proceeded to hand me my consolation breakfast of white rice and a meager piece of fried chicken. I ate it, a little disgruntled at her for making me go in the first place.

This is what I could have been eating.......

It’s all fair game here with the Indians. There is close to nothing que no se come. I woke up this morning and on my way down the ladder to pee I see a turtle on its back, swimming through mid-air. I was thinking of flipping him over and playing with him for a bit. But then I thought that would be wrong; to get him all excited, then make soup out of him. I don’t know if it is my history with turtles (you know the whole world of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles that all boys in my generation grew up in) but it was really hard for me to think of eating this real life Michelangelo. I realized that without the ooze to make him mutant he’s really helpless, especially there on his back. He might beat the rabbit in the kid's fable, but I think the author knew somehow to not include Indians in that story. Not that they would have spared the rabbit either. Telvinia had a ñeque cooking over the fire just the other day. Trying to figure out just what a ñeque was in English, and without any other ideas at all, Leo and I agreed on an over grown hamster. My childhood friend with the hamster metropolis in his bedroom wouldn’t have been happy with Telvinia, or Almodio. The next day I asked Telvinia how the ñeque was and she said Almodio ate it all himself. Then there’s the armadillo. I really only thought they make good food for buzzards, but that’s not true. Armadillos are just as edible as overgrown hamsters, that is of course, before they become road kill. I was given a piece some time ago. And by piece I mean not like a chunk of meat, but rather a piece of shell the inside of which I was obliged to scrap my dinner off of. Shall I continue with this gourmet menu fit for a Cacique? So far its been pretty cheep for our Cacique, the ingredients being all caught in or around the community. I pity the soul of the four legged creature who walks himself into the middle of this death trap of a community. But the gourmet meal doesn’t stop with only what’s caught. When there’s money it can even be bought. Like the rabo de puerco, pata de puerco, or hígalo de pollo. All of which I am surprised to learn are more costly than their more normal eatable parts. I was even told today that the rabo de puerco is imported from China or Japan. I can see it now, one of those ginormous ships trudging through the canal full of pig’s tail. Their most important, if not only mission: to bring millions of pig’s tails to Panama. Like I said, some of this I have eaten and some I have easily said no to. But the one food I have yet to eat, but which I have heard so much about, is alligator tail. “Sabroso,” Almodio tells me as I see him immediately start to salivate at the thought. The hold back isn’t catching them. Bacilio does so with no problem, regularly, whenever we go night fishing. He also throws them in the bottom of the boat for his amusement. A thin metal boat with space for a mere 6 people at most is great amusement for Bacilio when there is a live alligator freaking out on the floor. I’ve never seen a guy's fishing trip sound so much like a scary movie with the girlfriend. I laugh now at the thought of us flying up on to the seats or edges of that boat. Especially Almodio, who speaks about 10 words a minute and who I rarely see get excited.

They sit, two brothers, side by side on the built in bench of their furniture free home. "Aleluya man, Aleluya" blares thinly from the small squared and solar powered tape player to their side. Hands bounce from thigh to thigh, mimicking the bongo beats hidden in the accordian thick "tipica".

They've moved; grouped now in three, to the edge of the house, overlooking the morning's rays. Bacilio can better see from here to work the gel into his close latino haircut. He holds the crudely shaped piece of mirror with his feet, his back curled in less than correct posture. They're working together, Amaranto standing comb in hand, over Humberto. Not to compare them to monkeys, but they look out for each others hair needs much like I see monkeys do in National Geographic magazines or on the Discovery Channel.

Breakfast today was cooked by Felipe, with a heavy masculine touch. The white rice and lental mixture sits steaming, waiting for me to cover it in hot sauce. Nothing starts the day quite like a cold shower, unignorable tipica that doesn't fit into any of my previous musical schemas, and a breakfast better suited for my dinnner appetite.

It's 9:30. The morning's breakfast and businesses have been taken (and left). Work was started but stopped short. Much like those familiar apagones in Santo Domingo, the power stopped and there was nothing anyone could do about it; at least at that very moment. Moving the solar pannels was discussed again, but that's down the road. A few overhanging platano leaves were cut and I was hoping the small blackout would get the pannels cleaned today, but looks like a no go on that. Felipe went looking for 5 more palm leaves to finish a missing corner of the roof and Almodio went back to carving his piece of Tagua. It's amazing how people can seemingly dissappear when you don't know what they are saying. I'm sure it was discussed, but suddenly I'm the only one left in the house. Not that I mind the tranquility. The birds are the loudest ones now. I wonder how many species of them I am hearing? Once again, if I only knew their tongue...

"Si, esta es la hembra. Mas o menos."

Arisitides likes to say mas o menos. Even in less than "more or less" situations. Like when I asked him today about the two parakeets pigging out on the pile of rice left for them on the floor. And I believed him that the broken footed one was the female, for no reason other than, of anyone, he should know. I mean, he carves them out of Cocobolo. But then he said mas o menos, and got me all confused. He also told me that Pipeline Road also comes out at a highway, mas o menos. Mas o menos does me know good when I'm trying to plan a weekend hike along Pipeline and would like to know if I will be able to find a trafficked road to get home by. I should have known and stopped at the more or less female parakeet. Aristides also works 40 hours a week, often putting in overtime. I know he’s working even when I can’t see him working. I’ve become accustomed to the solid clunk of his make-shift hammer log pounding the butt of his various sized carving tools. And then when I do see him, like this morning during the confusing bird gender conversation, he’s covered in deep red cocobolo chips. His legs are most always bent at the knees, almost in a cross leg Indian position, if only they were crossed. He usually stops with the bottoms of his feet together. His simple seat raises him a good 6-8 inches off the floor. But now that I come to think of it, that’s probably intentional. He likes to grab his artwork with his feet to stabilize it, giving him two free hands to chip away with. He is also a lover of geography. We often get into conversations discussing locations of various far off (and other seemingly far off) countries. And that’s when his fondness for the mas o menos phrase comes to my benefit. I often leave Africa close, mas o menos, to Taiwan in my appraisal their geographic locations, when necessary.

Ok, it's been less than sunny and my battery doesn't like that. Time to stop.

Here's a picture for you. And it happens to be of Aristides uncle, Nando.

It’s a swinging kind of Sunday. I mean like rope swinging. Mateo and Bladimir were jumping and hurling themselves around, all 6 inches off the ground, with the help of a random rope tied to one of the supporting beams below their house. Then with all the excitement of a six year old they sprinted full out, mouths straining, for the banana tree. I had no clue as to the excitement a banana tree could hold but to my amazement it can be used for swinging as well. The dead leaves turn into a thick fibrous vine that now that I think of it would be excellent for swinging. To carry out our weeks supply of green bananas, my mom also interlaces it through the racismo and then loops it around her forehead. Kind of like a natural banana backpack. So, if it can support 50 pounds of banana weight I’m sure it’ll do just fine with 50 pounds of swinging muchacho weight. As I was watching them play I remembered how packed full of fun Sunday afternoons can be for a six year old. It’s constant adventure; from the rope swing, to the banana swing, to the bamboo pole. And this is all with no mention of a ball. Now they are on the ball which seemingly has an infinite number of play possibilities. After watching for a while, I climbed down from my house to look for a little excitement of my own. I found Nivardo calmly looking out to the canopy of trees that border our community. “Un mono,” he tells me pointing. And a monkey it was indeed. The first I had seen this close to our community. After joking with Custodio about the blow dart gun para comerlo, I spent the next 15 minutes immersed in a world of wonder all my own. This is the monkey whose yawn sounds like thunder, and I only wonder how big he has to open his mouth to get all that sound out. They must wake from one hell of a hard sleep because they really only yawn in the morning. So rather then roosters (there’s only one here) I have howling monkeys in trees to wake me up at 5 in the morning. That is besides one of those “bird sounds” cds someone puts in just around that time.

So what's it been like?

Well today I helped my host mom look for bananas and platanos. (that’s not all I did, but just the first thing that came to mind). My mom is hard core I must say. She by far out carries me in the platano carrying contest. She's more like a mule with 3 racismos de guino slung over her back and shoulders. I was walking behind her today on our way out (by the way, the way out is practically silent compared to the way in) and thought how if she fell she quite possibly would be crushed by the number of guienos she had on her back. I was carrying about 50 pounds myself and she had way more than me. And had a machete.

Oh and also I don't know if there is anything better (well there probably is, but at the moment it was pretty awesome) than hiding under banana leaves, while rain drips down from the canopy above, and enjoying a nice fat naturally ripened banana. I actually probably had over 20 bananas today; between the green ones that make up the substance my 3 daily meals and the 5 ripe ones I ate waiting there for the rain to slow. I mean you have to get them before the monkeys do. And monkeys really do eat bananas; it's not just a Curious George thing.

I also went diving for oysters today. We ended up with an overflowing 5 gallon bucket full of them. And I proudly contributed about 5 of those. The three other guys filled it the rest of the way. I think next time I'll be able to give those oysters a better run for their money. (They actually are not just sitting there with their mouths open, that's taunting their doing.) This is the second time I have been out looking in (and depending on) the lake for my food. I kind of feel almost stone age ish about it, especially now with my Indian arm band tattoo. And the fact that us 4 males brought the bucketful of game/food back for the female to put in the other half of the work also made it that much more cave dweller ish.

Anyway, as such I thought I was getting oysters tonight for dinner. Instead I was handed boiled green bananas and fried mini-hot dogs. I questioned (not exactly objecting, just questioning) and learned that although cooked and prepared the oysters are for tomorrow. That's all fine and dandy, although right now I am 90% certain that I will get them for breakfast; with the always reliable guieno verde. And that's not fine or dandy.

Well I guess there is dinner tonight. After climbing up into the house and not seeing anyone around, I decided to make an early night of it anyway. I swept the floor off, shook out my pad, sheets and pillow, tied up and tucked in my mosquitero, and squeezed in my ear plugs so 5am won’t sound so early tomorrow when everyone leaves for school. But after about 45 minutes of me lying awake wondering if my toes are too exposed to a night ambush by the mosquitoes or even those other 8 legged and far more scary night owls, I not only heard but felt everyone come home. Kind of how I imagine a snake would feel the ground vibrating as I passed near-by. I guess it is the result of the floor being seven feet off the ground and not every board being firmly nailed to the supporting beams underneath. Actually it can feel like a small but constant earthquake in the morning while everyone is busy leaving for school. Add to that, numerous bright beams of light sporadically poring through the empty spaces between the bamboo that make my room “a room,” and you have a terribly frightening set for a PTSD flashback. Anyway, I guess I will crawl my way out of this small sanctuary I have here and eat something for dinner and probably slap myself silly, and maybe kill a mosquito, in the process.

Here's a picture for ya. Looking from my house to the neighbors.

I thought this place was too good to be true. The similarities of Panama City and the States are incredible. Public transportation is scarcely more prominent than in Portland, as it seems most people here have their own cars. There are no guaguas running from their dirty black exhaust and little if any exhaust cloud to envelope me as I cross the street. The list could continue: drinkable tap water, eatable lettuce, 100 % all the time electricity, hot showers (not that I would ever consider them in this climate), and the plumbing to handle flushed toilet paper. The hostel I have been staying at for these first few days in Panama City is of the Lonely Planet variety. Full of college aged English speaking backpackers and retired travelers. It even has a resident parrot that wakes me up in the morning and obediently sits on its roost all day long in the middle of the courtyard outback. As I returned today, I thought to ask the hostel guy in the front where I could do my laundry, expecting to have to hike to some place across town. But he nonchalantly replied “no, aquí mismo. Y tu puedes secar también.” What!? Are you kidding me? You have a washer AND a dryer? Wow, I amazed once again at this country. Not wanting to wear my last pair of underwear for a week straight as I figure out the laundry situation in my site, I got right to my laundry. The setting selection, soap in, clothes in, door down routine came so naturally to me (I did just come from the states). Finished with that callus causing laundry scrubbing, I grabbed a beer, book, and pack of crackers to enjoy as I kicked back and waited. About thirty minutes later, my internal clock told me it was about time to throw my clothes in the dryer. So I went over and threw open the lid only to find, not my cloths spun dry and beautifully sticking to the sides of the washing machine, but the whole machine still full of water, stopped half-way through the wash cycle. “It stopped, eso” I commented to the hostel guy who was involved with something next to me. “Yeah, I know.” Ok….and… An intense waterfall of feelings and oh so tangible memories overtook me. I was seeing, hearing, smelling, and standing in a completely different time and place as soon as he said the words…

“Se fue la luz.” Utterly speechless. Never thought THIS would happen HERE. This is Panama City, Panama, US of A. “Oh, ok that’s fine.” I replied nicely, trying to comfort the embarrassed tone of his voice. As I walked back to my room I passed two Australian backpackers, the kind that would frequent these types of Lonely Planet establishments, one of which smelled like pot. I noticed he was quickly and desperately hammering the light switch up and down. “Electricity’s out.” I told him comfortably. “Ah, man! That sucks! What the hell!?” Smiling to myself on the inside for being such a Peace Corps Volunteer about it, I continued to my room to grab my head lamp. But it suddenly dawned on me. I am leaving to my site for the first time early tomorrow morning. And half my clothes are stuck half way through their wash cycle. And even of I did take them out and finish the job myself they would never dry overnight in this humidity. “Ah, man! This sucks!” I think to myself. “Well, I’m going to have to do something…”

I've been scourging the internet and local library for as much information as possible on my new home. There is some on Panama, more on the canal, but less and much less on Gamboa or Ella Puru/San Antonio (my neighboring communities). And I didn't think this was possible but Wikipedia comes up with an astonishing nada for queries on the Embera and Wounaan languages (native languages of the tribes of Ella Puru and San Antonio). Google does scarcely better. I think for the first time ever I have been disappointed with that magical little Google search button.

I did pick up a great book at the library by David McCullough entitled A Path Between the Seas; all about the history of the Panama canal. And since I will be living not only in The Canal country but within the 10 mile watershed area around it I figured this book would be all the more pertinent. History never did much for me but I have to say this book has the stuff of an incredible movie. I already have a title too...A Man A Plan A Canal Panama. And to further represent the palindromeness of the title, I think the movie should be made so you could watch it from the end to the beginning just the same.

So, in reading this book I noticed this description of life in the Panamian jungle circa 1880ish. "...They chewed on Havana cigars as they squinted into the brass eyepieces of surveying instruments. They slapped at the interminable mosquitoes; they picked scorpions the size of a hand from their boots in the morning. They shot alligators, some twenty feet in length, and brought back the stripped pelts of jaguars. And they were extremely good at their work."

I didn't even realize jaguars existed. I guess I knew they had existed at one point but just figured they had all been killed off. I was accustomed to only seeing them from a safe distance on the hoods of expensive automobiles.

Then there’s this one. "...The men worked in constant fear of poisonous snakes (coral, bushmaster, fer-de-lance, all three among the world's most deadly reptiles) and of the big cats (puma and jaguar). Days and nights were made a living hell by bichos, the local designation for ticks, chiggers, spiders, ants, mosquitoes, flies, or any other crawling, buzzing, stinging form of insect life for which no one had a name."

Not only jaguars but Pumas! Wow! Awesome! The bichos, well not so much.

New country, new post, and of course I had to give it a new look. Feels almost like a new haircut. Reviving the good old blog and hoping for a creative spark to start posting again. The Panamanian jungle, two weeks and counting...

This video goes along with a thank you letter I will be writing to friends and family who supported the water filter project we have going on. It just got fully funded so I am now waiting on a list of names to filter down to my inbox through Peace Corps bureaucracy to know whose addresses to include in the email. So if you know you’re on that list, here is your special video thank you ahead of time! And if you’re not, well you missed out, but hey you still get to watch a video right!? Enjoy! my community

What would it be like to have 29 brothers and sisters? 22 thanks to dad. 7, soon to be 8 from Mom. That’s 29 and one on the…way more siblings than I have! And to think about it, that’s more than my extended families on both sides combined. What in the WORLD would that be like???

Well Yoel knows. And so does Diomedis. And Wilson. And Benjamin. Along with a bunch of other kids I just learned were brothers. I was going about the usual tonight and decided to take a load off in Georgi’s colmado and chat with Bonnie a bit. Bonnie was in her best Doña evening attire/hospital gown and was sitting behind that broken down counter of theirs that moves forward with my weight when I lean on it. Bonnie is always pleasant to talk to or pleasant just to sit with. Has a certain maternalness that seems to radiate from her. I’m obviously not the only one who senses it, as their house overflows with their own kids más 4. If not more on weekends.

I’m sure Bonnie and Georgi started out living with their own 3 kids at one time. But since, this thing has exploded. What with Bonnie’s overpowering maternal force and all. I bet it’s hard for the neighborhood kids to resisit their desire to become one of Bonnie’s boys (not one girl lives there). Now her and Georgi don’t even spend the night in their own house. They’ve set up a bed behind the canned Paco Fish and Brugal covered wall of their colmado.

One day a while back I saw a small new face behind the counter despachando, struggling to return the right number of pesos, and I knew this was it. It’s happening I thought. And honestly, I felt fortunate to have witnessed the assimilation/adoption process occur. Like watching a baby being born, into a family of few who are related, and already having control of his bowels, not to mention able to speak in full sentences. It has almost holy overtones to it.

The boy was skinny, the skin on his face only covering his eye sockets and cheek bones, which made his nose, already disproportionate, that much longer and curve that much more prominently over his top lip. Imagine a nose on a skull. It just wouldn’t look right at all. His feet were bare, clothes thin, tattered and dirty, although not much different than standard muchacho ware. He was timid and shy. Unsure of himself and not so quick to smile. After a week or two of calling him by the only name I knew him as, el chivo but which I had diminuitized to el chivito, Bonnie set me straight saying, “Mateo, él no se llama el chivo. Se llama Yoel.” I was glad Bonnie made the clarification as I did feel it somewhat wrong to be calling him “the little goat.”

About Yoel’s family situation I know little, except the bit about all his siblings and the fact that his mother left her 6 kids here alone one day and went to live in Consuelo. Yoel and his brothers fended for themselves for a while which explains why Yoel showed up to Bonnie’s and the condition he was in. What kind of mother packs up and leaves her kids alone!? I remember thinking when I first heard this. Now, after seeing other situations of the sort play out here, I react not by throwing my hands up and furrowing my brow in indignation but with small facial movements like my Dominican friends, being not so surprised and having an almost what’s new attitude to it all.

I remember in the days, weeks, and months that followed watching Yoel tag behind Bonnie on her walk past my house to theirs to prepare lunch everyday. She, always conscious of him while still moving uninhibitedly at her own pace, him just trying to keep up, swerving where she swerves. Much like the mother hen and her little peeper’s novela that plays out only two inches off the ground, all over this country and especially on my street, everyday. Slowly but surely the distance would increase between them on these daily walks from the colmado to the house, Yoel allowing his attention now to be caught by other distractions along the way.

Le dio brega, pero Yoel finally learned to count and return correct change. He began taking on more advanced colmado tasks but still leaves the salami cutting, bulk item weighing, and bigger menudo transactions to Bonnie. He is sure of his products and will even asserts himself with old men who charge him of not giving them that caja de fosforos when indeed he did and they just lost it in one of their 4 shirt pockets. He lets that big toothed smile cover his entire face more often now days too.

I still wonder what he thinks about his Dad and being part of such a big bunch of brothers and sisters.

4/24

I look down to check the little numbers in my lower right hand clock which read 9:51 PM. I hear water splattering the ground in cup fulls next door. Carlos must be bathing. My mosquito net is illuminated to my right by the incredibly bright whiteness of this word document, as small bothersome insects fly about the screen of my laptop. I am careful not to hold it too close to my face or my nose will soon be full of them. Hizo frio esta noche. Un chin. I decided against the bucket bath tonight since I didn’t sweat like usual, as it was unusually overcast and cool all day, allowing my skin a break from its constant moisture. I woke up this morning in one of those cloudy head fogs that didn’t really clear up as the day progressed but I guess I cut through it to get a few things done at least.

It started about 7:30 as I crawled out of my mosquitero and took care of first things first. Then deciding to head down to the colmado in search of something cold on my throat I grabbed a few pesos sitting on the candle waxed pocked half wall dividing my kitchen and living space and closed the small pad lock on my front door behind me. They didn’t have of the jugos bon that are worth their full five peso price, Bonni said they should be getting more today or tomorrow, so I settled for a mabi and four pieces of bread and headed home. How awesome cereal and cold milk would have been I’m thinking now, and even for tomorrow morning...but let’s just not think too much more about that.

The days game plan began to take shape. I knew I had English at 2 and Escojo at 5 and I could probably get a filter installed this morning, even more then one if I had the keys to the empty discoteca where they are being stored. Last night I must not have been on the ball to think of that one ahead of time. But its not suprising. It seems days here are filled with enough stimulation that I can usually last until 7 or 8pm before I begin to hit a wall, the front door closes, and that’s a wrap for Mateo. Maybe my body is more connected to the natural cycle of things here. I mean I get up when the sun rises and turn in when it heads down. I eat what is only in season. It’s all that is really offered; the produce coming straight from the ground around Pedro Sanchez. The chicken that I eat a few times a week is alive doing its chicken thing just the morning before it is killed, plucked, and seasoned. It somehow still finds its way into my plastic green cantina by lunch. I sweat when I should. All day really, while the sun is hot, having no controlled air environment to escape to. It’s the ultimate fresh air experience. I even feel the strong night breezes pass through the house as I write this. When it rains I hear it on the tin, very commanding and demanding of my attention; a good aguacero will cover up any other noises with the pounding and subsiding roar of its passing tropical bands. I can’t hide behind insulated ceilings and weather proofed windows.

And I’ve grown to enjoy this. To feel a part of the day’s cycle. Rolling with it as it circles around this specific place of the globe I find myself in.

Well it looks like I didn’t get passed breakfast news with this update but that’s fine for now. Things always don’t turn out like I may have planned for here. I know you’ll understand. Well, maybe. Try to believe me. It’s a stretch from life in the states. Way more then the 2 hour plane ride it takes to get here.

4/26

The rain is tailing off now although the trees are still dripping. The clock says it’s five. I seem to agree with it. Although it’s a cool, dimmed down, and quiet five in the afternoon. The electricity is here, somewhat early, but I think the rain shower kept people away, wherever they were. The tranquility is somewhat startling, given the late afternoon electrical surprise. Next door, small clapping hands replace the familiar and steady pounding merengue and reggeaton beats. Seems to be a birthday or some other kid celebration. The hum of my fan, keeping the mosquitoes off of my sandaled feet, and some new (thanks scott and heidi) grooving sounds coming from my speakers, keep me from knowing exactly what it is that’s happening next door. I usually stay fairly up to beat on my neighbors goings on, and them on mine for that matter. Although some of what they hear coming from my house is like what I imagine my mom hearing when she watches the Spanish channel. When I feel really ambitious with the cultural exchange aspect of things, and I know they’re listening, I’ll turn my music way up (which is still pretty quiet for around here) and maybe even throw on some Chili Peppers or Zeppelin for that added rock music punch.

4/30

These were two things I started and didn’t finish for whatever reason. I’ve been meaning to do a little up to the date for this here thing. Both Mom and Dad have been reminding me of it for some time now. I guess it says it’s been since February or March since the last one. Time’s been flying. The thought has passed through my mind a few times lately about what it is going to feel like to have this all as just a memory. Or to tell people I lived in the DR for the past two years. Not actually live here anymore. I won’t be in the middle of all of this, and that’s strange to think about. I go about the day to day in relationships with friends and neighbors, while also immersing myself with thoughts, and trying to translate them to actions, so that I can somehow be a source of positive change here. (I am not saving the world by any means! That is a loaded job better left for someone else.) And time just melts away. So anyway what’s been going on really?

Water filters are being installed. A very tangible and rewarding project. Seeing people drinking free and clean water for the first time in their life is pretty cool. The smiles I get when I ask them how their filter is working are awesome. I remember thinking to myself how this whole volunteer gig is pretty sweet deal! If I didn’t have to go back to the states and have the whole monetary concerns causing me to get a paying job, amongst other getting actions, this would be something I could do for a while. I don’t mind the lifestyle at all. The simpleness, poverty, etc., I mean. What ever you want to call it. (I am also not saying that I´m poor or even know what it is like to be poor. I don´t and never will know.) And to think of it a little, after having been back in the states, it is really only in the states that I have desires for a lifestyle of more. I think it may be the satisfaction of living in a community or maybe not being bombarded by advertising, now that I think of it. Imagine not seeing an ad all day long. Well, besides the warn out old posters hung in the colmado for beer or different snack products, that are very unimposing. In the states there is no way for that to happen. To not see ads. We don´t even realize we are seeing them. Just another part of the landscape of America. But here I guess marketers realize they have not much of a market to market to, and focus their efforts elsewhere. It kind of alows my mind to take a break from so many me thoughts and think about others for a small fraction of time then usual. I am not saying at all that I have no me thoughts. They for sure are there, maybe just focused different. And I realize the whole Peace Corps organization and safety net protects me and supports me, allowing me to have my needs met. I wouldn’t able to do the whole volunteering thing if I had to pay my own money, look for a doctor when I was sick, or try to make money for other essentials. I don’t know, I guess it’s just a sweet deal and I feel fortunate to be a part of it.

That’s all I got now. Just a bunch of late night rambling and some cutting and pasting of ideas begun. Maybe this will get me back rolling with more substantial news. The soccer balls have been a blessing Uncle Tom. You can’t imagine how many kids are can play soccer now! And how much they are enjoying them! A few of them are even getting their own ball for the first time in their lives.

Ok

Peace Out

Matt

I found this lost among other files. Don’t think I posted it.

3/18

Yesterday Elena, a fellow PCV, invited me over to her house for a little fiesta of sorts, a time of carbo loading really, featuring a feast of Dominican espaguetis with bread and beer. Somewhat nutritionally one sided you might think? It could have been a much heavier affair with the added accompaniment of viveres. I for one am glad they were left out.

I was surprised to see Elena with a cat in her house, as I knew she had some bad luck keeping a little kitty alive once. This cat had some years on him but not too many, a joven cat if you will, with a very pretty and puffy orange coat. Unlike my cat he pawed at my tender bare feet, rather then tearing the skin off them or pulling his favorite bite and hold hard and slowly let off as I whack him move. I think he is still mad at me from calling him Shakira. This was all before he hit puberty and I realized she was really a him. And I thought she could be my surrogate Columbian/belly-dancing girlfriend.

Elena said that this cat was aprestado from the Pastor and his wife, and that they do this often. A cat on loan. I never really thought that could be done but it interested me. I should have done this instead of mistakenly thinking I would enjoy the company and responsibility of taking care of a girlfriend that scratches and bites and draws blood and doesn’t even dance bachata, much less belly dance. And then doesn’t even turn out to be a girl in the first place.

But what really caught my attention was that this cat was on a string and tied to the metal bars of a security door at Elena’s side entrance. It wasn’t really that the cat was on a string, because I have gotten used to seeing that here and like many other things has become part of the whole Dominican deal. It´s that this was at Elena’s house, a fellow PCV, and there were other Americans present. And rather then questioning Elena on the cats being on a string, we proceeded to drag the cat through the house by its leash string, its front paws spread eagle and its nails gripping futilely at the hard cement floor.

Now after 18 or so months here, I thought, this is just another example of our cultural adaptation and why I love the whole Peace Corps experience. Because now I can see cats on strings, or mini vans…I mean motorcycles, five deep and carrying random household utilities or construction materials through the street and not even look twice. And I can chalk it up to just part of our common human package deal and get on with working and living here. Which is nice.

Yendri is the smallest kid on our soccer team. His house backs right up to the field and being the only boy amongst four sisters I guess that makes him obligated twice to join in on whatever is being played out there. The soccer ball goes up to about the middle of his shins and so his passes are a lot like a pitcher pitching change-ups. He’ll make you jump and turn your back with the swing of his leg, but then you see the ball rolling off his extended leg and slowly making its way to you. He also has an interesting nose thing going on. Being a good 3 feet taller then him, I can still somehow see up his nostrils. It boggles me to this day. They are not only upturned, I can see up them from above. Anyway, today at practice he told me that he heard I had a birthday recently. Or that I am going to have one soon. He wasn’t really sure. I felt he was stabbing around in the dark, and he finally asked me when my birthday was. He was reaching for something I thought to myself. I told him it was in April and thought maybe it was him who really had a birthday, so I asked. It wasn’t, but when I inquired ¿y cuando es entonces? he jumped right on to my birthday month so fast I thought he might loose his grip and slip. He answered my next super obvious question was a nonchalant, yo no se. And our short conversation ended there. Mostly because I couldn’t relate and didn’t know what to say as a response. Yendri was 8, at least from what everyone else said, but he doesn’t know what day he will turn 9.

Was the day Yendri’s mother gave birth just another day for her and her husband? I can imagine instead of an exciting homecoming with a new little family member, she got right back to cleaning the dishes that were left before heading to the hospital, if that’s were she indeed had Yendri, and began cooking dinner for her hungry husband. What about the birth certificate? Yendri could have one or just as easily not. If not, he is in for some future inconveniencies and problems his mother must not have imagined walking out the hospital without the acta de nacimiento form. Then I wondered about his birthday parties. After eight parties he should have gotten something ingrained up there, at least to remind him his season was around the corner, right? But then I remembered where I was. And I could only think about that cold monster called poverty that indiscriminately eats up kids' recollection of their birthdays, destroys their plastic samurai sandals, and rots their baby teeth. Yendri was born into poverty’s world one day back eight or so years ago, and his family has lost track or not cared to remind him of what day that actually was.

I thought about those kids who were afraid of the dancing Chucky Cheese robots that celebrated mine and so many of my friends’ birthdays with us. Maybe these kids were on to something. Maybe they understood how the whole Chucky Cheese dancing crew was really our own scary monster, trying to protect us from a world were birthdays didn’t include $20 US dollars worth of tokens and fun stimulating party games. Or the feelings of surprise we had when waking up the morning after, to see that all those toys weren’t in our dreams and in fact, were not going to disappear. Or a world where remote control cars are walked on strings up and down dusty dirt streets. My toys cars came with tracks and turns and jumps and the remote controlled ones came with a remote. The batteries even lasted forever; not like the cheep blue and yellow ones bought from behind the colmado counter.

This was the other day. Sometimes I get sucked into this world and think different and probably sound like I am ranting too much. So I will leave that there for now and just tell you about something that happened this morning. I woke up with the 20 or so bred to be fighting roosters that live next door. They had actually woken up earlier way before the sun decided to peak its rays out over the Cordillera Oriental. I only know this because I too was up with them at this dark and unknown hour of the morning, when all Gods animals should be asleep and quiet in their cages. But I finally got up at about 7:30 when my cat began nibbling on my toes, and I went out back to pee. I love the freedom of peeing here. I personally don’t take full advantage of it all the time. I mainly pee in a corner next to my latrine or in my three way closed shower area (don't worry, it goes directly into the tube that runs out to the street. I think peeing in the shower any other way is disgusting). But my 3-10 yr. old neighbors whip it out right on the sidewalk and go in the street, in the morning, during the hot afternoon sun, whenever they really feel like it.

Anyway I walked down a few houses to Luz little colmado in the front of her house to get some breakfast supplies. It came out to 14 pesos but she had counted wrong and was only going to charge me 9. She often counts wrong so I always make sure to tally my own bill up as well. I told her about her mistake and paid her the 14 and left. The five pesos she sold herself short were probably the money she would have pocketed on the sale, so that would have especially been bad. But she called me back saying, “Mateo ven” and handed me two eggs adding “esos juevos son criollos, no son gringos, no.” Criollo eggs are the “better” eggs from chickens that aren’t the solid white “gringo” chickens they kill to eat. And these eggs are about 5 pesos each, 2 pesos more then gringo eggs, and probably from her own criollo chickens out back. Now I don’t think for a second that she was doing this because I saved her some money. Every so often she gives me a few good criollo eggs. And every so often she tells me “Mateo, ya tu eres uno de nosotros” (your one of us now) which makes me feel more comfortable here, kind of taking the shine out of my white skin.

So Luz gave me two criollo eggs for no more of a reason then it had been some time since she last gave me eggs. And this is what I love and it just makes me happy. Never in the states would I give somebody something just to give it to them, and sincerely enjoy doing it. I barely give stuff for holidays and birthdays and when I do it is grudgingly, not exactly wanting to extend my hand out and let go of what I have, only doing it because I should. It’s so awesome here to see people so giving. I was heading home one day minding my own business and from all the way across the street I heard a loud “¡Mateo, a buen tiempo!” (which is an invite to share in the food someone is eating) from a girl sitting and eating a sandwich. I mean kids share loly-pops between 4 friends, each kid getting a broken off piece. Strangers on the bus offer me orange slices or other food they just bought through the window from the vendor on the street. So whenever I feel myself becoming too negative and judging of this culture, or the whole poverty thing weighs heavy, I remind myself of this aspect of living here and it makes me smile inside.

Thats all I got for ya now. I did go whale watching the other day in the Samana Bay just north of me. These whales come down every year for 3 months to this bay because I guess they like the carribean waters in the winter. But whale watching is not the spectacle I thought it would be. We saw a bunch of whales, really anywhere you'd look, but by seeing I mean I saw their backs or their tails. Never saw a whole body or face! Anyway I'll put up on flickr a few new pictures of this and the Semana area which is really beautiful.

Today one of my kids came to practice chasing his cows. I was sitting on Monsanto’s porch calmly watching the half diamond baseball game that was going on. Through the trees to my right I noticed two huge cows barreling down the dirt road. Then as they came into clear view I saw Oben sprinting behind them. I guess he forgot his horse. Or just didn’t want to bother, relying instead on his family’s speed and agility. His two brothers are the quickest kids on the soccer team. Their horse is named Relampago (Lightning) as well. They always ride it barebacked and often backwards for kicks. One day I might take them up on their offer and go for a little horseback riding in the hills nearby.

But anyway, the two cows proceeded to cut directly between the mound and home plate with Oben right on their tail. I looked at the guys playing baseball expecting some sort of reaction but there was none. So I laughed out loud instead. Oben continued chasing them for a few hundred meters more until I suppose they were where he wanted them to be. He turned around and walked to join the small sided soccer game that was going on in the outfield. I guess he decided his afternoon job was done. Or he had had enough of chasing around cows.

Today was pretty slow. Yesterday I had a meeting for anyone interested in getting a Bio-Sand filter. A disappointing eight people came, but we had the meeting anyway and I gave them the whole “why this is important” spiel. Afterwards I was thinking how that in order to have a worth while meeting, it sometimes takes a previous meeting to get people on board for the actual meeting that I wanted to have in the first place. It’s crazy I know. A little frustrating too. I was hoping to meet once, get 25 people on board, take care of other business, and send in the application for these filters by tomorrow. But tomorrow is now the real meeting as yesterday was just the warm up. And it’s not that people didn’t know. Because they have been stopping me in the street and telling me to apuntar them - put their name down so they don’t miss out on these filters and how they really really need it. Then I tell them don’t worry because we are having another meeting(heavily winded emphasizing “another”) and that they just need to come to this one. One girl in particular was insistent in telling me to put her name down and I kept telling her how she just needs to come to the next meeting. Then she dared to ask, “¿y si se me olvida mañana?” – and what if I forget tomorrow? That really got me. I told her just don’t forget and walked away, leaving her there standing still for a brief moment and probably a little frustrated and wondering why I wouldn’t just apuntarla.

I don’t want to rant and so I won’t too much. But I think I see the culture of poverty coming through in the beginnings of this whole filter project; apathy and not taking personal responsibility or the initiative for something that they could truly benefit from. I mean they only have to come to a meeting! I can understand that a few people here may not see a problem with the water they are drinking. I can excuse that, and just ask them to come to the meeting anyway, because that’s what I am going to convince them of during the first half of it. But I have also heard enough complaints since I’ve been living here to know that there are many people who do understand their water is a problem. Why didn’t they jump on this thing the first take? Why do they give me an excuse for not being at the first meeting and then say they can’t come to the next one either, but ask me to apuntar them anyway? Things like this can be frustrating sometimes. But that’s enough. I will stop there for tomorrows’ meetings’ sake.

BIG WARNING! YOU’LL NEED TIME TO READ THIS

Pictures where ment to be included but the internet is not willing.

So I’ve wanted to share this now for a while. Not to toot my own horn but because I think it’s blog worthy. And because friends have been asking a few questions along these lines lately too. I think it will give you an idea of what I’m working on and who I’m working with. And what is this all accomplishing. And maybe you and I will understand a small part of the word “development”. It’s a really tough vocab word though when you start looking at the details.

Anyway, I am in the youth development sector of Peace Corps and so most work is focused as such. I am not developing infrastructure, or fish ponds, or teaching people new ways to grow crops. Although sometimes I wish I was because results are more tangible and numbers can used. Numbers don’t lend themselves well to my sector. This is more of a human development thing, for both me and my community. And human development is a life long process. Still learning as I go, I can only share as much as I’ve learned in my 23 American years. And while my years are not many I’ve realized here in the DR that I’ve been very fortunate to have had a wide variety of experiences growing up in the states. And the basic education (public school and college) that I received is really worth something I´ve realized as well. And now as I look back on this year I see how all these experiences have been influencing my work here and will continue to direct my work in the next year.

So here it goes… I’m taking this from a short 15 minute PowerPoint I made up for our 1 year IST, entitled “Key Activities and Key Players in Pedro Sánchez”. I made a point to not only highlight the activities but the key people behind them because I’m relying on them so much here. And after one year here I have learned to really value the people who want to move and work with me.

English with Daybi

Daybi is my bread and butter. My main man and go to guy. If he could only be involved in every project! This guy gets all the super achievement stars I can give him. When I first got here to Pedro Sánchez his dad introduced me to him in their colmado saying Daybi speaks some English. Even by this point in country I expected to converse the first few lines in any standard English text and be done with it. But Daybi wouldn’t let me stop. He kept throwing words out there that caught me off guard. And his pronunciation was pretty good, better then intelligible. Surprising all the more when I found out he learned all this from studying an old English book he came across. So I took note and after about the second week of people asking me about 5 times a day when English classes were going to start I went to Daybi. English was the last thing I wanted to do getting here but I told Daybi that I would work with him if he would help me out with teaching an English class. My idea was maybe sometime in the future have him take charge of the class. So I met with him three times a week and he was my sidekick during our English classes. Now we are still meeting but Daybi is basically teaching two different classes on his own with a few grammer books my mom got donated. And to my good fortune he’s an incredible naturally gifted teacher!

While I wouldn’t consider English a top priority for development work, especially in light of many other issues to be tackled, English here in this part of this country can lead (for better or worse in the big picture) to above average jobs in the hotels in nearby Bavaro and Punta Cana. So while I still wouldn’t want English classes to be a center piece for me, I am happy to spend the time I do with Daybi. Because I am 100% certain this is a sustainable project after I leave. And for the kids who really want to study this can lead directly, without a doubt, to a hotel job in the future.

Fútbol with Monsanto

I was there the day fútbol came to Pedro Sanchez. Imagine that!? It started with me bringing my ball to the baseball field one day and about 30 kids running around crazy kicking it and tackling each other. They had never played or seen this game before in their lives. And it was a mess at first. But with Monsanto, a Dominican who is from Jarabacoa which is a soccer oasis in this soccer desolate country, we slowly began to teach the game and the same certain kids began showing up practice after practice. At first we would play only Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Then the kids talked me into a few Saturdays and Sundays (which really wasn’t that hard to do). Now it is basically every afternoon whether I am there or not.

I still can’t hold back the smiles when I walk out to the field on a random afternoon and see these kids playing soccer on their own! And these are mainly kids who aren’t baseball players and weren’t involved in much day to day somewhat structured activities. Now they are learning the beautiful game! How beautiful is that!?

After not too long I realized that these kids really have no idea of what it means to be on a team or what personal accountability is; or other general human interaction/life skills. So throughout this whole process I have been trying to get these kids conscious of what this looks like. Although even today, this is still a huge struggle for them and me. But there is some progress on this front and this will continue to be a focus point in the next year. These kids are not going to become the next Ronaldinho, there is not the soccer structure set up here in this country for this. So I try to balance my soccer instruction with good people instruction when appropriate.

Ecojo with Eduardo

Escojo is a national youth initiative promoting healthy decision making relating to sex health and beyond. It was started by some older PC DR Volunteers, and aims to form youth groups and leaders who will multiply this information to other youth and community groups through presentations, activities, and the like. And honestly I have been struggling with this youth group concept from the get go. In training they heavily emphasized to us that we should try to form some type of youth group (be it an environmentally focused one, Escojo, hybrid, or just any group of youth that meets regularly). I say struggling because I don’t buy the sustainability of the youth groups. And especially now, after a year of seeing how much effort it takes to just get the kids to meet. I constantly feel I am hounding and coercing them and I feel the day I stop this is the day the youth group stops. Because it happened to my first youth group effort.

But now I’m working with different youth, fewer and so more focused, and a different theme (the first was environmental education). And while still difficult I have a few kids onboard and one great youth, Eduardo, pushing with me. We have done a presentation to two community groups and an activity for World AIDS in our community so far. And have attended various conferences with other youth from all over the country. I am more hopeful now for the success of this group and them doing more activities/presentations and becoming stronger with Eduardo taking the lead.

A Few Honorable Mentions

Business Plan Competition

Together with these three guys we put together a business plan and did a small feasibility study for this competition/conference. The winners would get all or part of their plan funded. Their proposal was for an arcade type place where they would have Nintendos, Playstation, etc for kids to come and rent by the hour. It was a great business idea really because people don’t have these gaming systems in their houses here and there wouldn’t be much overhead costs (besides electricity) after they bought the initial systems and televisions. When they first presented me with the idea I was not that thrilled by the principals of it and so I had to think how we could make this a more worthwhile and wholesome business. So we proposed to tie it into education a bit by restricting access to kids while they should be in school (either in the morning or afternoon) and also not letting kids in who didn’t pass their classes the previous semester. So with these new regulations I was cool with the project and had a great time working with them to flesh it out and fulfill the requirements of the competition. In the end we didn’t win but they came out of a three day conference having heard presentations on a wide variety of business topics such as: customer service, bookkeeping, mission/vision, assessing demand, etc. And even I learned a lot going through this with them and thoroughly enjoyed it.

Sports Tournment

This was really the first project I was involved in at my site and it was a great warm up and initiation into the workings of the community. It involved one full weekend of about 300 kids from the surrounding communities competing in Volleyball and baseball. It came off well looking back I guess. Although I remember it being a pretty big headache during. I remember I ended up doing a lot of the leg work. But I was also able to see who here in the community is all talk and who really gets down and works with you. And to this day those people who worked hard in this are still by my side in whatever we need to get done.

Reading Groups

There were two of these. One was at my house with about 6 kids and kind of sporadic, mainly whenever they were all around so we wouldn’t have to go searching high and low for anyone. We were reading through The Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe and progressed well I thought but this kind of fell apart later as meetings slowly got further and further apart. I guess I’m not too good at begging kids to come and reminding them over and over and really sometimes that’s what it takes. Their parents certainly don’t send them out the door to my house to read, that’s for sure! The second group was kind of a coordinated effort between myself and the girl who manages the small library we have in our new tech center. And it was mainly with high school age kids. We would meet twice a week and read short stories from Dominican authors. I enjoyed this but we are kind of on hold as the whole month of December and first part of January is useless to do anything much. Nobody wants to get together for anything. So I am hoping to be able to start off where we left with this. But I’m not holding my breath either.

For the IST presentation I had lessons learned and promising practices slides but just for the sake of length I will leave that off of this. And just share some goals for my last year.

The first is I want to get this homework/after school center going (called Espacios Para Crecer). Up to this point it has been a people networking nightmare and I’ve been stretched hugely on my interpersonal and people influencing skills. The plot is way too think to lay out here but I will just say I saw prospects to get this program going from day one and have had many frustrations along the way. At times I was almost about to abandoned the whole idea but it is really too good to do that so I just let it rest until it was time to wake it up. It’s now up and awake and its wheels are moving forward. I hope to achieve some progress with this in the next month and by a Dominican March or April have it going. If faster I will be incredibly surprised. I will also say this project kept me from being totally pumped about my first year and if I can get this going this year I really feel that I can walk out of here happy. Even with the other things going, this one is that big too me.

The next is that I want to get soccer goals for my soccer kids. I envision this to be pretty straight forward. Just a matter of money which has been half way promised to us from the mayor. I would also like to get more soccer balls and cleats down here for the kids (*wink *wink). And I won’t lie to you that more then half the kids who play don’t have shoes to play in.

The next is to do a drawing class and offer one or two scholarships to the kids who do the best work to take another class in Santo Domingo. I generously got this awesome drawing book donated (in Spanish) by the author Betty Edwards. I have been using it on a more informal basis at my house with a few kids but I would really like to do a few months of once a week classes for about 20 kids. I’m really excited about getting this going! And I have been doing more drawing myself as well which I have really enjoyed.

There is also the possibility of doing guitar classes too but the lack of another guitar or two is still holding this back. I have been working on getting one, both here in the DR and with organizations at home, but as of yet no go. Still haven’t given up that search though. But in the meantime I play and give more informal classes to one kid named Francis who borrows the Catholic Church’s guitar.

Those are pretty much the new things I am gunning for this year. And maybe giving a class at the computer center as well. Ohh yea I almost forgot. I also want to get this program called grassroots soccer going with my soccer team. It’s a really interesting HIV/AIDS prevention program started in Africa that uses sports to teach. Check it out online too if you want to know more. Do a google search for it and you’ll find it. Finally I still need to continue with the things that are currently going to get them to walk on their own by November next year.

It may sound like a lot or it may not. It is and it isn’t. Just depends on the day, the week, and the weather. Seriously.

What do you do when your dad says he has to get his heart beat checked out and then the next day you get three consecutive messages saying that he will be going in for surgery tomorrow morning? And it’s tomorrow afternoon. And you’re in another country. Well you think of all kinds of crazy scenarios all of which have you on the next Jet Blue flight up to Nueva Yol and straight out to Portland. All without that green card you’ve been putting off going in to get because you weren’t expecting to be leaving the country. And you thought green cards were only for Mexican immigrants in the US. You also call up half of your relatives that you haven’t talked to for over a year and put the phone on speaker, stand on your tip toes and hold it up really high so those few phone signal beams won’t have to work so hard and try to puzzle piece together the crackle you hear. But once you get some comforting answers from the medically knowledgeable part of the family you feel like a hundred bucks. And then you decide to write a blog, because really why not? You’re walking on air right now. Kind of like you felt in school when all those exams were over and you walked out of the last knowing you kicked its butt.

Now if only you can fix that back splash problem in the latrine. You know the dangers of getting off your morning poop schedule in this country. And those current splash ups have the psychological power to make every last little hair in your large intestine stand still. Forever.

But I did go see Shakira! And she really does dance just like they show on television. Her hips don’t lie. But get this…The DR’s electricity woes didn’t even let up for her! She had to sing in the dark for a song while I stood and imagined her visiting me in my community at my house during an apagon.

A flying cockroach, watch out!

Hey Dad, now that you have some baby clean and blood happy arteries, want to race up Mt. Tabor? This does put you in tip top shape right?