L-R: Alexis Fernandez, Lori Holmes, Angela Harmon, Alissa Mayer, Janet Espinosa, b.

Missing only the infamous John Mitchell. (To be added later, along with the effects of the "fountain")

In the haunted hotel house.

Guagua adventures.

Long jump competition

Peeling potatoes for Christmas

Stayed in a real life bungalow on the Miches beach. No coconuts to be found though.

The most recent holiday happenings from the Caribbean:

Bean showing off his jitterbug.

The star of the dinner.

Feliz Navidad, from Oliver. (Obelee)

Christmas night--let the dancing begin! (And bring on the presidente and brugal...)

Thanks to Bean, Allie, Jeff and Maria Hernandez's family, this was my favorite DR Christmas. We took care of the american fare, and Maria the Dominican. We were all too full to move afterwards...a good sign. And still no food poisoning.

The Christmas Dinner! Yes, that is an apple pie.

Preparing the costumes for the Thanksgiving talent show.

Thanksgiving, PCDR 2008.

Yes, Full is Good.

Jeff has survived his grisly Staph Infection. This was not the worst of the phases, but the only one I had the stomach enough to take a picture of. He is happy to be able to sit again.

The Good Forces are joined by Linsey Longstreth, new volunteer from Ohio. She is in Community Economic Development and is working with laying the economic foundation for future ecotourism projects. Three cheers for Linsey! Together with Good Citizen Jake Browder, we helped and translated for 2 weeks with a pediatric medical mission in the small border town of Hondo Valle. This was easily one of my favorite experiences of my life—great company, inspirational new acquaintances, good food, beautiful scenery, and the chance to help out. Seven doctors, 3 nurses and 2100 children seen. No wonder I caught a cold!

October 29-31 2008, 41 youth from all over the country participated in the 2nd annual IT youth conference “Encargados del Futuro” (encargado = the person in charge). Four youth from my computer club joined the gang for 3 days and 2 nights of games, workshops, presentations and very little sleep. We had a digital scavenger hunt, a day in the lab learning about robots, practice with PhotoShop and other advanced programs, a Skype call to a Disney programmer, a talent show and guest speakers. Each community was required to present a video using the program MovieMaker and our club won 3rd prize for artisticness, technical ability, information presented, and creativity. Go CIA! (club de informática avanzada) Thanks to a team of 20 plus volunteers, these three days were a huge success and definitely one of the highlights from my time here in the DR.

Having never been cat people, we will be the firsts to tell you that this cat-dog has been a delightful surprise. She is a hunter, preferring big game (roosters, dogs, the curtains, the walls). She is also very affectionate and prefers to be on top of anyone at any given time. The Force is an class 2 omnivore (eats anything when hungry enough). Her favorites are salami, eggs, cheese crackers, popcorn and avocados. And chips. She is also a good sport.

And of course since she is, after all, a cat first and fore-most, her main chore is to sleep. She fits in well with us.

a.b.

c.

d.

e.

f.

g.

h.

i.

j.

Rules:

Please email me with your choices.

Choose your top 3 in each category, assigning 3 points to your top pick, 2 to the 2nd, and 1 to the 3rd. We'll total up the points and report on the winners after I hear from you all.

Additionally, to humor me, please vote for the Best of Show overall. (don't need to assign points)

**Judges only need reply. You know who you are. mom, you may respond as you desire; you're the mom.

In a historically ambassadorial event, Montana citizens sample the best of the Dominican Republic. Minutes off the plane, Mr. and Mrs. Bruner immediately tested (and approved) the national standard for refreshing: Presidente. First two phrases learned in Foreign: “Dos Presidente grande, por favor” and “Me gusta esta vaina” During the biologically astounding tour of the mangrove national park, Bruner and Bruner continued their tradition of usurping their children’s friendships by adopting the local young guides. This was immediately followed by a rollicking ferry cross…and two of the gringitas losing their beans over the side. It was Sandlot without the fair lights on the bay for many a passenger, and poor Mom was endearingly green for some time after. But, as turned out to be the mantra for the journey, pa’ lante, pasame una Presidente!

Now, if any jealous readers decide to act on their sentiments, a strong recommendation goes to visiting Las Galeras on the Samaná peninsula. Quaint yet buggy accommodations provide the perfect setting for a weekend of wholesome fun. Three cheers for Montana!

Dominoes and dancing abound when young Mr. and Mrs. Bruner join the fray. Now bachata, merengue and capicua experts, the locals are still heard muttering “Pero aprendieron rápido…!”

Santo Domingo, DR. Bruner, Bruner, Bruner and Bruner played their tourist cards for three days in the country’s capital city. Tours of the 600 year old colonial zone, standing outside Columbus’s brother’s house, gawking in the first cathedral of the western hemisphere, sipping beers in the hippy park, navigating the treacherous pits of the monastery ruins, downing 8 grandes while chatting with famous and loved Volunteer Browder, capped by a marathon, 10-hour shopping spree, they did it all. Nothing went undone (within reason) by the time the 4:47 a.m. taxi pulled from the hotel. Nothing, except stepping neatly into wet concrete. And thus the stage was set for the next phase of Bruner on Dominican action. It was onto Santiago for the youngsters in an adventure that included exhilarating waterfall jumping, free ride in a broken down Diahatsu, a close call with Cuban food, hot tour of the city via carro publico, KFC and almost amazing eggplant tacos.After returning from their own weekend honeymoon in Las Galeras, The SS Bruner crew returned to the pueblito for a final night of dancing--class this time. We taught a few locals the jitterbug, two step, cotton eyed joe and the tootsie roll. Rock on, amigos.

All in all, 3 amazingly entertaining and unforgettable weeks. Thanks for participating.

Loves, -b.

**Translations, in order of appearance. Presidente = beer! Two big Presidentes, please. I like this shit. Little white ladies Onward, pass me a Presidente! Bachata and merengue = local dances Capicua = killing blow in dominoes where the final piece can be played on either side of the game. They sure learned fast! carros = form of public transportation, these little beaters have set routes that, if one is unaware of the trajectory, can take you way off track.

Papito and Bebo waiting for Jeff.

A fabulous friend's fantastic apartment in Santo Domingo, the colonial zone.

At Angela and Emanuel's house.

Stewie the pup. Wishing him good health.

This year, determined to participate in certain PC traditions, I joined in the grand pilgramage to the south to the spectacular beach of Bahía de las Águilas. An eight hour bus ride to the nearby town, then another hour and a half by truck and by boat out to the peninsula of the national park.

Beautiful, empty, mostly undeveloped and amazingly vivid caribbean sea. The limestone cliffs furred in scrub and thorn bushes, fringed along the top with a tangle of hardy cactus. Unvelievable views. Happy 4th of july everyone.

To commemorate the successful ending of the youth computer club and the basic english class, we loaded 25 people into the back of a tiny toyota truck along with giant cooking pots and enough food to feed twice our number and camped out for the day at the river.

Dominicans know how to do a river cook out--lots of food, lots of people, and lots of crazy antics. Everyone got their hair washed at Salon Rio, even the boys. Whepa!

Yefrey here. We finished the Garden. Here are some photos of the finished product-all inspired by Jake. Betsy planted yesterday and now we just have to pray that they grow. We loaded up with lots of dung, so it should be as fertile as....nevermind. Its fertile.

BATTLESTAR GALLISTICA!!!!!!!

I thought that the word “Gallistica” printed professionally upon my ticket stub may be indicating something sci-fi, something pseudo STAR WARS even. I was wrong. It turned out to be something even better: Cockfights.

My friend Alberto “El Fuerte,” ran by the house early in the afternoon to take me to the local ring for the Tuesday night chicken fights. Here, in short, is a synopsis of the highlights of the process of the evening.

We showed up just as the owner’s were handing off their roosters for weigh-in. The people can get one brought out to them in order to look over beak, claw and whatever you look at to decide if a rooster is “listo” or ready to fight, and to be bet upon. The best fighting roosters are surprisingly small weighing in under four pounds. A portly fellow informed me that over four and “those fatties just get lazy.” During this time I discovered that my friend Guillermo, from a neighboring city, had come to fight one of his roosters. The day before, he had told me that he had discovered that his rooster was “ready.” I asked to see, and knew at first glance that the rooster was, in fact, ready. It was running laps around the cage and appeared to be on the meanest cocktail of drugs imaginable.

After everyone eats dried corn-on-the-cob, the competitors (owners) all meet under a tin awning and challenge one-another to fight. If your rooster is of noble lineage, it is harder to get a fight, and if you were to win you would have to agree to less money than if the other wins. A rooster showing scars of past fighting is hard to get a fight for unless you are looking for big money. There is a second scale apparatus (with two flannel bags) in the awning so that you can literally weigh your rooster against another’s. If you are too drunk to know that you are also an idiot, apparently no one will agree to fight your chicken. I am pretty sure that this is also where the “ladies of the evening” strut around wearing only mesh, looking for the big spenders and the out-of towners. Our town is really small, so we only had two. One was way bigger than me, and her bulldike friend looked surly, so I was unable to get a photo for the blog.

Next, most everyone eats viveres, which are some kind of roots.

After viveres, the competitors go into a cage and get some guys to cut off the real claws of the rooster, and using a combination of tape, and some kind of melty-goop, they replace them with artificial ones that are about the exact same size as the originals. They are about two and a half inches long and about as thick as an eight-penny nail. My friend Guillermo is on the left side of the picture holding his rooster during this process.

Note the photo of Alberto. The gentleman over his shoulder was my favorite competitor. He had two roosters in the fights and ironically, mowed-down on chicken for the majority of the evening.

Finally you enter the ring. There, a couple of handlers swing the roosters around and fake-charge them with an innocent by-stander-rooster to make sure that they are ready to “bring it.” Once the riling ritual is completed, they let them go and get-the-hell-out-of-the-way.

Chicken fights look pretty much like they do in the photo. In addition to pecking, they try and bite the other rooster in the face while simultaneously completing a double-crescent-kick directed toward the same feature of the opponent. It is hard to tell which rooster is winning, until their ankle tape starts getting bloody, or unless they are white.

This was also the season for fighting sans-plumage on the legs. I am still not sure how to say this in Spanish, and am constantly resented for my questions as to why the chickens “have no pants.” Since I can’t get an explanation, I am assuming this is for the way that it seems to emphasize kick-speed.

So my two favorite fights of the night:

-Fight #4 The Indio chicken quickly had both eyes pecked out and was blind, but, though some miracle, was able to kick the white rooster so hard in the head, that it had no equilibrium. After an epic back-and-fourth dictated by the white one getting the courage to take a peck, Helen Keller was able to sever some artery in the gringo with a series of wild kicks into which whitey stumbled. The bloodbath was breathtaking.

-Fight #8 (was supposed to be #5, who knows what happened) This was between my friend Guillermo’s fly-weight indio and a local guy named Marino’s Blanquito (whitey). Now a little history about Marino-This guy calls me Matteo all the time in spite of the fact that I have explained to him that I am in fact, a different white guy and not the Peace Corps volunteer that lived here a while back.

Betting was crazy during this fight, additionally the white rooster was possibly the most beautiful rooster that I have ever seen. It had the ability to hover in the air and kick 10 times vs. the typical 2-kick of most competitors. It had a really long white tail that gave it amazing stability. Once these two features were observed in the ring, lots of gamblers tried to switch things up. The stands were in uproar. One guy even tried to jump in the ring. So whitey was really looking good for about 3 minutes, with Guillermo’s scrapper doing a lot of bobbing-and weaving. Then they both went up and, though it was kicking way over it’s head, the indie somehow came down with the white roosters head stuck to his foot. The announcer had to physically separate the indie from the dead white beauty because he had driven his spur straight through one side of the bird’s scull and out the other. Shit. Guillermo won at least 4 thousand pesos, which has got to be like a million dollars U.S.-but my math is not that great. Since Guillermo's chicken was El Mejor, I named it Sherry in honor of her bithday. Sherry, may you have similar success with all of your adversaries in the coming years (cuidado Sam) ;)

One might think that I would be affected by the carnage that I saw in the ring that night, or that I may find fault in the frivolity of the lives spent for our entertainment, but every time a looser folded up his shredded rooster and sulked past my perch on the cyclone-fence, I was left with one pervading thought…Delicious.

I only have like 10 days left here in my new home, codenamed: Todd . I had quite a lot of work to get done with various projects that I had started in my 100 days here. Crunch time. I hired a local guy to help me out. He doesn't charge much, but man, is he bossy. Plus, I am pretty sure that he came to work drunk yesterday. He kept loosing his balance and falling into the hole, and this one time, when we were carring a huge sack of goat doody across this little stream, he slipped in the mud and left me to carry all of the load by myself. My buddy Josh came and visited a while back and I took him on a burly hike through the jungle to some crazy waterfalls. It was so thick that we had to machete our way through for hours. When we got there, my dominican friend tried to get me to jump into what I would clasify as a "whirlpool on steroids." I thought that he was kidding me and then he went in-jeans and all. it ended up being awsome and I wan't sucked down another waterfall.

On the way back, where we had to hack our way again, I got bit by a tarantula. When they get on you, they just don't let go. I had to pull it off with my other hand. I swelled up douggie-style, but a benedryl and a good nap set me straight (one has little choice after taking that much benedryl.)

I talked to some of the locals, specifically the doctor (Girl about a year younger than me, dresses like a slizzle). They told me to rub some menthyl on it. Seriously, that is the cure for everything....except when one needs stiches, then the cure is "try and hitch-hike to El Seibo to go to the hospital. and pick up some needle and thread on your way, they won't have that there." I find all of this amazing, since I see little kids playing with machetes and big knives everywhere that I go.

laters,

jeffro

This past weekend, via three different guaguas, Betsy and YO ventured north to the city of Sabana de la Mar. The purpose of the trip was to attend an all-important Mini-VAC* meeting, our goal, rather: to have a lovely vacation from the home site.

The meeting was extremely well attended. I always make it clear that I am not a volunteer, and that I just came because I heard that ther`d be Americans. I also brought my favorite crackers, Club Social, which I distributed to all attendees at a preliminary staging point.

We ate at a lovely open-air-tiki-bar sort of place. I had my first local experience with fish. I assumed this was fairly safe because I could see the very water where the little guys were being harvested from my seat in the restaurant. My review: excellent.

After getting all of the business out of the way, a local volunteer wheeled and dealed until a group of us had a ride and a boat tour through Los Haitises Park. We rode out of town on the back of a pickup, and after completing some necessary errands (as is the norm here), we arrived at a lovely little river inlet-thingy. At first, they attempted to cram us into a boat with a bunch of hotel guests, but Colleen knew that something was

up, and they redistributed the guests to a different vessel.

The tour wound about through a “river” that somehow penetrated an expansive forest of Mangrove trees. We then hit open-water and motored out to and around some islands and to a few different docks where we exited and learned all about the usage of the islands`caves by the indigenous peoples. Our tour guide was a real hard ass on the rules (the first Dominican that I have seen this way), and wouldn’t allow us to take photos of the pictographs. Fortunately, through the miracle of Microsoft Paint, I have reproduced a few from memory in near perfect detail. Enjoy.

Also pictured is a cave relief carving (I believe of a Muppet eating his hand), our crazy bus that we took through Jurassic Park (door opened), an ever-so-holy Catholic rosary with the addition of a Spongebob, and……Our crazy pirate boat- Now this boat was delightful in many ways, especially when the motor quit in the middle of nowhere on the return trip. Fortunately, we had the guy that had driven us there in his pick-up to help our shifty guide re-start the damn thing. Four times. On a few of the longer “breaks” that we had, Travis, a fellow non-volunteer attempted to paddle us back with the broken kayak paddle that we had as backup. He might have made a little headway if the boat had not weighed about a ton, and if we had not been on the freaking ocean. Anyway, we eventually made it back. (I am pretty sure that we were just running out of gas.)

The weekend was topped off with a quality visit with several volunteers, and some good eating.

Also attached are some post-hoc photos of our visit to Jakes. I think that there are scenes from our many garden lessons, and also those from my work on Betsy’s garden here in her site, which is a secret.

Tally-ho

-Jeffro

*The Cuerpo de Paz is quite fond of abbreviating every

arbitrary title possible. This

is possibly

limited to

PCDR. In this country, there is not-so clever name and abbreviation for everything… for example: ASCHOSEYPEMI=Associated Chuauffers of Seibo/Pedro Sanchez/Mitches=crappy little van line running regular routs between Mitches and El Seibo, definitely not worthy of such a lengthy anything. So Learn your PCV lingo….ET, COS, IST, ISLT, PDT, MOs, APCD, VAC-and don’t mistake your PCV for a PCVL.

From last week

The Michera. Not just a person who hales from the coastal town in the north, but more specifically and importantly, the guagua (small bus) that runs betwixt the capital and Miches, passing through Betsy’s pueblo. The Michera is the Guagua that all other guaguas should aspire to become. With exception to a full-contact loading that takes place upon arrival of the bus at the two ends, traveling via this bus is an extremely tranquillo experience. The cobradors tend to be soft-spoken and light of build, winning their fares with respect and logic, rather than volume. As for the radio, my eardrums rarely drone on into the night following the 2+hours en route.

The Michera is typically on time. It also departs last from the capital, but magically gets one home over an hour before the Seibo Caliente and a "short bus" ride, and even quicker than an Expresso with the same tiny partner. And for less! Yes, it is ten to twenty pesos less to ride than all other options.

In this country, it is not so much a lowering of American standards as a redefinition of the word "standard" itself. "American" must first be discarded, as to come to a foreign land with the US as the primary point of reference is merely assenine. Then follows a closer look at the original definition: "a rule of measure." Possibly change this out for the more militant definition, "a banner of war." Because we are at war here! –They are, at least, the volunteers. Every day they are fighting the good fight against lethargy, el flojo, tardiness, unhealthiness, sense.

It is so that one finds themselves frequently embracing those few local items that are all that the locale is not. So when that beautiful Michera passes by, frequently overtaking one of the local "short buses" in the process, please forgive me if I swoon for just a moment. I am probably searching for an impromptu reason to go jetting off to the Capital, or San Pedro, at 3 in the afternoon. I dream of these justifications, if just to entertain that part of me that desires to ride to someplace that would be a little more like the Michera.

On a slightly unrelated note, Betsy figured out bread. The hole-pan thingy, the olla de horno turns out the greatest comfort. I doubt that a magical pan that produced Hershey bars would be more appreciated. Hassah!

Mom told me that Coke will kill off parasites, so we have been trying to drink as much as possible. the photo is of me doing just that.

-jeffro

In the United States, or Allá as it is known here, I have found circulating, many shirts and logos of foreign design. If I were the logo-wearing type, I might happily wear such an item without really questioning its meaning. To me it would simply read “FOREIGN,” or “SPANISH,” or “SOME ASIAN LETTERS.” -You get the picture.

Here, this is taken to the extreme. I’d say that nearly 90% of t-shirts are printed in English. When it comes to children, it is just quite common to get second hand clothing from the US. Yes, there are many members of “Oak Park Little League” and “Meadow Hills Glee Club” running rampant in the streets of the DR, usually sans pants.

When one encounters older girls, “I like BOYS” and “I didn’t know he was your boyfriend” are more common, due to size availability and the like. Shirts worn by muchachos are more likely to read “Don’s Choppers” and “Born to Ride.” Professionals frequently wear work shirts with the names of their former owners still lingering about the breast pocket. I doubt that this trend is continuous with popular fashions in the US.

My friends here have suggested that I start a business where people pay me a peso to impart upon them the meaning of their various printed attire. I think that I might like doing this for free. After all, I’m no capitalist.

Yesterday, the 50-something-year-old father of our friend Ascacia, a fairly stoic character, strode solemnly about town with a smart little number that read:

Don’t scare me.

I poop easily.

I was so excited that I pulled Betsy off the road in order to stand on this family’s porch to see the shirt. I had no game plan past getting her on the porch and some serious awkwardness ensued as we stared at the lettering. Perhaps next time, I will chuckle to myself. Perhaps not. -Jeffrey.

This is a letter I wrote a while ago and never sent.

-Betsy.

Saludos.

It is 4:01 am here and I can’t sleep. I’m writing by candle light, swatting at the few mosquitoes hovering about my bare feet and listening to the night. The roosters just started, they always start at 4. I have no idea why or how, but the first on crows at four sharp, kind of faint and sleepy, the second echoes from maybe a few houses over and the chorus snowballs from there. Like a campo barbershop of 50 plus old men with rusty throats. Why do roosters crow anyway? And how is it they can all start at 4 a.m.? Just now they all quieted, even the crickets have paused—the rain started up again.

For the last month or so it has rained nearly everyday. Sometimes, like yesterday, it is all day, on and off. The showers came lightly, starting up almost on a whim and overlapping with the sunshine. Other days it comes in a fierce aguacero, heralded by a thick forerunner of dark, brooding clouds and opening with a crash of fat raindrops that instantly soak everything exposed.

Either way everyone runs or cover and if it’s rain to last a few hours or an afternoon, goes to sleep. Everything stops here in the rain. Sometimes, and especially at first, that seemed like such a lazy habit. Oh, it’s raining; we can’t come to your meeting. Or it rained this morning, so only half the class showed up. But now it’s starting to make some kind of sense. Rain here can go from that delightful, sun-infused patter to the violent tropical downpour with a mere change in the breeze. Streets flood in minutes; dirt roads become impassable gullies and any hillside a treacherous mud slick. A motorcycle can and will get mired up to the seat in the stubborn clay, making another 1/d day’s work to get it free and functioning again. Plus, it is just nice to relax in the rainstorm. Most houses here have zinc roofs, no insulation, so the drumming of the drops overhead can be thunderous, rhythmic and permeating.

In the harder rainstorms you can’t even hear yourself talk, so why not take a nap to wait it out? I am getting trained so that at the first sound of rain staccato I start to yawn and my eyes grow heavy. And it’s refreshing to be part of a life that has the space, flexibility and time to take the afternoon off for rain. It can be frustrating to only accomplish half the tasks I intended for the day, but that is another thing you have to get used to here. The daily pace is so much slower and spaced out. Tasks you might complete in a matter of minutes back home could take a whole day. Communication is slow, unreliable and less gadgety. You can’t just pick up a phone and call, at least not where I am, and transportation is even more finicky so the usual method of sending someone to fetch a person or deliver a message is often a lengthy process.

This style of managing work definitely requires patience and an adjustment on my part. I can’t be going going going, chugging from point to point, ticking items off my to do list like clockwork. I’m now required to take a breather, sit and talk for while, think and reprioritize. It must be good for me (seems like most uncomfortable changes are) but it still irks the latent American watch-slave inside me on occasion.

What do you think of this stationery? Good ol’ Winnie is phenomenally popular here, as are most other muñequitos—cartoon characters. This paper was given to me by a woman I work with in the Center. I have seen formal letters written on pink kitty paper with a Sponge Bb pen. It’s sometimes funny to see the strutting boys from the liceo (high school), bristling with machismo, sporting a teddy bear backpack.

There are many small things like that, just slightly out of sync with what I’d expect at home. I definitely get a kick out of people walking along the street belting out Celine Dion. Everyone lings here sin verguenza, regardless of present company or voice quality. In a way it’s freeing to not be held back by the idea that only those blessed with the best voices should sing out. But when one muchacha has been croaking out a warped rendition of My Heart Will Go On for the last 35 minutes, you start to wish for some cultural restraint.

Romantic, sugary pop hits are the rage. I must confess they are not my first picks, but it’s the passion that attracts people, which is kind of fun. There’s no such thing as lip sync here, but karaoke, oh man. Most Dominicans are born actors, every bone in their body built for dramatic expression. Performances of every style are common and expected. Most don’t understand my shyness at singing, speaking, dancing, whatever, in from of large groups. But I am getting a little more used to it, a little more comfortable at showing what I’ve got. Sometimes. Usually being the lone gringa is more than enough spot light for me.

Well, the candle is nearing its end and the mosquitoes are gathering forces so I’m going to try for a few hours sleep. The roosters have started up again as the rain pauses. Thanks for sharing the morning.

Here are a few photos of some P. sanchez Locals looking their sexiest.

It is most important for you, reader, to internalize that the ramblings in this edition of “Betsy’s Blog” are solely and specifically the opinions of me (I), an exaggerated visitor of an exhausted Volunteer.

The primary and most important observation that I have made to date is that the people here are human beings, beings subject to common rules of individuality and variation betwixt persons. That being said, I feel free to generalize and say that the vast majority of Dominicans are impressively generous. The typical Dominican will halve their portion, in order to share with a relative stranger, and then halve that remaining portion once again to accommodate someone else down the line. The one exception to this is the Capital, which, at first impression, is an awful, awful place.

When visiting your volunteer, I suggest that you attempt to view them the most in their natural habitat. There exist, currently, two reasons for such advice. One (1): Volunteers usually tire with ease, and variation from their familiar schedule may be exhausting. Two (2): Volunteers can be crappy tour guides, frequently rushing you past the 500-some year-old church in order to get you to the best Yogun Früz stand in the DR.

Here are a few surprising things to expect from your volunteer in country:

-complaint or concern for money (this is often baffling, considering that they frequently argue over values amounting to less than three cents, USD). It is difficult to remember that these wonderfully sacrificial individuals are, in fact, volunteers. It is important to know that a brief argument over a few pesos is more a stand based upon respect and competency in their temporary home, rather than genuine penny-pinching.

-Frustration with their project (with exception of Jake). It seems as though resources are a major problem for many volunteers. Betsy is fortunate to have one of the most functional Centro de Tecnología in the IT division. Other volunteers seem to be missing important elements, such as inversores (battery-thingys to keep the power smooth and on), power, teachers, and students. Organizationally, much of the structure reminds me of two hands working simultaneously. One hand washes the dishes, but that hand forgot to inform the other hand, who was supposed to go buy soap, and in-stead told his cousin to go do it, and she had rolos in her hair, so all of the dishes got washed sans soap. And also, the river overflowed its banks, so there is now manure in your water. As a visitor, it is easy to see all of the energy that a person can put into this system, yet, said person will probably not see many fruits of their labor in their time in this country.

-Emotional withdrawal. I think that this is different to each volunteer, but is relatively common. A volunteer is having a tough time at living their life, in addition to the sometimes futile attempt to be useful at their site. They endure quite a bit of stress in response to these two factors, and all without the direct safety, resource and comfort of their security system, you. It seems common for the volunteers to create a space, or relative indifference toward home, if only to survive separation from those whom they love so much. This is an understandable process, and it may take some time for a volunteer to grow accustomed to a guest, even those guests with amazing levels of charm and handsomeness. Trust that they are happy to see you, or at least will be eventually (possibly after you leave).

As for making your trip everything it can be, keep your eyes open to things that appear unusual and different. Many irregularities here can be explained in terms that are common to American culture, yet exaggerated. For example. Most Dominicans LOVE to have their picture taken. It is not unusual to have a Dominican look at a photo of their-self and comment “wow, I am extremely good looking.” The odd thing is, looking as sexy as possible here rarely involves smiling. This can produce hilarious results, especially in a group context. Please see attached photo.

I have felt a lot of pressure here to “dress the part.” Dominicans typically wear very nice jeans, fancy shirts, and impeccably clean shoes. I have tried (in vain/vanity) to emulate this look, but have been able to come to only one conclusion: I am a Gringo. There is absolutely nothing that can be done to change my hair, skin, and the perspective under which I was raised. I stick out like an albino Oreo with hot sauce instead of sweet frosting. I might as well dress comfortably. Eventually, people will learn to value me for my differences more than they would for my Dominican-ness.

When I arrived, I felt the need to be prepared, as if for a safari. The odd thing is that here, the burden of accessories is often what makes you feel naked. When going out and about, especially in the capital, one will feel the most free with as little as possible (to be stolen). I have also spent a day in tow behind two (deceptively athletic) young Dominican men, with a sweaty back-pack, which filled more and more with fruit as we progressed though the neighboring hills. This type of journey is a serious character-builder, and is much easier taken without the pack.

In the Capital, which I would visit last, I recommend getting an actual guide-book and Xeroxing the pages of the Colonial Zone. I feel few volunteers get a real tour when they visit the capital, and your map and info would probably enrich their visit along with yours. Since this area is also very popular with tourists, this sort of thing is more acceptable there. Also, at shops/markets, don’t be intimidated because you don’t speak Spanish. If they want to sell you something, they can be patient. Since you will probably be over-paying anyhow, they can accommodate you.

Pueblo Specifics

Our pueblo is the most tranquilo of places that I have visited. The size of the community and their affection for Betsy can offer a lot of relaxation, and resource on the part of the visitor. Safety comes along with this package as well. I feel that introductions are very important, as well as a short visit to as many people as possible. Just take in the surroundings as the conversation happens, because this is beautiful, wonderful Dominican life. Betsy is usually pretty good with a general synopsis of what occurred in the conversation while your eyes glazed over. You find that you learn a lot about an individual without even communicating directly. If you are lucky, you can sometimes get invited for a real Dominican lunch, the biggest of the day. No matter how Betsy tries, she will not be able to duplicate the deliciousness of Dominican rice and beans. Warning, do not play Dominoes with a Dominican with any expectation, unless that expectation is to receive a real humbling.

I have made only one funny Joke in the entire time that I have been here. You can try, but American humor is worthless to these people. If you want to tickle their funny bone, get stuck out in the rain, or slip and fall or something. Patti, you will do fine.

With that, I abruptly end this edition. More to come!

Respectfully,

Jeffrey Cincoski, ingeñero de chopeando y instalador de filtros. Marriot El Seibo.

As for the toilet: I think that Betsy is nuts. It is fine to sit on the seat. And at night-time, I find that the roaches that do live in there are afraid of light. Shine your flashlight down there a few times and they will all go as far from your precious hiney as possible. Hers is the only one in the country that is ok to put TP down. In most places, there is a trash can or bucket for papel de baños. If it’s dark, or even semi-private, I recommend just peeing in the yard.