Last week I weathered another near shipwreck in my service. Despite all my efforts to prevent my masons quitting mid-project: signing a contract, explaining in full the requirements of the work ahead-of-time, investing in a training workshop with them, they did just that, they up and quit. After completing nine of the thirty Eco-Banos, they confirmed my suspicions that something was souring by informing me that our work relationship was over. I was crushed to say the least. Their reasoning was “too much work and too little pay.” Insert tears and whining here. When they found out what a local volunteer was paying his masons they were never the same. They worked, but always making side comments: eso trabajo no es facil, me duele mucho la espalda, este proyecto esta matandome…etc. I must have asked 5 different Dominican masons in my community to see if they would take over the project; all chuckled and said the Project looked too hard. It looked like despite all my efforts to the contrary, my project was going to flop. Enter my savior. Rafael, one of two said quitters brought to my attention a wiry, toothless Haitian mason that was interested in the project. He called me out of my slumber at 6:30 one morning, asking if he could start the project. He told me with enthusiasm that he would start work with me the following Friday, bien temprano, a las 7, I liked this guy already! At 7:05 he was in front of my casita, eager to begin the workday. Unlike my Dominican masons who always rode their motorcycles to the job site even if it was a block away, my new Haitian mason Bobby and his partner Papi impressed me with their lightening quick footpace. They worked through the weekend, Saturday and Sunday, and told me that they would work every day until we finish all 30 latrines. Rafael would never work on weekends.

The difference in the Haitian vs. Dominican work ethic, at least in this case, is phenomenal. Speaking from my personal experience in my community, the Haitians are willing to do the most undesirable work, they work extremely hard in the hopes of saving as much money as possible to send home and to eventually go back home themselves. It is rare to find a Haitian in my community that would want to stay on this side of the isla. On the other hand, the Dominicans in my community complain constantly about lack of work, about being impoverished, but are not willing to work hard, or at all, to change their reality. That is not to say that there are not hardworking Dominicans. I just think, in general, the average Haitian, like most uneducated immigrants, are willing to take any work in order to improve their lot in life.

Here are some pics of my new masons working on the project. Also on Saturday I took 20 youth to the local beach. Exhausting but fun

Big spider on my wall

Bobby and Papi working hard

Smoothing the second layer of cement

Bobby

Sifting Sand

BObby

my new masons

Girls excited about their new latrine

at the Playa with Miguelina y Angelica

Darcia and I

Chilling in mi casita..Happy because I just got gifted a box of grapefruit from my old host family

The great thing about Peace Corps is you never quite get the hang of it. In my case, I have learned that I have honed the skills of not being so overwhelmed by strange and uncomfortable situations, but that is not to say that awkward and strange situations stop happening the longer one lives in a community. I remember during training one of the training staff using the metaphor of a rollercoaster to describe the ups and downs of our Peace Corps service. Even at the end of my service I am still dealing with new challenges and skirting my way around unique obstacles. I bet I still have a few more big drops in my future. Twenty-three months in country and I still haven’t gotten the hang of it all. Just when I feel that I truly belong in the community (as much as a foreigner can belong in a small Dominican community) one of my neighbors forgets my name and calls me the Americana. Oh well.

As my time ticks down I am filled with nostalgia, sadness, and a bit of excitement about returning to the comforts of America. Recently I have been taking every opportunity to try new things and hang out with my neighbors as much as possible, cherishing all the unexpected things that we do to fight the boredom.

By way of being adventurous the other day I agreed to try the national delicacy: mondongo: or intestines. I don’t think of myself as a very adventurous eater when it comes to animals but for some reason I felt, hey I guess I should say I’ve tried everything once. I accepted the lunch invitation at my friend Rossi’s house. After talking with several neighbors about my lunchtime challenge in order to assuage my nerves, my host mom tsked, shook her head, and said, I hope you trust the family to clean the intestines well, if not you can get sick. Not exactly the boost of confidence I was looking for. I arrived at Rossi’s around 11. I refused to look in the pot because I thought if I was scared of the finished product, half cooked intestines were not going to lift my spirits. I announced to Rossi and her mother that I was nervous about lunch, they both laughed and said its ok, lots of Dominicans are grossed out by mondongo too! Perfect I thought. I sat in their dirt patio under an increasingly hot tin roof porch with Rossi. Rossi half-heartedly reprimanded her two sons to stop playing with rusted motorcycle parts littered about the yard. We took turns holding the rotund newborn Brian. We made small talk and the conversation, as always, returned to the fact that I would be leaving in May. Rossi said she wasn’t going to let me leave, she would find me a nice Dominican boy to marry. She then said if I had to leave I had to send her things from America and call at least once a week, also, she wanted my mini-fridge.

Rossi’s mother, aged from years toiling over an open flame, raising children, and putting food on the table with little to no resources, brought out a heaping bowl of rice covered with the infamous mondongo. It was white, translucent almost, and cooked with red onion. By this time several men who eat at Rossi’s house had come back from the rice fields for their midday meal. Everyone was excited to watch and see if I liked the mondongo. I took a bite with lots of rice and struggled to get it down my gullet. It was swelteringly hot, the baby was crying, and I was eating intestines. It was truly a Peace Corps moment. I announced I didn’t like it much to Rossi’s delight as she scooped the intestines into her bowl and let me eat the plain white rice. We all had a good laugh at my expense and Rossi’s mother Carmencita retreated into the house to fetch some boiled sweet potatoes she had cooked in case I couldn’t eat the mondongo. I walked back to my house that afternoon proud that I had tried something I feared so much.

The month of February is marked by Carnaval in the DR. Every Sunday is a reason to celebrate, even more so than usual. Montecristi’s carnaval is renowned for being the most violent as pairs of matadors take turns whipping one another with all their strength. It is nicknamed the torros or bulls so I guess the original intent was to reenact a fight scene between a matador and a bull. The costumes leave something to be desired and it seems the focus is now less on the spectacle and more on the beating. The carnaval celebrations in Santiago, are known for its parades, costumes, and finery; in La Vega, which is the most famous site for carnaval on the island, it is a mixture of fine costumes, lavish parades, and brutality with a behiga. The behiga is used mercilessly on anyone in the crowd that dares show their backside. Originally it was a cows bladder on a string, now a hard plastic balloon on a stretchy rope is sold to all who attend the party. I went to La Vega last year and was struck several times on the rump with said bladder and swore that was enough for a lifetime. It left some serious bruises.

The spectacle I witnessed in Montecristi, although the costumes were ragged, the fighters mere children and drunkenly blind men, the parade no more than two city blocks, made sure to maintain its claim to fame as the most violent carnaval on the island. It seems people in Montecristi just have more to be upset about and more angst and steam to blow off than their fellow countrymen in other villages. It is hot, it is dry, and we have a reputation to uphold!

Anna, Super pumped to be doing a trash pickup in the community

Camilia, proud of all the trash she found

Trash pickup with my girls group

Birthday Party for my neighbor

Rosi, my best friend, Posing with the cake

Carnaval in Montecristi! lots of whipping

Carnaval duel

Street scene, note the old man dressed as a witch

Scary Clown

En la lucha, reading in my hammock

The title of this blog is a dicho (saying) Dominicano that I have come to love and use freely. It translates literally as “here in the struggle”. It is a common response to Como estas? (how are you). The struggle can refer to something specific: washing clothes, cleaning chicken, sweeping the patio or something more general: living in the campo, raising children, facing the day. Viewed from a first world point of view life in the campo of the Dominican Republic really is a lucha or struggle. Speaking from the standpoint of my campo in Judea, we do not have running water, the aqueduct brings us water once a week. We have electricity only at night. The roads are not paved and turn to thick mud if it rains. The mosquito swarms are as thick as an angora plush sweater. The government does not pick up our trash. There is no sewage system and many families lack a latrine or indoor bathroom. With the lack of rain and our desert climate, little grows other than bananas, plantains and rice. Cholera is a real and present threat to the health of the community. Other than work in agriculture there is no job market for young people.

However, although people tend to luchar physically more than we do in the United States, the mental lucha does not seem as present. People in my community seem more or less happy with their lucha. They struggle with daily annoyances, but at the end of the day, they are with family, with community, and have copious amounts of time to reflect and enjoy life. We talk a lot about the fact that my family and friends in the States live a more comfortable life and yet there hardly seems time to enjoy those comforts because they are working so much. To some extents, this is true. The difference in culture cannot be glossed over; rather, it accounts for a difference in priorities, in free time, and in feeling satisfied. I cannot help but hope to bring back a bit of the Caribbean mentality of taking time to enjoy life and enjoy family and friends home with me.

I am including some photos taken during the second week of Eco-Baño construction. I could not be more pleased with some of my community members. My health promoters, especially Digna, have really stepped up in ways I could not have foreseen. They show up every day of construction to make sure everything is running smoothly, that the beneficiaries have breakfast ready for the masons and workers, that the families have the materials at their house the night before, in other words they are running the show. Most importantly, the health promoters are each in charge of doing 9 different family visits to teach the family how to use and care for their Eco-Baño. I feel that this education component is missing from most NGO latrine projects and that is why I have seen so many eco-banos that are no longer being used because families did not understand what taking care of them entails.

What makes me most proud is that if I were to disappear tomorrow I am sure the project would still run smoothly. The goal of sustainability and community ownership of work is at the heart of all of Peace Corps projects. At times it seems an elusive goal and can be extremely difficult to break through years of a community conditioned to accept foreign aid and handouts without having any agency in the direction and planning of community projects. As a volunteer, I always have the question in the back of my head, but will this be sustainable?, in other words, when I leave, will the community continue the work we achieved together or will everything fall apart as they wistfully remember an Americana that once lived among them. The problem with sustainability is that you can only hope that it will continue working when you are not there, but one can never be sure.

ok, so a little tongue in cheek, my neighbors and I love to express all of our actions, even the fun easy ones, as being part of the lucha or struggle.

tiny little cucumbers in the street, I luchar to get veggies in my diet

some of my trashcans I painted, I luchar a lot with waste management

Blue, en la lucha

Morning in the Campo, even the gato is in the lucha

Putting on the finishing touches: Rafael en the Eco-Bano lucha

Rafael, one of my two masons, building the caseta of the latrine

The ladies proving to the men that they can mix cement, luchando

Josue, loving the camera

Adorable little Salvador watching the action; he is always smiling

Maximo y Altagracia, two of my good friends, looking on as we build

at their house

Salvador's Great Grandma

Maximo posing with his "sombrero" the bottom of the fiberglass toilet bowl mold, siempre en la lucha!

I am experiencing a bit of post-family-visit-loneliness at the moment. I just saw my brother John and his fiancé Brooke to the airport after an amazing week of activity and adventure and good conversation: all things that are not part of my daily life in Judea Nueva. I am now sitting at the Hodelpa Garden Court outside of Santiago enjoying the pool, eating fresh strawberries, and yet, even the post-gym workout endorphins surging through my body cannot buffer against the dark cloud of reality sweeping in that tells me soon I will be back on a Caribe Tours Bus rocketing back at unsafe speeds to my home and “real life.” That is, life in the campo, a life filled with lots of mosquito repellent and water-fetching, and making up games with children, silly banter with the neighbors, talking to my dog and confidant Blue, in other words, a life I have come to love. But after a week of hot showers, gourmet meals, and time with family, you can see how going back to my little hut can be a difficult transition.

The trip could not have gone better. John and Brooke were the third group of friends/family that have come down to see and experience a bit of my life as a PC volunteer in the DR. My first visitor was Laura last November, then my parents came in May, and now John and Brooke. Each visit was unique and amazing although I have learned a good deal after each one and feel I am getting much better about not trying to do so much stuff in the trip that it ends with everyone being exhausted and wearing cranky capris. That being said, because this island is so unique and has so much to offer, I cannot help but want to show my visitor a sampling of the many things to do and see here. Poor Laura suffered the worst as I attempted to take her all across the island on different forms of public transportation, something I have gotten used to but forget that it can be intense for a visitor. Ma and Pa weren’t spared either as I thought going from Punta Rucia to Samana would be a doable afternoon drive, needless to say 7 grueling hours later we arrived and if it weren’t for being family, I’m not so sure we would still be on speaking terms. So with John and Brooke, I planned lots of fun things to do but tried to keep the driving to a minimum and felt that because I had been to all the places we had been before, question marks were kept to a minimum. We had a fabulous time and I think we did a nice mix of fun touristy things with seeing things through a local lens thanks to my status as a quasi Dominicana living in the dusty border town of Judea Nueva.

My favorite part of Brooke and John’s visit was the time spent in my campo. I learned that trying to visit everyone in town is very difficult when one has visitors because everyone and everyone’s cousin wants to meet the shiny Americans. When my parents were here showing them around my community in one afternoon left me stressed out and the neighbors we didn’t get to see were disappointed that they were not included on my tour. So, I planned ahead of time and organized a sancocho or Dominican barbeque of sorts in order to relax and hang out with everyone in one location. Sancocho is the national dish of the Dominican Republic and is generally served on special occasions because it feeds lots of people, it is too time consuming to be a weekday meal. It is a stew that slow cooks various classes of viveres or tubers, vegetables, and meat. Generally, different people will bring different ingredients so that no one family needs to bear the brunt of the cost. In this case John and Brooke offered to buy the meat, by far the most expensive ingredient. We bought four pounds of goat (my regions specialty) six pounds of beef, and six pounds of pork. The neighbors contributed carrots, celery, garlic, yucca or manioc, auyama (pumpkin), taoyta (chayote), yautia, and potatos. We started cooking the meat at 2 pm. China was in charge and she set up three broken cinderblocks, got firewood, and placed a huge pot with the seasoned meat on the open flame. China, Josie, and Luisa did the prep work and cooking and were very pleased and surprised that John had some knife skills up his sleeve and wanted to help. In this very machismo society, finding a man that is interested in cooking is rare, let alone one that cooks well. We helped cut up lots of vegetables and clean the caked-on mud off the tubers. By six pm the neighbors started showing up lured to my home by wood smoke and smells of goatporkbeef stew. I tend to forget that in my community people are not all friends, it is not that they are not friends, it is just that not everyone is on hang-out terms with everyone else. Therefore, my presence brings together people that would not normally socialize together. We set up lots of plastic chairs in my carport area and I was touched to see how many people showed up. It had to be close to 50, maybe more. Everyone got something to eat although I was quickly reminded I was in the DR when several neighbors took me aside to see if I could squirrel them away some extra sancocho to take home to their family who hadn’t come. They said if I asked and said it was for me no one would mind. What a pleasant task.

All in all, it was a really pleasant gathering and no one can say they didn’t get to meet my brother and Brooke because I invited everyone I could think of. I think that was one of my best moments in Peace Corps. Anytime you can successfully share parts of your life that are important to you it is a great feeling, in this case it was my American family interacting and experiencing my Dominican life.

After two nights in Judea Nueva where we did an afternoon at the gorgeous El Morro beach in Montecristi, we packed up and set off in our little blue Kia to the remote and gorgeous beach of Punta Rucia. The sleepy beach town is a hidden gem and because it is rather difficult to get to, it attracts little tourism. Most tourists that visit Punta Rucia are driven in from nearby resorts of Puerto Plata, experience the beach and then take the bus back home to sleep at the resort the same day. We found a lovely place to stay that was QUIET! Tranquility is something very hard to find in this country. The following morning we took a boat out to the adorable circle of sand known as Cayo Arena. The little island is visited everyday by groups of tourists who descend on it in order to snorkel and see beautiful coral and fat fishies. This was then followed by a high-speed boat ride through the mangroves whereby our boat capitan almost flipped our skiff trying to take a turn at Nascar speeds. Definitely worth our money. In the afternoon we checked out the gorgeous beach of Playa Ensenada lined with fish stalls and restaurant shacks serving freshly caught octopus, conch, fish, and lobster. We relaxed and read, watching the sunset. The next morning on our way out of town, I was able to fulfill a life-long dream of mine: seeing a manatee, my favorite animal. We took a boat out to observe the gentle giants in their natural habitat and were awarded with three sitings accompanied by our boat driver tapping the boat and chanting sube! sube! sube! sube! (comeup! come up! comeup! comeup!). In the most tranquil of spots, deep in the mangroves of the National park of Montecristi our boat driver had his headset on, listening to bachata and merengue, allowing us to have mood music for the manatee watching. Never a quiet moment in the Dominican Republic.

After Manatee watching I was in a bit of shock, how many people can say they have seen a manatee??? We headed to Jarabacoa, land of eternal spring filled with pine trees that offers lots of adventure opportunities. We decided on whitewater rafting for the following day. Super fun.

John and Brooke: Thanks so much for visiting and sharing in my life in the DR...Now its back to latrine construction

Oliver with the yucca

one of the two giant stew pots

Prep work outside

China Cooking the Meat in her Backyard

Washing the dirt off the yuca

Awaiting our water taxi at Cayo Arena

Sibling Love

The happy couple

cooking breakfast in my casa

Water taxi to the isla

high speed race through the Mangroves

Beautiful Punta Rucia

Brooke and I with our highspeed boat

Lunch!

John and I at sunset, leaving Playa Ensenada

Our Manatee guide, calling the sea cows to the surface

Happy as clams, posing like true Dominicanos, outside of the Manatee Park

Post Rafting High speed Guagua ride through Jarabacoa

John, Rosie, baby Brian and I at the Sancocho

Oh Christmas tree

The jeep, ready to take us down the mountain!

Enjoying my morning joe

our moto taxis couldnt make it up the muddy hill with fat gringos on the back, so we walked up the hill then got back on

Breakfast!

I made cinnamon buns, my Mom's Christmas tradition.

being a family in front of our painted tree

I spent an amazing Christmas in the campo with friends I couldn’t have imagined making 2 years ago. The best thing about Christmas was the lack of stress and lack of consumerism. We painted a tree on the wall of Anna and Leon’s clapboard house. We made ornaments with paper and markers. We exchanged small gifts, nothing worth more than $10. We cooked together, we rode Anna’s horse, we went hiking, we drank hot rum punches, we talked of home, of family, and of our service. It was certainly a Christmas to remember. It was everything Christmas should be: relaxing, focused on sharing with friends and family, good food, and lots of laughter. We even made little stockings with some of my socks I had packed. The cold mountain air made it feel rather Christmassy, despite being on a Caribbean island. A few days later we were lying on a beautiful white sand beach eating fried fish, drinking ice cold Presidentes and appreciating that Peace Corps life can be fantastic.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the DR!

Eating fried fish on the beach

Christmas, Caribbean style

"Going Back"

They drop everything when I return

Angel and Mathilde beam proud smiles

as their prodigal

rubia returns.

Walking down the rutted path,

My old home sits overlooking the

Muddy river Manati.

I slip and slide into Mathilde’s arms.

I almost forget our tradition: three kisses on the cheek.

I find my friends as when I left.

Mathilde handwashing threadbare clothing.

Angel ordering Yefri, his grandson to work

Anything but sit idle: he makes up chores.

He yells, he curses, he throws up his hand

In the next breath,

we embrace.

He is smiling, he is yelling at his son.

Never realizing that I am disturbed by this

Emotional and verbal abuse of my second family.

It has been raining.

they say, you shouldn’t have gotten wet.

You should have visited us sooner.

We are so happy you have come.

You better be staying for Christmas.

I am already disappointing.

I think back to

My first night in their home.

I arrived at ten pm. Stomach in knots.

Welcome to your new community

For the next two years.

Their smiles could not hide their nerves.

Two adolescents, mom and dad sat around me

In a half-moon not hiding their desire

to see how I ate.

I lifted up the bowl. The gas lamp illuminated a fried egg, swimming

In oil, floating above the cassava root.

Warm guayaba juice was served.

Flies instantly fell in the sweet syrup.

I drank it anyway. I feared being rude.

I feared being a disappointment.

we picked mangos that first morning, Yefri and I.

He was 15, I was 24, he taught me about the campo.

He and Yenni laughed that I tripped in the darkness.

They joked I did not know how to peel platano.

I had never seen a sour orange.

They held my hand, helping the gringa baby in the pitch

Black find her way home after endless late night dominos.

Poppi, my uncle, smiles a crooked grin

To tell me he is using the Harry Potter series in Spanish

As toilet paper.

He is impressed with his resourcefulness

I am disheartened.

There is fruit, there is gossip,

There is boredom as thick

As cold honey.

Five months spent among

Humble, kind campesinos. They are real

Real family now.

A year spent missing them

Wondering if I made the right decision

To move to a new community

But walking down the muddy path,

I watch the rain doodle and draw the path anew.

And I know

I am home.

"Dawn in the Rice Field"

Beckoning horizon

Spread out before you

Inviting you to wake with a start

Silent crusty-eyed Haitians

Avert their eyes and

Steal a glance with the

Reflection of a machete

My ipod costs more than

Their toil earns in a month.

What does she run from?

They ask with their eyes

No, Im not late

Our sweat,

Our otherness

Our non-Dominican accents

Bring us together on the gravel path

I worry about finding fruit for breakfast

They Fear deportation.

We share a passing fist pump

I practice my broken Creole

They laugh at my acknowledgement

I am thankful for their presence

The heat unabashedly announces itself

Well before the sun

Exchanges places

With the moon

A motorcycle passing provides

The only movement

Among the static rice stalks

Tiny lizards dart under my feet

My body wakes on my way home

Still worrying if a neighbor will gift

Me ripe bananas

We are the other

I am too white

They are too black

To avoid being told we are foreign

What does it matter I silently scream

I wear sunscreen

You eat green bananas

And she walks out of necessity

American

Dominican

Haitian

We are different

But why

Must we talk about it so much?

I just wanted to run

To watch the sunrise

You just wanted

To state the obvious

These are mornings in

The Rice Fields

Rice Fields on the border.

What I have been up to of late? Glancing through my most recent photos it seems I havent been doing much more than doing art projects and making lots and lots of cakes! I guess its true. Realizing that getting my latrine project started before Christmas holidays begin would be a crazy idea, I have taken time to enjoy small projects with my girls group and enjoy the slow pace of life before the craziness sets in once latrines are being built. We have scheduled to begin the first week of January. I really hope that happens.

So I have been super pleased with the three girls I brought to the Chicas Brillantes conference last month. They show up rain or shine and when I had to cancel class on Saturday due to excessive vomiting, they even came back to make sure I was alive later in the day.

So these first few pictures were taken at my house yesterday. I decided we should make a cake because nothing makes any Dominican happier than learning how to make bizcocho and eating bizcocho! We also read some books and planned our Christmas party that we are having next weekend, which I am positive will entail more cake

.

This first pic is of my girls striking typical "sexy" poses with the bizcocho in my house

Next we have the bizcocho: The girls used a strawberry juice packet and lots of sugar to make their version of strawberry frosting: it was as sweet as it looks :)

Pamela, one of my favorite chicas, with her hair in rollers, making her twice as tall as she normally is!

Enjoying the new books in Spanish that got donated from Scholastic

Carla making christmas cards last week for her family with the required GLITTER!

The chicas and I at the Chicas Brillantes conference in Santiago.

Ok, so I promised photos of the wedding cake I made for my friends several weeks ago. Unfortunately I dont have any of the finished product because the wedding was the next day and the neighbors were going to assemble it as I had to leave town early in the day. This was the top chocolate layer. Just so everyone knows, this cake was just for the bride and groom. They had a store bought cake for the guests.

Bright blue homemade frosting, to match the....

bride and groom figurine! as I said, when I was at the store purchasing the figurine I got ahead of myself and thought normal size wedding cake and bought the biggest one they had...too big! I also yelled at the owner for only having gringo figurines. Where are the morenos? indios? where are the dark skinned bride and groom?

The homemade campo cake before the icing...

A photo of the bateye near my house, Jaramillo, where my friends Kimberly and Andreas have been doing ethnographic field work, studying the Haitian banana workers lives.

The sole Dominican who has remained in town since the Haitians moved in. She and her husband run the colmado or corner store.

A peacock!

The photo wall in my house. Pics of home, family and friends that keeps me sane.

Blue, sharing my lethargic sentiments: hot and sweaty day in the campo

A dona and her prize fighting rooster!

I am deep in thought over my third cup of morning café. My door is open, but even if it were closed, life invades my small wooden home: the raggaeton thumps in through the windows, the pig stench envelopes my room and the fruit vendor’s staccato microphone punctuates my every heartbeat: Platano! Batata! Lechosa! Platano! Batata! Lechosa! Smells, sounds, and emotions of my campo. The vine ripened guava mixed with the fumes of smoldering trash as I walk the path to my wooden latrine. My afternoon nap is punctuated by street dogs fighting over a chicken bone while children laugh and evade their parents calls to take a bath. (CONO! Banate!) This is home.

My campo, Judea Nueva, is not an idyllic, cozy place. It is gritty, dusty, unapologetically noisy, hot, and redolent of trash and survival. I call it home. It is filled with people: open, inclusive, warm, generous people. The Dominican Republic is many things to me. I will never again see it is a beautiful resort destination. In many ways, I wish I still could. It has tremendously beautiful beaches and equally impressive mountains, but for me, the Dominican Republic will always be the people, their struggles, their joy, and their pride, not to mention fried cheese, salami, and bachata. The Dominican Republic is a difficult island. The people’s smiles mask an underlying acceptance of the inequities of life here. They are not ignorant. But I see the people choosing joy in life rather than lamenting things that for all intents and purposes they cannot change.

The other day while I was using internet on the second floor of a popular restaurant in Dajabon I witnessed an electric-company worker get electrocuted and eventually die while fixing the powerlines. It was market day and therefore Dajabon was more crowded than normal. People jostled to get the best photo on their camera phones of the large man hanging lifelessly two stories up, strapped into the power line until a cherry picker was able to cut him down ten minutes later. I was in shock but surprisingly most Dominicans witnessing the scene were not. They said this happens all the time, people die fixing the electricity, something that is constantly broken, because they do not take proper safety precautions like wearing gloves or shutting down power before touching the lines. These are things I cannot change.

I was recently asked to make a friend of mine (he is the mason that will be in charge of building all of my latrines for my latrine project) his wedding cake, I was asked the day before the wedding. Quite a tall order. I made a small chocolate cake for a friend’s birthday several months ago and ever since my community has decided to change my official project title to pastry-maker. Despite not having an oven or a cake pan, I was somehow put in charge. I decided to make a double-decker cake using my neighbors stove top dutch-oven and my own. Pretty much a donut shaped circle with a hole in the middle. Although the family asked me the day before all of a sudden they started dropping hints like, we want a strawberry cake, with blue icing, and a miniature plastic bride and groom for the top too. Oh and we hear you can buy decorative sugar flowers for the top at such and such store in Montecristi, you know if you are going to be over there, and make sure they match the flowers on the brides dress….hrmmm pretty picky for someone that just asked me to do this. I accepted the challenge and unable to find the flower store, bought the largest plastic bride and groom I could buy, which was a tad out of my Peace Corps budget but I figured, it’s a wedding! Having no way to make a strawberry cake, I stuck with a classic vanilla base and chocolate top. I made home-made icing, died it robin’s-egg blue and sadly realized that my plastic figurine was dwarfing the wedding cake, I had dreamt too big. I left the two cakes and the icing for my friends to assemble the next day because I was leaving early the next morning for a conference and the wedding was not until the following evening. Unfortunately, although we were scheduled to have electricity that evening, it never came, the fridge never turned on, the icing never hardened, but the cake soldiered on. I am told the cake was beautiful but a little wobbly. All in all everyone was impressed and I have started to get requests for holiday parties, quinceneras, and graduation parties. I might have to start charging for my services.

Chicas Brillantes. The Saturday of the wedding, I left town early with three of my young girls in tow. They were members of my chicas brillantes group (roughly translated: shining girls) and I had chosen them for the coveted position of attending a conference with me several hours away in Santiago as a reward for their participation and attendance in our group. Both mothers of the three girls were distraught at the idea of their kids being away from home. One mother pleaded with me to protect her baby as tears streamed down her face. I should have been worried when I saw that all three girls had plastic bags in their hands as we mounted the bus, or when they all took Dramamine for motion sickness. Thirty minutes into the ride, the chofer taking each hairpin turn at Nascar speed, all three girls began vomiting on cue, as if none wanted to be left out of the fun. I watched in horror as my kids threw up all of the platano and fried cheese and fried salami their mothers had given them for breakfast, a breakfast so hearty just in case the kids don’t eat again until you come back tomorrow the mother confided in me. Luckily, if I could pick any place in the world to have a problem, I would pick a high-speed guagua in the Dominican Republic. Instead of being repulsed by vomit, Dominican women flock to help as though free cookies are being handed out. Suddenly breath mints appeared, words of advice such as I shouldn’t let my kids eat before getting on the guagua, etc..Such a wonderful country when you are in need. I could only imagine the situation in the states, people arching their backs, squealing, and looking at the children as if they were venomous snakes.

Once arriving at the conference my girls had a great time. It was a two day conference filled with making clay female reproductive system models, learning salsa dancing, nutrition and avocado making session, and so much more! This Saturday I have my first class with the girls since returning from the conference and I will not be surprised if my numbers exponentially increase due to all the neighborhood chicas wanting the opportunity to attend the next regional conference.

Last but not least, I want to thank everyone who donated to my Latrine project, or even thought about donating, for helping to make this possible. I will be beginning construction on several latrines before Christmas, si Dios quiere (If God wills it.) So thank you all so so so much for being so generous with your money. I cannot wait to build some toilets!

Here are some photos: a few of me installing water filters. and the rest are hiking Pico Duarte, the highest mountain in the Caribbean!

The struggles I envisioned for my Peace Corps service I got over within weeks. The challenges I could not have dreamed of remain. Unlike more traditional international aid organizations, Peace Corps puts forming relationships, trust, and friendship head and shoulders above meeting quantifiable goals of tangible project output (we definitely complete awesome projects but only because we earn the trust and love of community partners first). In many ways, our number one goal is fitting in and learning to not just survive but to enjoy life in wherever we are placed. This aspect of aid resonates deeply with me and I believe firmly in its efficacy. The first year is spent making friends more or less and the second in responding with these friends to local needs. However, living up to this goal brings back all of the insecurities and anxieties of ninth grade. In this case it is not whether or not people are talking about you, it is what they are saying. Of course people are talking about me, in their eyes, in their culture, I am insane. I am pathetic and they must take care of me. Why on earth would I leave my country to come to a forgotten dusty town on the border, alone, to make their acquaintance and learn what it means to live in a Dominican community. What’s more, I must have some serious problems because at the geriatric age of 25 I am still unmarried with no children. I am certainly giving the locals some choice conversation fodder for their morning coffee, their midmorning dominos game and their leisurely two hour lunch.

I don’t blame them for constantly talking about my every movement, most days I think I am insane as well for attempting to be accepted into this society. Living under constant scrutiny has done interesting things to me. I rather enjoy the freedom I have to represent an entire nation. Besides having cousins uncles and aunts pa ‘lla living in Nueva Yol, I am, to many Dominicans, their only real-life specimen of the other, the blancita, the rubia, the Americana. Whatever I do, the way I dress, the things I like to eat, etc, are being mentally recorded as representing the habits and preferences of an entire people: Americans. With much power comes much responsibility. I therefore take every opportunity to shock and alarm my Dominican friends with my antics and behavior. Clara you aren’t really going to go on a run are you? Clara you aren’t really going to eat papaya and mango and banana at the same time are you? Clara you aren’t really going to go days at a time without eating (read without eating rice). Clara, you aren’t really going to walk around town with wet hair. Clara you aren’t really going to play soccer with the Haitians are you? Si, Senor! I reply.

I think a lot about the fact that my presence is confirming for my Dominicans neighbors what a “typical” American looks like: blondish hair, pale skin. It disappoints me a bit. However, being an African American or Asian American volunteer must be a tall order in this country because Dominicans are loathe to accept anything other than that all true Americans must be blanco y rubio. I guess I have to pick my battles in the shock Dominicans to death game.

So what have I been up to other than thinking a lot about my place in Dominican society while sweating in my seafoam green plastic chair…November was filled with lots of travel and lots of work and I cannot believe that the Christmas season has already arrived. Technically it arrived before Halloween when my neighbors started putting up their artificial Christmas trees and colorful blinking lights. I hope to get into the spirit of things this year by decorating a banana tree in my backyard with popcorn snowflakes and lights. It is interesting to think back to a year ago at this time. I had only spent about 2 weeks in my new community and found everything uncomfortable, loud, and slightly off-putting. Now, a year later, the people the noise and the community has not changed but I certainly have. I now enjoy and even participate in the silliness that is daily life in Judea Nueva. A shared struggle to enjoy all that life has to offer on this beautiful island. A year ago the idea of not escaping town for Christmas was not considered, not to mention that I sorely missed family and American comforts. This year, I am excited to be staying in town for the Christmas holidays to share the merriment of the season with another culture.

In other news, I participated in a medical mission at the beginning of the month in the nearby border town of Dajabon. This was the third mission I have participated in and as always it was an exhausting, edifying, and humbling experience. Working with plastic surgeons, dermatologists, cardiologists, family practitioners, and internal medicine physicians the team of close to 50 medical professionals that comprise Waves of Health was able to offer treatment to a wide variety of sick Haitians and Dominicans. For me, I felt a certain sense of, let’s call it cultural integration, at the fact that I felt much more comfortable with rural locals than with the American doctors. The American physicians seemed inflexible, impatient, flustered, very sweaty, and disbelieving how a people survives in the way that they do. Ok, obviously not all the physicians acted in that way, but their discomfort at certain aspects of life here definitely made me realize how much I have acclimatized and learned to take it easy under hot and sweaty conditions. I even put an IV in successfully which was a big personal success for me after repeatedly sticking someone last time with no results but a bloody hand. Hooray!

I also hiked the highest peak in the Caribbean last week, Pico Duarte. It was an incredible four days spent relaxing, listening to nothing but my friends banter, laughter, and mule farts. I will post pictures shortly and have more stories about the epic hike when I get a chance to write again. Until then, I will be elbow deep in pecans making pecan pie for over 200 volunteers and staff for the big Thanksgiving Peace Corps celebration. I hope everyone has a lovely Turkey Day and if anyone would still like to donate to my bathroom project, there is still about $1300 left to go…I will include the link.

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.donatenow&keyword=Kugler

I was invited to a party this past weekend in my old community of Tres Palmas. My closest friend Lucia and I have stayed in touch despite our separation and she called me a month ahead of time to tell me that she really wanted me to come to the fiesta. I was super excited to go back and see everyone as I have always felt extremely close and comfortable around the campesinos in this small mountain community, not to mention loved. Although I have visited three times in the last year, I am given flack for not visiting enough and am constantly told I have forgotten my Dominican family. However, I feel blessed that I did not move far away and am able to visit whenever I like. In private transport, it is only about an hour trip; however, due to the slow guaguas, it usually takes me about three hours, I have to take two different small buses and then a motorcycle taxi the final half hour. Although close in kilometers, it is a world apart from my current community. The homes in Tres Palmas are organized like a typical campo in the Dominican Republic: they proudly stand or jauntily lean in their garishly bright paint along a winding dirt road. They are spaced apart so that yelling between families is possible but not so close that one cannot plant a sizeable garden around their home. Where I live now in Judea Nueva, there are around 500 homes, in comparison to the much smaller 40 that comprised the campo of Tres Palmas. Judea Nueva was set up like a housing complex for the workers of the rice fields. It is ten feet from a large two-lane highway and sees lots of traffic. The homes are huddled together as if for warmth and one has the privilege of hearing domestic disputes, dinner conversation, and the neighbors television without leaving home.

Riding up the winding dirt road with an old motoconcha driver that remembered my name despite a year of not seeing him, I felt extremely relaxed in my old familiar surroundings. The pace of life is extremely simple and I get the feeling that if I come back to visit in ten years much will be the same, new chickens, new grandkids, but same crops being planted, some complaints about the heat, same sharing of fruit bounty with all. There is a comforting peace that pervades people’s struggle to cultivate the land and to feed their families. There is a small river in town, the area receives high amounts of rainfall, and the soil is extremely fertile. However, if you look around the farmers are not young. They are in their fifties and sixties, working alongside hired Haitian help. The twenty something’s move to Santiago or Dajabon or the capital in search of a job less physically intensive and more lucrative. This campo is filled with the very old and the very young grandkids. Life there has a definite structure and tempo. What brought tears of boredom and frustration to my eyes a year ago now brings reassurance when I go home to visit my neighbors and friends. I know exactly what they will say before they say it: I have gained weight, the mosquitoes are eating me alive, I have forgotten my roots, etc.

Rolling into town on the back of the motoconcho I stopped off at Lucia’s house overjoyed to see my closest friend in the DR. Her mother stopped struggling with the woodstove and came to greet me looking more stoic than usual. She informed me that we wouldn’t be having the fiesta because a close neighbor had passed away two days before and we would be going to the wake. I was invited to the velorio or wake and it was assumed I was going because every person in town was going. I found myself feeling at peace with the fact that I would be able to see everyone in one place whereas my normal visits are usually spent running around the dirt roads trying to say hi to all forty families which then leaves everyone thinking I’m insane because I’m walking around in the sun and as soon as I come to their house, I am leaving again. Not to mention my tolerance for fresh-fruit juice is usually about a three cup per two hour limit making it uncomfortable for me to visit and not partake of the offered gift.

The woman who had passed away was middle aged, no more than forty and had left a strong impression on me. She had down’s syndrome and our weekly interaction was at Catholic Mass when she would collect money from the parishioners. She always made me laugh because despite being mute, she would make guttural noises shaming everyone into giving a donation despite some people’s obvious embarrassment that they had nothing that week to give. Her innocence and persistence combined beautifully to wheedle money out of the poorest hands. I couldn’t help but laugh my first day at Catholic Mass, I had walked from home with my host family and didn’t think to bring any money. When the collection time came I put my head down and closed my eyes in prayer. I underestimated the wonderful Beatra. She stood in front of me tapping me and putting her hand out and groaning at me for coins she knew I had if only because I was a rubia, blanca, Americana. After what seemed like an eternity, my host father finally politely shoved her down the aisle much to the amusement of the entire congregation, all 20 of my neighbors. From that Sunday forward, I made sure to have several coins with me at mass to avoid the embarrassment of another public flogging from Beatra. I like to think of her as the Lord’s vanguard, taking money from people even if they did not want to give.

The body was lain out in the family’s house in an open casket, about 200 people were sitting under trees in the dirt yard or crowded into the small house or out back cooking mountains of chicken and yucca to serve to everyone present. Most people were crying and wailing when I walked in, but they would all pause give me a big hug and smile, tell me I was mas gorda, ask how my family was, and then continue crying. I could not help but imagine how this scene would have played out in the US. If there was an unknown foreigner I doubt everyone would be ecstatic that said person had shown up at the wake, because in my limited experience, death is something fairly closed and personal for American families. But, like most things Dominican, even a death was an event that was loud, fun, crowded, chaotic, and ended with eating chicken, gossiping about the neighbors, laughing, and drinking soda in plastic chairs. Nothing was cheapened or less genuine because people were crying sincerely and at the next moment, laughing with just as much emotion and earnestness. I continue to learn so many things about different cultures by living here on the island and feel so lucky to be serving in a country that is willing to share everything with me: their lives, their funerals, their time, and their root vegetables.

This morning I was inspired to write a few poems about my life in the Dominican Republic. I am no poet but it seemed easier to express myself in this way. I am trying to come to terms with my conflicting feelings and emotions. Lately I have focused on embracing the difficulties and enjoying the uniqueness of all my experiences, good and bad. Enjoy.

Ode to my Dona,

To My Dominican Mother

I came to share with you,

to help.

But I eat your rice,

I drink your coffee,

I reap the best fruit from your soursop tree

I am taking, not giving.

I am floundering,

I am sinking.

I am giving up.

Your smile helps me stay afloat.

You take time to show me how to swim

In the waters of your island.

You laugh at me,

At my simple mistakes.

You teach me to dance

like your mother taught you.

You say I must learn things.

You say I know nothing

You say I am very intelligent.

You call me hija, you yell

If I do not call you,

to say I am fine.

You insist I eat large amounts.

You say I am getting fat

you say it with pride.

We share recipes, bandannas,gossip

and hot afternoons.

Is it enough to sit with you?

To sweat alongside you?

To pick guavas with you…

This is not what I thought it would be.

Am I doing enough?

You share your world with me and ask

Me to tell you things

You see our differences while

I see our similarities

Staying put,

staying positive.

Not running away

but sharing my day.

This is harder than change

than facing the unknown.

Thank you for teaching me

For feeding me

For holding my hand

For showing me how to navigate

Your world.

Early Morning in Judea Nueva

Along the dirt roads of the town,

Joy and sadness are exchanged as currency.

Beauty and destruction rub elbows.

The full range of human emotion is palpable.

Nothing is hidden away.

I stretch, I walk, I leave my clapboard house.

My senses are assaulted

by the lives of others.

The sweet morning air is tempered by

Fumes of acrid smoldering waste.

Good morning to my neighbors as they sweep

the dust from the dirt.

Burn the decay and destroy it.

A woman planting flowers alongside

A boy throwing rocks at a street dog.

The sun sheds its rays on the verdant

Rice fields.

A Haitian child pets my dog

and asks for 5 pesos.

I walk towards the growing fireball.

While the moon dissolves overhead.

Refuse, trash, and discarded cans

Sully the tranquil path.

Remnants of a people struggling to keep

their bellies full.

Some have no more than their machete and a cookpot.

The ground they squat on is not their own.

I smile and I wave

They ask why I am not like the others

Why do I look and acknowledge

their lives in the mud.

Their naked children chasing chickens and eating off the ground.

I do not have an answer.

They ask me for things.

Why have I not built a church

or given them clothes

like the other gringos.

I say I will give less handouts,

but stay longer

I say they must help me.

they like this.

Your time is better

than a tshirt

my neighbor says.

When you leave

can I have your bed?

I continue down the road:

looking, pausing, chatting.

I know I want to see

so that I never forget.

The joy, the sadness, the patience,

I am glad they do not hide anything away.

Vecinos: Neighbors

They say our town is forgotten,

Their country is lost and hunkering down

The path of ruination.

In the next breath,

They smile and

Say I should never leave their island

I should marry a Dominican because

This is the best place to be.

I am greeted with open arms, with kisses, and

With sugary-sweet espresso shots

It is too early to leave, sit with me, get out of the sun.

We share our stresses, our burdens, our complaints

I have stopped seeing it as them and me,

separate but different.

Now, I feel I am being transformed

and am embracing the

Change.

Be who you are and be that well.

Be the change you wish to see in the world

Be true to yourself.

I don’t know if I am sure who I am so

How do I be true to

what I do not yet know?

We talk,

we share,

we live together.

For now that is enough.

Things went very well this week! After suffering through several frustrating weeks and realizing my increasingly bitter attitude towards all things Dominican, I cannot stop smiling that things went great this week. I cannot tell if I am finally learning how to work with and motivate my fellow Dominican counterparts or if people have just decided to make my life easier all of a sudden. I certainly owe my successes this week to the help of my wonderful youth: Edward, Joanna, and Yenni, my superstars! I have finally stopped trying to do everything myself, which never works out anyway and just makes me look sweatier, and more sun burnt than I normally am, and have learned the beautiful art of delegating responsibility to others. I think allowing other people to contribute and take part in all stages of a project is an important part of being a good leader, something that for me has been hard to learn, and I still have a long ways to go. I normally find it easier to try and micromanage every detail, which may or may not work in the US but it certainly doesn’t work in the Dominican Republic because the locals always know what things will or will not work out and micromanaging youth groups is an exercise in futility and frustration. The infamous Bio-Sand water filters… I could not be more proud of my community with this project. I took the weekend off after turning in a grant in the capital in order to partake in some much-needed R and R in anticipation for the stormy weather ahead. After my first disastrous round of water filters (had women screaming, throwing money at me, stealing bags of sand, and claiming that they could out buy their neighbors even though the filters were not for sale) it is hard to believe that I decided to continue with another round of the project. As is typical in my experience on the island, I often see something as going horribly wrong, i.e. people screaming at me (normal tone of voice in the DR), people not saying thank you, grown women pushing children out of the way, people acting as if they did not receive one of these somethings they had just heard about a week before, they would not be able to go on living…and Dominicans see the project as being a wild success, smoothly run, and ask me when I will be doing the next round so their mother and their sister can take part. It seems I just do not understand their way of viewing the world, but then again, I have never been poor, and I try to understand what it must be like when you have the opportunity to make your life a little easier or more sanitary or more healthy for your children, and in doing so, perhaps you will leave your manners at the door; also, my version of manners and a Dominicans version are quite different, neither is lacking, we just choose to convey certain niceties at different times. For example, I am more than willing and happy to serve voluntarily helping my neighbors, but unlike my Dominican friends, people are not welcome in my house 24 hours a day. And there are certain times when I do not want to be bothered, ie I am sleeping and you sternly demand my presence to show me a picture of your granddaughter. Cultural differences.Ok, so back to the BIO-Sand water filters. Unlike the first round where we went to pick up 40 filters, this time, we would be attempting the successful pickup of 81 and I could see nothing but storm clouds, broken sand bags and strikes with burning tires in my future. I had agreed to expanding the project under the condition that I send four people from the community and the neighboring village to a three day training event to become certified and able to install the filters, i.e. making the project sustainable when these filters eventually deteriorate in the foreseeable future. I hand-picked four reliable community members, arranged their transport, confirmed they had money and directions and left town for a meeting in the capital. I called the next day and found out in less than 24 hours, they had decided to pull a fast one and send three different people and one original Claire-picked person. Edward, my pick, has been the only one to have helped me, two of the muchachos came back to town and informed me unless they were paid, they would not help with the project, I laughed at this request because I obviously do not have money to pay for their community work. The third adolescent moved to Santiago to attend University. My plan of having a project on auto-pilot was not really materializing. Despite the obstacles, we ended up expanding the project to two neighboring villages and I helped with, but did not do all of the preliminary work. After three months spent giving health talks and lectures, and collecting money for the filters, we were ready to go get the filters. I put Edward in charge of finding us two large Dihatsu trucks, two drivers, and about 8 people willing to help us lift heavy bags of sand and gravel and all the other clumsy components of the filters from a factory 2 and a half hours away. Edward miraculously arranged all of these things. I arrived back in town from the capital Monday afternoon and by Tuesday at 6 am our caravan was off. The best part was I was starting to think that I was completely extraneous to the smooth workings of the project.I felt a familiar twinge of déjà vu from our first trip when a strike filled with burning truck tires and teenagers throwing rocks had held up our progress home for 3 hours, as we road past an early morning flaming tire on the side of the road. Half an hour outside of the factory, we did hit a strike. Workers for the town government were protesting the fact that are owed thousands of dollars of back pay by the municipal government. They decided to clog the street with garbage trucks and dump trucks and all lean on their horns simultaneously. Somehow we meandered through this LOUD traffic jam and arrived at the factory. Although having told the owner we would be coming bright and early the day before, he had disappeared to attend to things in town. After waiting at his mother’s house for half an hour he showed up and we got down to the heavy-duty business of loading the trucks. Each water filter is composed of a plastic shell about 3 feet high, pvc pipe, and a lid. We also hauled bags of sand and gravel, 81 times, everything 81 times, for 81 filters, but luckily we had brought 9 strapping Dominican men. Everyone was very excited about roadside breakfast on the way home(it was 11 am, so not really breakfast in my book). Most Dominicans, and I’m told, most human beings, love chicharonnes, or fried pork skin. After partaking in this delicacy with fried sweet potato several months ago, I realized my stomach was not cut out to settle such fried foods. While the workers merrily ate piles of fried pork and yucca dripping in pork fat, I bought a fresh cherry juice and assured everyone I had eaten before leaving home. We arrived back in Judea and unloaded all the materials into the preschool/multipurpose room. At four o’clock we invited everyone in the community to come get their filters. I could not stop smiling in disbelief and joy as everyone lined up outside and waited for Digna to read their names off the list. It was orderly, civilized, and pleasant, nothing like last March when I was being strong armed and bullied by Donas yielding 100 peso banknotes and demanding a water filter. I could not be more proud of my project partners and community members who helped make this part of the project such a smooth success. National beach cleanup day Dominican Republic was Saturday, September 17th. I decided it would be really fun to take my two youth groups on an outing to pick up trash at the local beach. Because I have funding left over from a grant I wrote over a year ago to fund environmental youth group activities, I was able to pay for transport and snacks for 23 kids. I casually told my two friends Joanna y Yeni that they could help me plan the event on Monday. Word spread like wildfire and I had children showing up at my door who I had never seen before with carefully plotted stories of why they absolutely needed to be on this trip with me. One crazed 12 year old who I had specifically told could not come because she had refused to participate in educational events with the group, wrote me letters and bought me chocolate bars and pestered me throughout the evening. No one likes to be the mean person denying children a fun day at the beach, but the fact is, there are hundreds of children in my town, and I had space for about 20 and would only be rewarding the kids who have chosen to be in my youth groups. The kids planned everything with dangerous levels of excitement and decided that everyone needed to dress in uniform, white tshirts, jeans, and hats. I really enjoy the Dominican love of formal dress when going on outings to show they are a team. Everyone scoffed at my ignorance about the necessity to dress as a unit. One of the girls has an older brother who owns and drives a guagua (small bus or van) and so he would be our chofer for the day. I decided we would go to a beach a little further away because the beach in Montecristi I normally go to has its own paid maintenance team and is usually devoid of refuse. We set off, many kids sitting on laps and our guaugua at maximum carrying capacity. 23 children and teenagers, and one mother and her 6 year old who I was grateful wanted to come. I was a little apprehensive about bringing a load of kids to the beach where despite their ability to swim, most would want to get in the water. I felt unprepared for the day ahead, none of the kids brought water, sun protection, or a towel, but we had lots of soda and their favorite snacks: cheese, crackers, and processed salami. I am also quite used to parents trusting their children’s lives with me, no permission slips and no worries. Off we went.We arrived, bumping down an unpaved road for 45 minutes, to a rather depressing site. There was a crew of about 20 adults with rakes, camera crew, trash bags and military uniforms already picking up trash! They had brought out the defensa civil, and coast guard to take part and publicize their green activities. The local mayor and government environmental minister were also present. The kids and I were asked to take part in a small ceremony of talking about the significance and importance of keeping the coast clean. I was videotaped and asked to speak about my work as a volunteer. Because of Dominicans penchant for making formal little speeches, I have learned the art of speaking formally, as well as bullshitting, in Spanish, something that would have been much more difficult for me in English. We split into groups and set off to pick up trash. After about an hour, the other cleanup crew decided to relocate to a nearby beach and invited my group. When I informed them we would be staying behind so we could do some educational activities I had planned the local governor made it clear I needed to come with him because the news would be there and it would look great to have all my kids get on tape. After a back and forth where I kept insisting that our group was not political and we would be staying behind, he left in a huff, a missed opportunity to have his beach cleanup look like a family affair. We ended up playing in the surf (luckily super calm shallow waters so no kids would be drowned) for several hours and drinking lots of soda that I had purchased to keep the children happy for the morning and afternoon. On our way home I asked a little girl if she had had fun and she replied, “It was the best! The only thing I didn’t like was when I stepped on a sea urchin…” Some of the kids, threw their candy wrappers out of the window as we left the newly cleaned-up beach and I couldn’t help but feel all my efforts had been for naught. I guess change comes slow.So yes, I had an excellent week in Judea Nueva, the more I lean on my neighbors and find friends willing to help me plan and organize events, the easier my life becomes. Perhaps I am learning to cojalo mas suave (take it easy), or maybe it is so hot I have stopped trying so hard to plan every detail myself, but whatever it is, I hope I can keep this momentum as I enter into my Ecological Bathroom project.waiting for filters is hardwork...kids take early morning pic of me in my house pre beach trip everyone in the guagua!the lovely playa of Manzanillo, the town was built up by Americans as a port for the export of organic bananas, the Americans have left and now it feels like a sleepy abandoned town out of Marquez's 100 Years of Solitude My girls group: Chicas Brillantes, striking a pose post trash pick-up Most of the crew Migualina and I The Muchachos and ISnack Time!

I wish I could take credit for these great photos but they were taken by photographer and renowned male nurse, John Jacobs.

They are all from the med mission I participated in back in late July in the mountains around Santiago. Most are of patients waiting to be seen or of people in the surrounding communities. Enjoy!

The crew with the base of our Eco-Bano

What a week!

Last Sunday was full of laughs as I went to spend Sunday at the beach in Montecristi: about 20 minutes by bus from my house. Normally fairly deserted, Sunday afternoon makes El Morro beach feel super crowded as close to 30 Dominicans descend on the playa to bathe at the beautiful beach. The women, normally minimally dressed en la calle, don full outfits to swim in the ocean. It could have something to do with the fear of the sun and becoming any darker than God intended. The funniest/most disturbing thing happened when an elderly gentlemen went behind a scraggly bush to change into swimming trunks. Unfortunately I think he thought he was hiding, even though he was standing next to a some scrub bush as his cover. We never could figure out if the man was severely intoxicated (likely), mentally disabled or both. He struggled for (I kid you not) close to three minutes with the trunks halfway up his butt, but try as he might, he couldn’t seem to get them up the last, very important, foot, perhaps he was borrowing from a friend or perhaps he had gained some weight. Therefore, he logically proceeded to put on an extra large pair of men’s briefs on over top. This long endeavor was accompanied by an audience of very amused hooting and hollering Dominicans in the ocean. He then, sin verguenza, turned around and got in the ocean, underwear over the top of his half on swim shorts…that definitely made my Sunday.

About two months ago, I had written a card to the governor of Montecristi asking for 20 trash cans (aka old metal barrels that used to hold pesticide) to be donated to our community as there are no trash receptacles in the community. Everyone throws their trash on the ground and then the donas sweep every morning and burn little piles of trash all up and down the street. This is something I will not miss waking up to, the smell of smoldering plastic at 6 am. That being said, the governor was able to gift me 12 of said receptacles. This of course has the added cost of finding someone in my community to come with a large truck and get the trash cans and pay him for his diesel fuel. Luckily, I have some leftover Kids to Kids grant money for just such an endeavor. Upon arriving back in the community people started yelling at me from the street they would pay me $100 pesos each for the trash cans. I said that they aren’t for sale, I will be painting them with the muchachos and they will be put in public places. This elicited a lot of disappointment. People really like to acquire as many barrels at their house as possible to store water when the aqueduct gets turned on a few times a week. So now my backyard is filled with said barrels awaiting paint and a fun art project. The only thing missing is the commitment and cooperation of the local ayuntamiento to come and collect trash from our community, something that has never been done even though it is part of the provincial budget. However, unless the truck gets sent with regularity, my soon to be painted trash cans will be black with smoke from burnt trash…Let’s hope for the best.

I have been aware of my rodent problem for quite some time now. Little things have popped up with holes in them, I noticed lots of turds on my kitchen counter every morning, and about a month ago, there was an actual spotting!! Being a bit of a procrastinator, I did not do anything to confront my rent-free roommate, that is, until I read up on the dangers of lectospirosis. I went to the vet in order to see my options for mouse traps. What I ended up getting was the safest thing that Blue would not eat and poison himself. It is a sticky pad about half the size of piece of paper that the mouse or rat gets stuck to, you then kill the mouse and reuse the sticky pad for up to two more times! I had heard some pretty funny horror stories of other volunteers using this contraption. One being that only the foot of the mouse got caught so the mouse was running all around the house dragging the cardboard behind him. I was terrified of hearing the whimpering cries for help in the night when I captured my furry friend so I decided to lay the trap the night I would be spending in the pueblo. When I got home, the plan was to send in a neighbor to finish the deed. The culprit ended up being a baby, squealing away when I got home the next afternoon. My neighbor, instead of immediately dealing with the task, contemplated the trap and asked me if he could keep the pad to use at his mother’s house. I said fine, but first could he please kill the mouse and get it out of my house. He dragged the trap about five feet from my house and stepped on it, and left it in the middle of the path out to my latrine. He looked at me and said, “Eso me da asco!” That grosses me out! Then he picked up the sticky pad and happily went home to give his mother the trap.

It is so nice having lovely neighbors always willing to help. I could not have been happier, I was finally free of my pest. I sat down at the table to read a book and if a little mouse didn’t scurry right by! I had already given the trap away so I figured I will have to try the natural remedy I have heard also works. You grate the seed of an avocado which contains cyanide and mix it with some peanut butter or cheese. My only worry is the mouse will eat this and then climb under my roof and die thereby smelling up my house. I will keep you all posted on this. My unhealthy and irrational fear of furry rodents (not irrational I suppose because they are dangerous and can pass on lectospirosis) is extremely strong but I am glad this fear does not apply to tarantulas and large spiders which appear all over my house at all times. But don’t worry Brooke, I will kill them all before you come to visit! I really wish Blue got along with cats because having a kitty would be the solution to all my problems. At least Blue will eat the cockroaches sometimes. Good girl!

On Wednesday I went to Santiago with a mason from my community. My mason was going with me to attend a 4 day eco-bano latrine training: he along with five other masons was going to learn how to build the Peace Corps model latrine with ferro-cement technology. I was a little apprehensive because my mason, Rafael, who I have very little previous experience with other than he fixed up my house and put in electricity for me, rarely leaves the community. I would be paying his transport on the bus and covering all expenses until we got to the training center. Rafael participated in a pilot project with World Vision a few years back where he helped build a composting latrine in my community out of cement bloc. Their model of latrine is very expensive, is much larger, and is impressive compared to the size I will be building. The training was being led by my friend Andrea who has had the first large-scale success building this model of latrine. Her mason has built 52 of these latrines and was going to be teaching the masons in attendance all about the measurements and tactics of building this awesome bathroom.

The training was very successful. We built the latrine at a public swimming hole where many Dominicans go to jump off a waterfall. The need for the bathroom was obvious as when we were collecting sand by the river we ran into a few piles of human feces. The training was very successful and very amusing to me as the masons all struggled to work together. Much like any craft, they all seemed to be critiquing each other and holding nothing back about their preferred styles or so and so’s lack of skill at mixing cement or cutting rebar, etc. The most difficult thing for me will be ensuring that Rafael uses the dry cement mixture instead of the more common wet mixture he is used to working with.

The volunteers and I kept lamenting that we should do a fun activity at night because we were staying at a dorm-style retreat house and other than watch tv at night, there was nothing to do. Dancing and drinking were out of the question as my mason is Evangelico and therefore does not partake in either vicio (vice). We decided that going to see a movie at the mall would be perfect, as long as the volunteers paid for the taxi and the movie tickets. Even though the movies only cost about 3 dollars, that is still more than they would be able to spend most likely. Because of Rafael’s’ opposition to anything violent, sexual, etc, we picked the Smurfs in 3D. It was so fun! Rafael watched the whole movie without his glasses because he thought the glasses made him dizzy. A few of the masons in attendance were from very rural areas and because the only movie theaters in the country are in the big cities I bet a lot of the masons had never been to see a movie. Watching Colleen’s mason who lives on a small island with no electricity and only 200 people, confront the escalator was certainly amusing. All in all, it was a priceless experience and Rafael definitely loved the Smurfs as much as I did, although his experience was not as animated as my own without the glasses.

I returned back to my site Saturday night. Today I received some sad news. My project partner Digna, in charge of helping me collect the quota for my second round of filters, had all of the money stolen from her house. We were planning on collecting the filters on Tuesday so almost all 60 recipients had paid their 9 dollars. A man from the capital had been staying at her house while he recovered from an operation. Digna, one of my project partners, is the evangelical pastora and everyone assured me that no one would mess with her because the community has great respect and reverence for her. However, the man absconded with a little over 400 dollars. That money was meant for future community projects as well as is necessary to pay for the gas to go get the filters which are several hours away in a factory. I was really impressed when she told me that she would be selling a cow tomorrow in order to make up for the stolen money. We will not be able to recover all of the money, but it will be enough to at least go get the filters. I feel so blessed that she is taking responsibility for this unfortunate incident and all will not be for naught.

In other news, our electricity has been all over the map recently. The electric company decided to cut all power last week (when they cut power here they literally cut the power lines and take them away).

Within two days my neighbors had rigged the electricity back up. Why would we pay they ask me, we never have electricity for more than half the day, that’s not worth paying for. Definitely a cyclical problem as people will never pay for something that doesn’t work and until people pay it will not improve. However, the voltage was extremely strong and my fan blew up as well as all the light bulbs in the house. Luckily I have my mini fridge plugged into a power strip so that is still chugging away.

Thanks so much again to all the friends and family who have donated to my latrine project. Within the week I will have an additional grant online in hopes of raising money to build another 15 latrines. If anyone still wants to donate, that would be great! I wish I could thank everyone personally but I am unaware, unless you tell me, who has donated to my project. Stay tuned as I will need to raise an additional 2500 US dollars. I am so excited to start this project because the latrines are super cool!

There’s never a dull moment here in Judea: el Silvestre Oeste! *the wild west

My Club de Madres at sewing class,

learning to make pants!

At latrine training, coloring to teach illiterate families the different modes of contamination. This educational component will be 90% of my latrine project

Even he was having a great time!

building the compost latrine

Putting in the poop door: where you can take out the compost in a year

I have been thinking a lot of late about my life after Peace Corps, aka, transitioning back to America. This makes me compare how life is here vs. life in the states. When I tell my neighbors I want to go to med school when I go back to the states they all respond that I should go to med school in the DR...hrm...the DR is not really known for its high caliber medical programs.

My interactions with professionals has always left me feeling that being a professional in the DR might just be more fun than in the US. For instance, doctors seem to operate on a code of naps, teachers do not protest the shortened school day and increasing recess hours, and government officials are harder to track down than a misplaced pair of keys. My host mother, the assistant director at the Ministry of Education (a seemingly high-end position), did not go to work this past week because she wanted to go shopping for a small fan at the Haitian Market in Dajabon. Shes says it is a legit excuse because her room is not air conditioned. She has also cited getting her hair done as another legitimate excuse for skipping work. This past week a community meeting was held with members from the Public Health Department. I was unable to attend their last meeting but according to community members it was a great success because refreshments were handed out. The doctors spoke about the dangers of cholera (now that there are eleven new confirmed cases in our neighboring community that we share our water with) and how to prevent it.

Although I had given the exact same talk the week before, I think because I overlooked the all important task of bringing “brindis” or soda and snacks, my lecture was deemed inaccurate hooha by the gringa. However, the one time I made banana bread for my women’s group meeting I did not hear one thank you, only violent shoving and name-calling as women clamored for a hunk of something most thought tasted too healthy and “rara” or strange after all their struggling. After that unpleasant incident I vowed I would not use treats to lure grown people to come to my meetings, they should come of their own accord.

However, after a scintillating talk about the dangers of dengue fever and lectospirosis, the doctors and public health officials handed out birthday cake and soda. As aforementioned, this second health charla was deemed a huge success. Perhaps I should change my self-imposed rules and lure people in with brownies and juice.

Because I have not written in quite some time let me try and touch on the most interesting things I have been up to of late:

The half marathon! Although I was not looking to break any speed records, I would be lying if I said I was not worried about the prospect of running 13.1 miles at 5 in the afternoon in the middle of June in the Caribbean heat and not being in shape to boot. However, it ended up being a really great time and probably one of my fondest memories in Peace Corps this year. About 18 Peace Corps volunteers ran the race and one volunteer even raised money to have 15 kids from her campo come to the capital and participate. We definitely have some athletes in the group: a male and female volunteer who both ran Division 1 long-distance…I decided I would not be attempting to keep up with their blazing pace. It was also quite a treat to see so many fit Dominicans (most upper class capital dwellers) because exercise and working out are not the norm where I live. The funniest part about the race was that every 2 kilometers there were water stations; however, Dominicans are very fond of the plastic bag with water inside, but try running while tearing open a plastic water balloon and drinking. I definitely got more on my body and my fellow runners than in my mouth but it was necessary to keep my face from overheating. I ended up running the first 11 miles with a former Peace Corps volunteer who served in the South Pacific that was down visiting. We quickly realized we were the same pace and chatted most of the run (I guess I wasn’t pushing it that hard if I was able to keep up a conversation, but it certainly made the time pass nicely). The last two miles I put on some bachata hits and some Shakira and saw what my legs had left. Dominicans are really enthusiastic and loud in all areas of life so it was great to sprint across the finish line being sprayed and cheered on by my Dominican fans. I obviously still had some energy left at the end but not wanting to die midrace I decided to make sure I didn’t have to walk. Success! Climbing and descending stairs the next day was a bit difficult but nothing a swim in the Embassy pool couldn’t fix.

I think the best part of the race was knowing so many people that were participating. The last 7 miles was a loop so you could shout out to your fellow running buds as they went by. I am not in the shape I was in the states before I left, but at least I know I will be able to get back there someday when my diet improves and the heat abates.

July fourth: I celebrated America’s birthday with eight of my closest Peace Corps friends in the mountains of Constanza. Constanza is the highest town on the island and the climate and landscape is another world compared to where I live. Constanza sits in a valley surrounded by lush green mountains and it is the agricultural mecca of the DR. Fruits such as apples and strawberries which cannot grow anywhere else on the island, are cultivated there. Receiving frequent frosts and downright pleasant temperatures, one forgets that you are in the Caribbean. While most Peace Corps volunteers took off for the Peninsula of Samana to spend the fourth on a beach, I could not have been happier escaping the heat for a weekend in the mountains. We met up and spent the night at a ranger station that is the starting point for many hikes to Pico Duarte: the tallest peak in the Caribbean. We decided we would hike to Constanza. No locals could tell us for sure how long that would take as there is a series of connecting fireroads and we received estimates between 30 and 60 kilometers. All Dominicans warned against such a stupid idea as hiking. We figured that if we brought enough snacks and because vegetable trucks often pass through, if it was getting late we could always hitch our way to the end. Setting off at 6 AM we were blissfully unaware of the distance. We hiked until 4, probably covering close to 15 miles and decided to take the last bit in the back of a Dihatsu truck. The flat bed happened to be full of lumber and 10 Haitian laborers. We piled on up. Driving into the beautiful valley of Constanza while the Haitians sang and played a bucket like a drum. It was a perfect end to a great hike. We spent the next day cooking and relaxing at a beautiful bed and breakfast type inn.

Medical Mission: I participated in my second medical mission for eleven days at the end of July. It was a great contrast to the surgical med mission I had worked on in February. The mission was comprised of a group of nursing students, nurse practitioners, athletic training students, and one sole physician and about 15 interpreters (Peace Corps volunteers and other bilingual volunteers from the states) from the University of Southern Maine. This group travels to the mountainous villages around Santiago every six months, in January and July and keeps records of all of their patients in order to ensure consistent follow-up care. For many of the patients in the rural villages, the nurses from the Univ. of Southern Maine are the only medical personnel they see because their communities are far from any clinic or hospital. For me, it was a great opportunity to see rural medicine in action. We traveled by foot or by pick-up truck to a different village each day. Most of the patients suffered from hypertension or diabetes. The program is able to function so well because it functions in conjunction with local health promoters in each village that keep the University aware of any sudden changes in the patients as well as informing the nurses of which patients need to be seen in their homes because they are shut-ins. We would set up clinic in the local school or church and were able to see many patients each day. I especially enjoyed the mission because I was among students and therefore felt very comfortable asking fundamental questions about medicine and procedure whereas the last mission I did involved surgery and was not as conducive to teaching me the ins and outs of rudimentary healthcare. I left the second medical mission even more sure of my decision to pursue a future in healthcare. Not to mention, I realized how much my Spanish skills have improved. I tend to doubt whether or not I have learned any Spanish in country because my Dominican neighbors and friends are constantly telling me I don’t speak Spanish, they don’t understand me, etc. and yet when I was around Americans that truly do not speak Spanish, I realized I at least know more than some people. Ha

Transitioning back to the syrupy slow pace of life in my campo was especially difficult after being so occupied and needed for two weeks, not to mention I had been hanging out with Americans which I still find to be more comfortable than hanging out with Dominicans, at least more predictable.

Youth Conference: I took two adolescent girls from my community to a health conference called Escojo mi Vida (I choose my life). Escojo is a Peace Corps initiative for youth under the health sector that trains youth in subjects ranging from HIV and AIDs prevention, proper self-esteem, healthy relationships, and overall sexual health. The idea is that after youth are trained and attend all 12 sessions and pass a test, they will continue the class with other Dominican and Haitian youth, but as teachers. The group has been highly successful throughout the island and numerous local youth now have their own groups. I brought two youth in the hopes that they would be inspired by the conference and will help me start up this initiative in my community. We have our first planning meeting this afternoon to see which youth we are going to invite. Picking the right group members is always fairly tricky because there is always initial enthusiasm and then numbers inevitably dwindle once the kids realize they will not be given more than a new way of viewing the world if they come to my classes, they are usually disappointed by my lack of giving away soft drinks and lack of English knowledge imparted by my presence.

Club de Madres: My women’s group continues to be both a frustration, a pain, and a weekly occurrence with occasional breakthroughs. We are currently planning the village-wide “semana cultural” (cultural week). Near as I can ascertain from conjecture (Dominicans do not like providing me with concrete details) this is going to entail renting booths to sell copious amounts of beer, soda, fried chicken, lots of loud music, dominos tournaments, and baseball and softball games. People where I live really enjoy over imbibing so I can only imagine what will happen when the whole week is geared towards this goal. The women’s group is adamant that I should man one of the two booths selling beer because more men will want to buy from me. They also confiar en mis abilidades matematicas (believe in my math skills). Every suggestion I offer to change the cultural week to include more culture is shot down with the statement, no we don’t do that at culture week. I have suggested a youth dance competition, a yucca cook-off: think iron chef, ingredient: starchy tuber, poetry readings, drama…but apparently we should not change what has always worked so well.

ECO-Banos: Thanks to everyone’s very generous donations at home, I have almost reached my goal for my latrine money!!! A small piece of bad news however: I wrote two grants to fund this latrine project. One is the grant that so many people at home have contributed to: A PCPP or Peace Corps Partnership Program. The grant I wrote for the remaining funds was a Community Challenge grant funded by returned Peace Corps volunteers. Unfortunately, I was recently informed that this grant ran out of money for the fiscal year and will therefore be unable to fund the remaining $2000. Because applying for grants is such a lengthy project I figure it might be easier to put up another PCPP grant for an additional $2000 in the hopes that people I know are still willing to give to my project. I cannot help but think how great it would be if I had just one really rich friend… haha. But hopefully I will be reaching out to new communities such as my family’s Church and former high school classmates in order to fund what remains. Thank you to all of my family and friends that have already donated to my ECO-Bano project! I cannot wait to send home videos and pictures of this project actually in action!

On Wednesday I will be taking a mason from my community to a four day training workshop outside of Santiago so he can learn how to build this type of bathroom. We are using ferro-cement technology which is much more cost effective. It is thin layers of concrete bolstered by chicken wire and rebarb and then covered in a non-porous coating to cut down on leaching of waste into groundwater. Because the mason in my community built an eco-bano with another NGO about 5 years ago everyone in the community keeps telling me that he doesn’t need the training because he already knows how. I keep insisting that Peace Corps uses a different technology and that he does not know how to build our prototype…

On Monday I am calling the first meeting of my health promoters to begin training them how to conduct the interviews and how to make the 9 home visits that will be required of each promoter and beneficent family. This is going to be retraining these women with proper methods because the NGO that has worked in my community only requires the health promoters to make 2 home visits whether or not the entire family is present at that time. These women don’t even know what they are getting themselves into working with me… They better get ready to work!

Water filters: trying to pass on the responsibility of this project to members of my community has been a nightmare. Of the four people I sent to the training, one boy moved to another city to find work, one is helping me, and the other two refuse to do any community work without pay. In other words, instead of watching the project organically work without my input, I am instead accosted daily with why the community has still not received the second round of filters. Once again, I will be forced to play hardball because many community members have decided they will not pay until the filters get here even though I have been very clear that I will not be going to get any filters until everyone has paid. Therefore, I will be making an announcement today that people have a week to pay and if they don't they will be scratched off the list. Why cant people in my community act like adults? Why do they insist on raising my blood pressure everyday with their mind games?

I have caved in and decided to spend a good portion of my monthly budget on internet in my house. Since I came into the country 16 months ago, this option was not readily available. Not many volunteers other than technology volunteers, whose projects are based around computers and generally live in the pueblos or in cities had internet in their homes. Also, because the internet only works where there is cell phone service, this was not an option my first 8 months in the country because my first community did not have cell signal. I therefore got used to going to the pueblo every time I wanted to use internet. However, now that I am applying to grad school programs I noticed that I was spending a frustrating amount of time at a little cafe in Montecristi using their spotty Wi-Fi and was leaving my community every other day. Therefore, I decided to buy internet for my house yesterday. It is a little flash drive that I plug into my computer and pay for monthly. It is not unlimited so Ill have to see if I use it up quickly or not. I cannot help but feel guilty as the image in my head of Peace Corps life comes into sharp contrast with my actual life here in the DR. In addition, being on facebook and having such a strong connection to the US also makes me feel that much more isolated here in my little part of the island. However, I think it will be a great help to be able to work on my applications in the relative comfort of my shack. No running water, electricity 10 hours a day, no plumbing... but I have internet! I guess this is the fate of modern development work. That being said, I cannot wait to Skype with lots of people at home!

Cooking Espaggheti! church cook out! Dominican version of pancake breakfast, i cant even tell you how many pounds of pasta were cooked.

Birthday party with a super cute neighbor

My girls and I at the Escojo Conference

Reading club at my house: the book about Prairie dogs is a big hit!

Birthday party: I look like a giant!

Lovely neighbor friends!

the birthday kids putting cake on each other

Devils food cake I made in my Dutch oven. All my baked goods come out in doughnut shape

Ah summer in the campo…Mothers bring their undisciplined children to stay with Grandma , children are finally liberated from their strenuous three and half hour school day, the sun kills any lingering ambition to motivate host country nationals to do something outside of their plastic chair, and the mosquitoes morph into giant specimens overnight, it truly is a special time of the year. The moments in my day where I turn around in circles in the oven that is my bungalow and struggle what to do with myself in the heat are increasing, those hours have turned into the hours between 10 AM and 6 PM. The heat makes me sluggish, irritable, and very very sweaty. It also makes me extremely sensitive to Dominicans very loud way of talking, aka yelling and screaming to each other from their respective porches.

One blaring difference I have noticed between the Dominican Republic and the States are the parenting styles. As Americans we prefer free-range poultry while here, my island friends and neighbors raise nothing but free-range children. Children as young as three wander the streets from sun-up until long after sun-down only stopping at home when hunger compels them to visit the rice pot. Some of the older children organize baseball games but for the most part, there is a lot of idleness, littering, and throwing rocks at chickens and dogs. Unfortunately, as one of the only adults in town that engages the children with eye contact and questions in a non-aggressive tone of voice, I have hordes of children at my house all day every day. There is one little terror in particular that I have had to bar from entering the house. Oliver is staying with grandma for the summer, he has a very prominent stutter and has not learned how to talk yet without yelling (which, judging by the society, he might never learn). He also continually asks me why I talk strange, look strange, and if my dog will bite him. I am almost positive I am the first gringa he has come into contact with in his four years of life. I now say that yes, my dog loves the taste of little boys named Oliver, but this has not deterred him from stamping out my flowers and throwing candy wrappers in my water tank. It is going to be a long summer for sure.

My last week was spent trying to get some Dominican friends excited about starting a youth group but everyone keeps saying it is far too hot to do anything but sip sugary-sweet coffee and talk about how hot it is. Therefore, I took advantage of the free time (of which I am never short on) to do some baking and plant a garden. The baking has been a big success as it gets me a little “street credit” with the doñas. So the Americana does know how to do some things they say. Banana bread and oatmeal raisin cookies have been big hits, although everyone is confused why the treats are not more sweet, think: so sugary that the granules cannot incorporate. I dovetail this complaint with the conjecture of why so many Dominicans have developed Type II diabetes: I believe that is what we call a teaching moment.

Since I started baking and because I walk my dog daily, I am seen as the epitome of good health here in Judea Nueva, a bit like the island version of Richard Simmons. Although I still get called fat each and every day I have to remind myself that that is a compliment in this society, sometimes. Hopefully my women’s group will enjoy a cooking/nutrition class this summer. Dominicans do take a lot of pride in their cuisine. To my outsider’s opinion, it is bland, overly salty, and overly greasy. That sounds harsh and that does not mean I have not had delicious Dominican food and I definitely crave my MSG filled beans and rice every day. However, a scary number of Dominicans are developing high blood pressure and diabetes and it is a direct result from their horrendous dietary habits. For me, the most tragic part of this whole scenario is the abundance of delicious fruits, vegetables, and tropical delights that thrive on this diverse island. The island supports strawberries, mangos, avocados, bananas, tamarind, papaya, pineapple, legumes, cocao, coffee, spinach, beets, peppers, tomatoes, coconuts…and the delicious list goes on. However, most of the national dishes do not revolve around fruits and vegetables; rather, the national dishes all seems to be descendents of slave food brought over from Africa. Lots of stews with starchy tubers, rice and beans, boiled platano with fried cheese, etc. The average Dominican is not friends with spice; rather, they prefer los amigos MSG, sugar, and soybean oil to flavor their food. Perhaps this diet worked fine fifty years ago; however, like we have seen in the states, the culture is increasingly sedentary and people can no longer get away with this horrible nutrition. Hardly anyone walks. If one is going five minutes away, they will take their motorcycle; walking is deemed below them. Haitians walk and Dominicans ride their motos…

In other news, my women’s group (who so endearingly named the club after me: Santa Clara) has signed up for a domestic sewing class. The course is provided free of charge by a Dominican technical institute; it is scheduled to take place over the course of three months and at the end of the course we will each know how to make a pair of pants, a dress, skirt, and blouse! Personally I was pretty excited for our group to take the baking and pastry class but the women wanted to take this course instead. That being said, so far, our first weekend of meetings was fraught with problems. The instructor, a short, white-haired man who lives in Montecristi and devoted much of his life to working in a sweat shop, will be teaching the course. Because our women’s group is banned from using the multi-purpose room at the grammar school because of certain unsavory outbursts that happened in the presence of the children and teachers at one of our raucous meetings a few months ago, we have been relegated to meeting in a very inadequate one room tin roofed pre-school. There are only about 15 seats and they are all seats with attached desks built for children under the age of 7. The class is supposed to take place from 2-6 every Saturday and Sunday. I will say it is nice not being the one in charge of running the meeting; rather, I get to sit back and watch the women not listen and be rude to someone other than me.

It is eye-opening to witness the lack of book education of many of these women even though all of them have at least an eighth grade education. We spent one hour of the first class having the women practice filling in on the attendance sheet their name in small boxes. The instructor explained that the important thing is to sign your name the same way every time. The box to sign is extremely small so it was recommended to everyone to just sign their first name. However, like most Latinos, Dominicans are very attached to all four of their names and it was painful to watch woman after woman fail at the simple task of picking just one name to sign; rather, they tried and failed to squeeze in at least 2 of their names. The funniest thing about all this is that most women do not even know the real names of people they have grown up next to for fifty-plus years. Almost every Dominican I know has an “apodo” or nickname that everyone knows them by: Coca, Blanca, Morena, Ola…to name a few. Combine the formality of having a multi-part name just right with the fact that no one actually knows each other’s real name, and you run into some big problems. For instance, the other day I was sitting out on the sidewalk with a neighbor “cogiendo fresco” (getting cool) beneath a shade tree, a popular way to spend the hot hours outside of the house so as to not slowly roast one’s self under a tin roof, when a man came by on a motorcycle with a letter. He was looking for the address of the recipient. The three neighbors I was sitting with began asking everyone within earshot who this person was, they all surmised that this might be the correct name of Pipa who lives on the corner, or perhaps it was Lula. Mind you, all these women have lived on the same street with the same neighbors for their entire lives, yet none of them had any clue who their good friend and neighbor was (or what her birth name is), nor did anyone know their actually house number. I was just happy to not be the man on the motorcycle looking for the woman as he was sent from house to house inquiring after a phantom. I ate the rest of my tamarind ice pop and smiled to myself at the funny problems created by this society: which is an amalgam of formal rules and informal realities.

Another example of this is the formality and informality of dress and comportment. For instance, men and women in their homes will often lift their shirts up after eating, walk around barefoot, and wear ridiculous clothes in the house but if they go into town they will suddenly pull out very nice clothes, make sure their hair is just so, and put on very nice shoes. I on the other hand live and work in clothing that can go from beach to meeting, always trying to look less sweaty than the person next to me. In the same vein, when you go to the beach most Dominicans will bathe with all of their clothes on, even though they are wearing a bathing suit; however, in the street they walk around with bare-assed booty shorts and extremely low-cut leaving-nothing-to –the-imagination shirts: and I’m the one who gets weird looks at the beach for swimming in a bikini. The frustrations are endless and hilarious.

I am happy to say that we are expanding the Bio-Sand water filter project to two neighboring communities as well as doing a second round in my community. With two new helpers that went to the training workshop I am trying to pass off a lot of the responsibility to my counterparts, a 17 year old and 21 year old Dominican men/boys. Unfortunately, I still find myself planning the meetings and at our first meeting yesterday we waited twenty minutes for the boys to show up and then one of them was too embarrassed to say anything. That being said, the 21 year old, Edward, is extremely dynamic (he proselytizes at the Evangelical Church in town) and doing a charla with him was fun. It is always helpful to use local counterparts to do the teaching and I think usually more successful. I tend to worry about “dumbing down” the information too much, but when a Dominican gives the charla they always state very obvious things that nonetheless need to be said. Not to mention, people tend to love meetings where they are not learning new information but simply confirming things they already know. For me, the success will be seen with the change of habit: every kid and adult in town can tell me when they should be washing their hands; however, spending lots of time at people’s homes has enlightened me to the reality of the extreme disconnect between knowledge and practice. I do acknowledge that change will not happen overnight, but is a long and tedious process.

We will be doing four lectures or charlas for each community. The charlas focus on improving hygiene and general health practices in the home, how to maintain and care for the filter, etc. Yesterday, my group of about 50 women and children in attendance had a great time with our educational game: spider web of contamination. We had signs with words like poop, fly, hands, water, mouth, etc. and we had volunteers come up and hold the signs and then attach strings to see the chain of events that lead to people becoming sick with GI issues; this knowledge is very important right now as the cholera outbreak is spreading on the island and we have also just entered el tiempo de moscas! (time of the flies)..

In other news, I am heading to the capital tomorrow for a doctor’s appointment, an English Teacher’s Conference and the annual Lowenbrau Half-Marathon! I am a little concerned about my level of fitness going into this physical challenge (especially because doing anything other than sipping a beer poolside in June Caribbean heat is next to impossible), but I think it will be a fun event and I am just hoping to finish and do not mind if I have to walk. I have needed a reason to start moving again. Training for the race this past month has involved getting up at 5 am (before the sun is too hot) and running out into the rice fields. It has been beautiful to watch the sunrise as I am greeted by countless Haitian men giving me the fist pump of encouragement as they meander to their work in the rice and banana fields.

I mentioned to one of my neighbors that I will be participating in the competition in the capital because people started questioning me as to the purpose of my early morning sweat routine. He was so excited about me entering in this race and was convinced that I would not only be on television but that I would win the race. He went on to tell me that he learned some fool-proof method for winning from a movie (I think it was one of the Rocky movies: big hits among Dominicans along with anything by Jackie Chan)…start out slow and then when all my competitors collapse to the ground I will burn by them…he acted this all out while about 10 people waited to buy things from him at his convenience store. I mentioned that I doubt all of the competitors will collapse from the race, but he is convinced I will be on television Sunday night and I am supposed to give a shout-out to all my friends in Judea Nueva. Besides, they say, How could an Americana lose?

The Christmas pig in my backyard

Banana Bread in my new Dutch Oven! Let the baking begin...

Happy Baker

Planting and Preparing the soil with my one and only tool: Machete

The Garden being protected from chickens with banana fronds

My twin and I on Peace Corps Prom night (Dominicans and Americans alike can not tell us apart)

Blue with her foot bandaged after self-inflicted cuts from biting her rash

My neighbor burning her trash in front of my letrine despite my daily reminders that this is bad for the environment and for our health

Summer Baseball Tournament in Judea Nueva: I was asked to throw the first pitch to kick off the community tournament.

My host mother (on left) and the principal saying prayers for a safe and friendly competition

Mom and Dad stylin in the capital!

It was surreal to be standing amongst Dominicans watching the arrival gate in anticipation for two familiar faces. A little over a year ago I was walking out those same doors scared out of my mind for what lay ahead of me. My fears back then were rather different. Was I supposed to be speaking Spanish with everyone, did my fellow volunteers like me, were we going to have to do more skits at the airport like we did in Washington DC, did I pack enough tank tops, were my feet always going to be this swollen for the next two years? Waiting for my parents to come out of the gate I reflected on how much my fears and anxieties have changed with the past year, they have not diminished, I’m still working on that, but they have certainly shifted. Now I was thinking, am I still motivated enough, do I spend too much time alone in my house watching Glee and Modern Family, do I eat enough Dominican food, are my projects going to be sustainable, what grad school should I apply to, am I enjoying every moment as much as I should be…I no longer worry about my Spanish or my clothes or my friendships with volunteers, I worry about the bigger picture and whether or not I will be proud of my service or if I’ve given up a lot of my drive and chosen to spend countless hours in my house sweating, reading for pleasure, and cooking.

But as my parents adorably came through the doors with their functional and compact CamelBak backpacks I snapped out of my spacey day dream and couldn’t help but smile noticing that they were flanked by high maintenance Dominicans, dressed to the nines with three inch stilettos and outfits that are normally reserved for prostitutes. Welcome to paradise Mom and Dad. We hopped in our zippy Chevy Aveo and took on Santo Domingo. Owing to my Dad’s prowess as a NYC cab driver, he already had the requisite skills to survive the lawless streets of the DR, I just had to teach him a few things about the frequent use of the horn. Whether you are saying whats-up to a friend, warning a motorcycle you are running him into a ditch, or letting someone know you are passing, you honk; the horn is utilized in any and all driving situations, it is used liberally and without hesitation. I would say the most difficult thing about driving in the DR is the motorcycles. They have no concern for bodily injury and pull in front of you without looking. The idea is that it is the cars and trucks obligation to avoid crushing the motorcycle and this could be why I know a fair number of people without the use of both legs. But we survived without killing anyone and without being killed! Go gringos!

We spent the first night in Santo Domingo at a lovely artsy bed and breakfast owned by a couple from Switzerland. I could not believe I was in Santo Domingo as we sipped Presidente cerveza bien-fria (super cold) on the rooftop. For me, Santo Domingo is loud, abrasive, fun, and generally uncomfortable. All that changes when you are not sleeping in a five dollar a night pension. The next morning we set off on our grand adventure to visit Judea, the wonderful border town that I call home. We arrived around 3 pm and set out to visit a few neighbors and friends of mine. Everyone was extremely excited to meet my parents and sit with us. Most of the time at each house was spent discussing how we should stay longer because no matter how long you stay, it is never enough. My friends in town have already started worrying about the fact that I will be leaving in a year and I how I should marry a local so I don’t ever have to leave. ..umm, something tells me I’ll be ready to go home in a year or so, not that I don’t love the people and the culture, but I would probably go crazy living in the campo for eternity. I was hesitant about whether or not I should give my parents the real campo experience and have them stay at my house, as there are plenty of hotels in the nearby town. However, they said they were game and I thought it would be fun. So we made scrambled eggs, drank wine we had bought in the city, and sat around by candle light. They also had the added treat to see what my community looks like when it rains…it becomes pretty much impassable on foot as the streets turn into one giant mud puddle. Luckily we did not stick around and wait for the mosquitoes to breed. We took the opportunity the next morning to visit my original community located about an hour to the south. Although it is very close geographically, my original community of Tres Palmas could not look more different. Located in the foothills of the mountains, it is green, lush and quiet. It is rural, remote, and overflowing with citrus, mango and avocado trees. Sounds a bit like paradise right? We went back and paid fairly quick visits to all of my old favorite families. Of course, it being mango season, each family made sure we left their house with about 20 mangos. By the time we got to my friend Lucia’s house, we had accrued close to 100 mangos, a pineapple, three cucumbers, and a bunch of bananas. People’s generosity in that part of the country will stay with me for my lifetime. Even though I only spent five months in Tres Palmas, I will always think of that community as my home. Although there was not much room for projects because most families were elderly grandparents raising their grandchildren, I always felt very welcome and well-loved in that community. Going back there makes me feel as though it was my home, something I still do not feel in Judea, probably owing to the fact that it is a very different community, more urban, much larger, and faster paced. People in Judea are not as willing to love me simply because I exist, they are a little more skeptical of my motives and also seem a little more concerned with what they are going to get from me. As cynical as that might sound, I have found that people are less likely to work with me just because, they would like to see how they will benefit first. I am sure this attitude existed in Tres Palmas as well, but it was harder to feel because people had a lot less going on in their lives and with only 40 families, people were much more closely tied, not to mention we never had a project going on in Tres Palmas.

We had a special lunch that my best friend Lucia and her mother prepared. Despite being one of the only families with a dirt floor in the community, Lucia has always gone to great efforts to invite me to her home and make me feel comfortable. Her family has never seemed ashamed of their obvious poverty, maybe because there is nothing to hide. With seven children, no father, and Maria without work, the family survives by growing all of their food and accepting food stamps from the government once a month. And yet, of all the families I knew in Tres Palmas, Lucia, her brothers, and her mother always seemed the most carefree and content. Lucia, one of the brightest people I have met in the country, has been unable to finish high school for the past 3 years because of a mistake in her papers. She was born in Haiti and some of her documents have misspelled her name and therefore, in the middle of her junior year of high school, she was forced to drop out until the government can fix the error. To me, it is such a shame that someone so bright, with such drive and lofty aspirations, should be kept at home cooking for her younger brothers simply because she was born across the border and a spelling error was made. Regardless, it was lovely to see my friend and have my parents see where I spent my happiest moments in Tres Palmas. Melting into a plastic chair in Lucia’s back patio while the family made me exceedingly sweet fresh juices and we chatted about anything and everything under the sun, that is what I miss most about Tres Palmas. I feel blessed to have met Lucia. It is extremely hard to find a young woman on this island who I can relate to. Most girls my age have at least two kids and spend most of their time inquiring as to why I am not married or why I don’t have children. Looking pretty and having kids are pretty much on the minds of these women all the time, and I struggle to relate.

We made a quick stop in Dajabon, the border town with Haiti, to look at Immigration and the border crossing. My Mom insisted that she did not want to spend another night in my campo, she claims it was because I had slept on the floor but something tells me it also had something to do with my less-than-pristine latrine out past the scary mangy dog. I did not protest, a cockroach had crawled on my face the night I slept on the floor and I vowed that from now on I will either sleep in my hammock or under my mosquito net but never again on the floor. So we drove to MonteCristi, the unique dusty town that feels a bit like a scene out of the Wild West, if you let the Wild West have hundreds of noisy motorcycles and scooters. We had dinner at my newly discovered favorite pizza garden. A local dentist proceeded to buy us several beers and we closed down the restaurant having drank our water weight in courtesy beers (I think the locals were blown away by the fact that gringos had found this hidden gem and wanted to welcome us).

The next morning we enjoyed the beautiful beach of El Morro and par usual, we were its only visitors. The waves were mellow and revealed about a mile of pristine sand. We walked to the top of El Morro and enjoyed beautiful vistas of the sea. That afternoon we set off for Punta Rucia, a sleepy beach town I had been told to visit but had never been to. The only thing I knew was that it was difficult to get to and there was one small hostel that everyone told me I had to stay at. We called the hostel and found out it was booked for the night; I was hesitant to head all the way out to a place I had never been to, especially if there weren’t any other places to stay. But it isn’t an adventure if you don’t think there could be some problems along the way.

The trusty Aveo delivered us to the sleepy little Dominican town where the cows grazing in the dry-thorn forest looked like they hadn’t had a good meal in months. We found a gorgeous hotel to stay in with beach views and spent the afternoon on a drizzly beach. Dinner was a great example of how things work sometimes in this country. We were told to go to this one restaurant. After some pre-dinner cocktails, we set off with quite an appetite. When we arrived around 7 pm the man at the place told us to come back in an hour. When we returned at eight, he looked a little nervous and said the woman was in a meeting and should be back shortly. When she finally arrived she seemed very embarrassed to have kept us waiting. It turns out she was the host mother for the last Peace Corps volunteer that lived in that town a few years ago. She made us fried fish and fried plantains and we went to bed full and content. The next morning we decided to take a local fisherman who had become our confidant and tour guide of the town, up on his offer to visit an island off the coast for snorkeling and a morning excursion. So we boarded the boat and were whisked away to a miniscule island several miles offshore. Once out there we were given several pieces of bread and went snorkeling over the coral reef. In my past year in the DR I have never seen so many tropical fish. We were literally swimming through schools of fish. If you didn’t let go of the bread they would gnaw at your finger. After several hours on the islita, we ended the trip by doing a high speed trip through the mangrove forest. I could not help but think that the mangroves would be a perfect filming spot for a James Bond movie, especially with our zippy driver. It was super fun and probably something I would not have done on my Peace Corps budget so thanks Mom and Dad!

Next, we packed up and set off for our final destination: the peninsula of Samana. I was a little nervous because we were at least four to five hours away, if we didn’t get lost, and it was already 1:30. After a very long day of driving through rainstorms and avoiding hordes of motorcyclists with death wishes, we arrived at the peninsula in the town of Las Terrenas around 8:30 pm. Yes we got a little lost several times and yes the rain slowed us down. We spent three nights and two and a half days in the Italian and French ex-pat vacation spot. The beaches are gorgeous and with the amount of rainfall the peninsula receives, it has a rainforest micro-climate. On our second day we hiked to El Limon waterfall. I am happy to say we were the only gringos that didn’t ride the horses; rather, we walked. And I apologize Mom, the last time I did the hike I came from a different direction and it really was relatively flat, I was not trying to lie to you. But we made it to the gorgeous waterfall! The following day we traveled back to sticky, muggy Santo Domingo. We attempted to tour the colonial zone but it was far too hot and uncomfortable. We had a lovely dinner in the colonial zone and the next morning I accompanied my folks back to the airport. We had seen a great deal of the island in a little over a week.

I could not help laughing at the fact that as soon as I kissed Mom and Dad goodbye and sat outside waiting for the bus back into the city, I was surrounded by four different airport workers asking me who I was, how long I’d been in the country, if I was married, and if my husband lived in the country…etc. I quickly snapped out of my blissful tourist high and gave them a piece of my mind. No I was not born yesterday, I have been in the country over a year, and could they please find out when the next bus would be coming.

Thanks for the great visit Mom and Dad! Love you!

The beautiful El Limon waterfall

Mom and Dad surrounded by stray dogs

On the boat heading to the island, early morning

Dad and I at the top of El Morro, MonteCristi

Dad shaving outside at my house,campo style

Lucia and I reunited

Host brother eating a mango

Mom and I with my Dominican mother

with neighbors in Tres Palmas

Buying a Pina

Back in Judea Nueva

With my host family and all the local kids eating mangos

After the rain in Judea Nueva

El Morro, beach by my house

My friends in Judea

Back of my house

Why did the Guinea hen cross the road?

Mom and I in Santo Domingo

Trying the water from my filter project so people trust it!

The month of May held lots of new and exciting experience for me and a very extended amount of time outside of my community. In the first week of May I hosted a Dominican visitor who is the project manager for the Dominican branch of the Rotary Club. My filter project was completely funded by Club Rotaria and therefore, in order for me to continue requesting filters for my community they wanted to see how my pilot project of forty filters turned out. It was a joy to host Rossi. She has a graduate degree in architecture, is unmarried, and in her forties; she is not the type of Dominican woman I am used to mingling with. It was very refreshing to see Rossi struggle with some of the same things I struggle against in my community: ignorance, stubbornness, machismo (so it isn’t just because I’m American I thought). Rossi showed me that much of what I thought were cultural differences are really just educational differences. We spent three days cooking together, swapping stories, and visiting homes where I had installed filtros. It was a very positive experience and left me wishing that I had a highly educated Dominican woman in my campo with me.

Another project I can no longer ignore in my campo is TRASH. Solid waste is by far the biggest eyesore in Judea. When I conjure up images of the Dominican Republic I wish I saw coconut trees and pristine beaches. Rather, my view of these pristine vistas has been compromised by my experience on the ground. I see a beautiful landscape filled with trash. I see raw sewage flowing into the drinking water for lack of any sewage system and I witness our dirt roads turn to mosquito breeding grounds with one rainfall as we have no drainage system and the pools of water turn to green slime in 24 hours. I see people content to burn their trash daily for lack of any organized system. And most worrisome to me, my neighbors are more concerned about sweeping their yards and patios free of organic waste such as leaves and grasses and are perfectly content to throw glass beer bottles and dirty diapers behind the house. Solid waste management in the Dominican Republic is not something that can be tackled overnight. Nor do I feel that changing people’s habits and attitudes towards solid waste will do much good without the support and initiative of the government to do something about the growing waste produced on the island of nine million inhabitants (that number does not include Haiti). For me, as a lowly volunteer fighting the smoldering stink that swells around me in this island paradise, I will begin by planting the seeds of change. What greater tool to use to wake people out of their heat-induced malaise than fear! Dominicans in my community fear the reality of cholera, as well they should; it is on the island and I do not see this bacterial infection leaving anytime soon.

I will begin my trash initiative by linking the presence of solid waste and sickness. People in my community do not leave the house if it is raining because this will make you sick, they do not drink something cold when they are eating something hot, because this will make you sick, they do not take off their socks until they cool down and they don’t like mixing different fruits together in a smoothie, all these things make you sick. However, having exposed piles of trash sitting next to one’s latrine, washing one’s hands only when taking a shower, and drinking contaminated water are rarely linked to illness. Soap in public bathrooms is like a good intention never realized. There is usually a fancy hand dispenser but 95% of the time it is dry as a bone. I was in the dentist’s office the other week in a fancy up-scale part of the capital and the office did not offer soap! AH! At least the dentist put some gloves on before he filled my cavity without the use of Novocain, explaining to me that it was such a small cavity it would be quicker to just fill it without anesthetics, and I stupidly did not protest, my thinking being well I guess if it just hurts a lot for a little bit that’s better than hurting a lot for a long time. The heat really does impair your judgment, I think that would be a viable research project for grad school, the equally harmful effects of heat and alcohol on your brain and your decision making. I digress…

So I think a great way to get people fired up about trash is by having a new and shiny receptacle for them to put their trash into. If there is one thing I’ve learned here, it’s the more glittery and shiny the better. I met with the new governor in MonteCristi to see if he could assist me in my new trash initiative and clean-up project in Judea. My host mother made a few calls (she works at the Ministry of Education) and I was quickly ushered into the governor’s office past about 50 disgruntled Dominicans that had obviously been waiting all morning. The portly governor made a very convincing show of his dismay and concern about the “dirty” reality of my community’s waste problem. I explained that the government had not picked up trash in my community once in the last fifteen years and his answer to this was to donate five trash cans to me (discarded metal tanks). I was very grateful for this gesture because I have already written and received grant money to buy these same metal tanks and paint to put around the community in public spaces. However, having a place to put the trash is very important but it still does not solve the issue of getting rid of it. Having smoldering buckets of trash is really not much of an improvement over the current individualized piles of trash that get burned. But at least now people can feast their eyes on prettily painted trash receptacles while they burn the ozone layer. More meetings with a different branch of local government will hopefully produce weekly trash pickup.

The best thing about visiting the governor was what happened after he promised me the trash cans. He asked if I wanted to go with him on a house call. Having nothing else to do that day I figured I should go along; always saying yes to invitations usually adds an unexpected outcome to the day. He told me to wait downstairs with his driver (Yes, he has a driver and a heavy-duty looking SUV). We left MonteCristi, took a few turns down some side streets and were suddenly in a very poor barrio. We pulled up a dirt road and got out next to a lean-to where there was a tarp covering a table with three large cauldrons, and utensils for about 40 people. In the shade of a mango tree sat about 20 children between the ages of 5 and 15 waiting hungrily for their first and probably only meal of the day. I suddenly felt a tinge of embarrassment as I noticed a lot of the shoe-shine boys that constantly pester me to shine my flip flops as I use internet. I never give them anything but a banana or orange, worried that giving the money will only go to the purchase of candy or soda. As soon as we pulled up and got out two more high-end SUV’s pulled up the road and men with video cameras got out and all jovially made small talk. As the governor began talking with the woman in charge of this ramshackle soup kitchen, I pieced together what was going on. A very kind woman has taken it upon herself, for the last three years, to provide a proper lunch-day meal to about 40 poor children every day. She has requested grant money and looked for hand outs from the local government in order to come up with the food staples to feed the children. The governor was deeply touched by her story and has resolved to build a proper building and kitchen, complete with tables and chairs so that the children will no longer have to eat in the dirt. I was placed in front of the camera and asked my opinion on this project that I had just heard about. I agreed that it was important and then the governor went on to speak to the fact that waste management is extremely important how he is working in close connection with me to clean up the province. I couldn’t help but smile thinking about how the governor had just met me an hour ago and how we were already doing publicity television spots. I guess it never hurts to have friends in high places, especially in this country.

On May 12th we had our annual all-volunteer conference. This is the one time every year where all volunteers are obligated to meet in the capital to learn about new safety and security measures, meet and greet with the new volunteers and share information among ourselves about our clubs and organizations. The following day my fellow volunteer group celebrated our one-year as volunteers by taking a trip to a beautiful beach for three days. The thirty-eight remaining of the 39 that swore-in as a group took the opportunity to catch up on how we have all spent the past year as many of us are not located very close together on the island. My favorite part of the trip was a short excursion we took to a cave located in a national park. After descending into the cave you could swim in the 15 or so feet of water that was there. It was a truly surreal experience swimming around in a nearly-pitch black cave with only a headlamp and a snorkel to detect what was ahead. And yes, there was lots of bat shit!

After heading back to the capital I was giddy with excitement knowing that Mom and Dad were flying in the next day!

Neighbors where I installed a filter

More community members

Rossi with some delicious green coconuts! Posing with one of my favorite women in the community.

I just found a blog I wrote back in April, so I guess I should publish it.

I feel that each day could be a blog entry because every day is so full of amusing, unsettling, and downright unexpected occurrences. After a year in country, the people of the island of Hispaniola have not lost their ability to shock me with their words and actions.

The month of April held a few interesting excursions for me. I took advantage of the USAID conference location to pay fellow volunteer and good friend Jenn’s community a visit. I have been to her site once before and it is one of my favorite places I have been in the country, mainly because it is so different from my community. When I conjure up images of the Caribbean I do not think of lush mountainous villages where greenery and flowing rivers mingle with guava and coconut trees, but this is the reality of the area of the country around Jarabacoa, known as the adventure capital of the Dominican Republic. Tourists come to this centrally located high altitude pueblo to go white-water rafting, to scale gorgeous waterfalls, and to breathe in the fresh mountain air. After a relaxing weekend spent nourishing body and soul cooking great food (think thai peanut sauces and tons of vegetables), hiking, and swimming in mountain rivers, I remembered the things in life that I cherish and that are often hard to obtain as a poor volunteer trying to survive on the border with Haiti: exercise, recreation, and healthy food. Sigh…I suppose my brother did warn me that part of Peace Corps life is becoming a porker as you eat carb heavy meals and your diet spins out of control with stressful situations while everyone plays the let’s see if we can make the Americana eat until she is in pain and then tell her she is looking fuerte (euphemism for gorda)…It is all a part of the experience I suppose because dino kale, almond butter, rice milk, and countless of my other favorite foods I just cannot seem to fit within my peace corps budget, nor are they readily available at my local colmado.

After the weekend in Manaboa (Jenn’s community) I went on down to attend the USAID conference in Jarabacoa. Representing Peace Corps at the conference made me feel rather out of my element because it was obvious to all involved that one of these people was doing the wrong thing, one of these people just did not belong…me! The seventy some-odd people that attended the conference were USAID employees, employees from various Dominican NGOs and other international NGOs such as Save the Children, The Nature Conservancy, etc. All present were development professionals with fancy cars, a nice wardrobe and hot water in their homes. I guess I was serving as the link to what these agents of change had lost touch with: poverty.

The conference focused on how to mitigate and manage environmental impact from USAID funded projects in the Dom. Republic. Basically if a building project is funded by USAID money then a long and detailed monitoring report needs to be filled out by the organization using USAID grant money. I was attending because Peace Corps volunteers fund many of our projects with Small Project Assistance Grants (SPA grants) from USAID and because they often fund stove and latrine projects, we should technically be filling out these forms. However, we don’t and I suppose that is where my role came in. I learned lots of new things about how to prepare these detailed MPR’s (Mitigation Plan Reports) and how to assess environmental impact and did lots of networking and schmoozing over copious snacks and hor-dourves but so far not too much has materialized from my attendance at said conference. Hopefully when our new country director comes in a few months I will explain the legal importance that Peace Corps comply with these standards and we will begin to add more paperwork to the quarterly reports volunteers fill out.

This past month, on March 4th, I celebrated the momentous occasion of my one year anniversary of arriving in the Dominican Republic. The year has brought small victories, countless frustrations, many new friendships, and above-all, experiencias nuevas. As projects in my site begin to take shape and my days are increasingly filled with commitments, meetings, and new routines, I realize how quickly this next year will fly by. It is difficult to avoid comparing my work and my progress to my fellow training group. While the majority of my fellow volunteers are now starting projects, grant money in hand, I am still working on gaining the trust of community leaders and building the friendships that will make future work possible. I try to avoid comparing myself to other volunteers because every community is so different and what can be accomplished in one’s site is so dependent on the people, their attitudes, and the infrastructure already in place.

I have been asked recently to describe a “typical” day in my campo. Although no day is ever “typical” I am starting to develop some semblance of a routine. I usually wake up around 7 am to a pack of wild dogs fighting in the street outside of my house. I make coffee and take Blue on a walk either around the neighborhood or out to the rice fields. I consider these walks the most precious parts of my day because I can think and contemplate my day in a relatively natural setting. Even though large trucks zoom past me on the gravel road, I feel like I can breathe a bit deeper by getting away from the constant yelling and laughing of children and neighbors on my street.

This past month, I have been working on installing the Bio-Sand water filters. After walking Blue, I make a quick breakfast and set out to a neighbor’s house to install a filter. Even though I give the family advance notice that I will be coming by to install their filter, it always seems to catch them off guard. It is a rare family that actually thinks about where in their home they would like to put the filter, has cleaned out the inside, and has the necessary water ready. My communities’ water situation is currently a bit of a “lucha” or struggle. Our aqueduct is controlled by a neighboring community who shuts it on or off according to their needs. That being said, our water supply gets turned on about twice a week. Because we live on a flat, desert landscape, the water arrives as no more than a trickle out of the pvc pipes. Therefore, in order to fill up a plastic tank or bucket, a “bomba” or electric pump must be hooked up to the spout. In order to do this, there must be electricity, something we have about eight hours a day. You can imagine the inevitable frustration when there is luz (or electricity) but no agua or vice versa, agua but no luz. That being said, the wealthier families in town have quite an arsenal of large plastic tanks. Many have tinacos or large tanks they put on top of their homes to have gravity-fed water out of the spout, others have cisternas or 50 gallon or so cement wells next to their homes. However, I, like my Haitian neighbors and poorer Dominican friends, have one large bucket that I rely on my neighbors to fill up for me when the water and electricity gods decide to conspire at the same time to work. You can imagine, my neighbor and landlord fills up her numerous water receptacles first and often, the water runs out before my sole tanque gets filled. This reduces me to the humble position of asking my neighbors bucket-by-bucket for water. And now, I ain't too proud to beg. I use this water to bathe, wash dishes, wash Blue, and mop the house. However, this situation has made me realize just how little water one needs to bathe and do dishes. After a nasty case of ring worm broke out on my legs I have now been adding bleach to my bathing water as the “treated” water that arrives from the aqueduct is not always treated to the standard of “sensitive skin” (tiene piel sencillo) laughs my neighbor. I wholeheartedly agree with her.

In order to install these filters, about thirty gallons of water are needed to fill the filter, wash the sand numerous times to rid it of its clay, and so forth. No matter how many times I tell people this in advance, they are always reluctant to let me use their precious water when I arrive at their house. More often than not, I am told to return a different day when there is more water. You can imagine the difficulty when I have forty families telling me to come back a different day, start with someone else they always tell me, leave me as the last one.

So, in order to appease the powers that be, I have mistakenly begun giving English classes at the grammar school. I teach fifth through eighth grade. The problem lies in the fact that teaching English is mandatory for fifth grade and above and yet, none of the teachers are qualified, they simply do not know English. The text books are plain silly, they are far too advanced for the level of the students and most of the kids fill in the answers without ever learning the English. The students are supposed to have English twice a week; however, when I inquired where we were in the text book, all of the teachers pointed me to page one even though we are halfway through the semester. I have spoken with the principal about the issue of having me act as the only English teacher, to which she gets frustrated and tells me this is my job…even though as a community environmental volunteer, it clearly is not. Because I am not a paid teacher and I often have things come up during the week that force me to cancel class, I feel it is a disservice to the children to have me be the only teacher. To this, the teachers reply, well we weren’t teaching it anyway, so having you is better than nothing. I am very frustrated by the situation because not only are the children uninterested in studying, I am unable to achieve discipline in the classroom because the teachers see my presence as an opportunity to go drink soda in the shade, literally. I continually tell the principal that I am willing to give a teacher-training course, so that when I leave in a year, the teachers will be better equipped to start doing their job, but no one is interested. Class begins with me trying to give a lesson, usually interrupted with kids asking me what “I love you Baby” translates to. We translate lots of movie quotes, inappropriate language they’ve heard on TV, and romantic one liners; I feel like I am wasting my time, and the teachers continually tell me that I am doing such a great job! I plan on finishing out the semester to say I gave it my all, but in all honesty, it is not a sustainable project, the children refuse to do more than copy what I teach, they will not participate or study, and the teachers offer no support.

On a more positive note, I have found five teenage girls that are actually interested in learning English. With them, we have formed the traditional student-teacher contract: I will teach, and they will attempt to learn. We decided to start meeting three times a week in the afternoon. They go to high school in the morning and have the afternoons free. I am having them pay for the textbook I made and copied for them and hopefully this will be a more positive teaching experience for me. We meet at one of the girls’ houses and because many of them are interested in losing weight, they have started walking with me and Blue on our afternoon walks in the rice fields.

In other news, this past weekend, I took two teenage boys to a environmental youth conference on the peninsula of Samana. It was about 6 hours away. I gave two charlas or lectures at the conference. One was on beach ecology and the other was on AIDS and HIV prevention. All fifteen volunteers that attended brought two muchachos from their respective communities. Highlights of the weekend were snorkeling, bonfire with Smores, and a dance party. Next week I am off to a weeklong USAID conference where I will be representing Peace Corps. The conference will focus on how to make environmentally friendly projects in the Dominican republic. We will see how pertinent it is to my own work but at least it will be a nice change from my normal routine.

Will put up some photos soon!

I have finally made the move to my own casita or little abode, and although it is only 10 feet away from where I was living with my host family, it is symbolically an enormous leap to freedom. The neighbors struggle to wrap their minds around why on earth I would want to live alone; they ask, aren’t you scared? won’t you be lonely? was Suni mistreating you? To which I can only respond that Americans are accustomed to a bit of privacy and independence, both of which are foreign concepts in an average Dominican household. It would be an understatement to say the dwelling was a “fixer-upper” but having scoured the town for other houses, this was my only option. I therefore spent two month’s living allowance making the house moderately impervious to the elements and equipped with a dazzling latrine and bathing shed. At times I was tempted to just knock the house down and start fresh, that way I could design a shaded back patio. However, that was decidedly too costly and so the carpenter and I collaborated about which parts of the house were only moderately destroyed by termites and thereby deemed good to go and which needed replacement. I am very pleased with the construction and really believe that the repairs will hold out for my following year of residence. Si Dios quiere!

The latrine, although not as nice as the composting beauties I plan on building in my community, is certainly a step-above what most people are currently using at their homes. And, I am lucky enough to have one at all. This was a big point of contention with my landlady and next door neighbor who kept insisting that we should not bother making my latrine usable; I could just use her indoor bathroom. However, with my propensity for unexpected parasitical ailments, I assured her it would be more comforting to me to have my very own crapper. My latrine sits smack in the middle a pig sty and a smoldering pile of trash, which somehow seems very appropriate. The trash and the latrine are daily reminders and encouragers to pursue my sanitation projects in my community.

I spent the better part of last week painting my home. All of the neighboring Doñas had an opinion about what the all-important color palette should be. What should have been a fun and easy-going task turned into a headache as countless women would come over, take one look at my painting style, tsk tsk, and say not so quietly, well looks like the Americana doesn’t know what she’s doing. Give me the brush! I really didn’t know there were so many mistakes one could make painting a house until I did it under the watchful eyes of my neighbors. These women are experts mind you. Those with the money to do so, repaint their wooden homes twice a year, once for Easter and once at Christmastime. They did not approve of my economical use of paint (although I was the one who had bought it and could not afford to buy more). However I was quick to say that lots of neighbors had half painted homes, but they assured me that it was far better to have the front of your house coated with lots of paint and leave the rest unpainted than to my style. Also, they had me buy gasoline to mix with the oil based paint and we mixed lots of water with my water based paint. It seemed like we were giving the house an eggwash rather than a fresh coat of paint, but I found it was easier to follow their orders than to argue.

In other news, last week I attended a medical mission in Santiago. A team of ear, nose, and throat doctors came from Loyola University Hospital in Chicago to perform a week-long clinic and surgeries. As a Peace Corps volunteer, whenever a group of doctors comes to various hospitals, we are offered the opportunity to help out by translating. I have been interested in doing a medical mission for quite some time and finally got the opportunity to help out. I traveled to Santiago last Saturday and began right away translating in the clinic. The team of help from Loyola was about 45 people including surgeons, anesthesiologists, medical students, O.R. nurses, audiologists, and medical technicians. There were 4 Peace Corps volunteers, two Dominican medical students, and two bilingual American doctors. We saw 80 patients a day in the clinic for five days. The majority of cases were children that needed their tonsils and adenoids removed. We also saw quite a few adults with thyroid problems, hearing loss, and various neck cysts or goiters. I was really intimidated at first because although I am quite comfortable with my “street” Spanish, deciphering technical details of an illness is a little different. I could not settle for just catching the gist of the conversation; rather, details determined whether or not the patient was eligible for surgery. Not only that, medical Spanish is not in my repertoire. However, I learned quickly and was soon rather comfortable interviewing the patients about their breathing problems, their medical history, etc.

Translating is an art. I am not trained in it, but I did my best. I learned that how you ask the patient something really determines the answer. Questions such as “do you experience lots of pain” almost always elicit the answer “yes, lots”. And “where does it hurt” usually receives the reply “everywhere”. Listening to the patient is exceedingly important and I found that it was usually what the patient said in passing, under her breath, that was the determinant factor or whether or not the patient was eligible for surgery. For instance there was one instant of an adolescent girl who complained of a small cyst at the base of her throat. The med student after doing a lengthy interview and physical exam was unable to locate a cyst where the girl complained of the problem. After calling in the head E.N.T. surgeon who concurred that there was no problem I translated to the girl that the doctors did not find a problem and that we were not going to perform surgery. The girl frowned and complained; she asked, then why does my throat leak water when I play volleyball. When she said that the doctors reexamined her and found that the sweat gland under the skin had not developed correctly at birth and surgery would be performed to remedy the problem. I could not believe that we were so close to sending the girl away. I learned a lot about communication this past week. Even knowing Spanish fluently does not necessarily mean that communication will occur. I think that so much that is communicated is unspoken or subtly hinted at. However, at the end of it all, I found that listening to everything the patient said, even what they muttered in passing, asking open-ended questions, and being extremely patient with long-winded impertinent information was the key to success.

On Monday morning surgery began. I had the opportunity to “scrub in” and hang out in the O.R. The surgeons were all great at explaining in detail what they were doing and why to me. I mentioned at the outset that recently something had piqued my interest in a medical career and most of the doctors were determined to win me over onto team doctor. I was amazed at how relaxed and comfortable the surgeons were. Listening to hip hop and chatting while performing invasive surgery seem to be diametrically opposed activities, but, I learned that is not the case. For me, the most interesting surgery to watch was the surgeries performed on the patients who require kidney dialysis. One of the surgeons performed multiple fistula surgeries in the arm, connecting artery to vein. In addition to hanging out in the operating room, I worked a lot in pre-op consent and post-op care explaining to patients and parents the medicine and warning signs of infection. We were all staying at a Jesuit mission house that has a small clinic attached. We worked long days, starting operations at 7 A.M. and finishing at 8 in the evening. However, the doctors and med students always wanted to go out dancing and drinking after the long day of work. It was great fun experiencing the Santiago nightlife with the group.

When all was said and done on Thursday evening, the Loyola team had performed 122 surgeries. It was an impressive feat to watch the specialists come down with all of their equipment and perform their work in a limiting environment. Most of the patients that we saw did not have a medical history with them and many had never been to the doctor. Not only that, there were quite a few patients who take medicine but could not remember the name of it or why they take it. The worst case that happened last week occurred when a mother denied the existence of asthma in her three year old son who was getting his tonsils removed. The problem lies in the fact that oftentimes, the patients are coached by Dominican health promoters how to answer the questions in a way that will better guarantee surgery. Denying asthma in her son (whether intentional or not) seriously jeopardized his health. In post-op, the boy went into respiratory failure and was ambulanced to a local hospital when it was determined that his condition was too serious to be treated at our tiny clinic. Most of the patients we saw were poor and had traveled rather far to enjoy the free services of the American doctors.

On Friday, a few of my fellow volunteers and some of the Loyola medical students were invited to a swanky apartment owned by one of the Dominican med students’ brother-in-law at a beach in Cabarete. We drove up to the north coast, arriving Friday evening, danced the night away and spent Saturday evening at the beach. It was really fun seeing the country with Dominican tour guides. Because the two medical students are well-educated and come from a very different segment of society than lives in my rural campo, it was a great learning experience to hear all about the D.R. from their perspective. I especially enjoyed traveling with them. Every time I have left my community it is to travel and spend time with fellow Americans and volunteers and therefore, it was a welcome change to experience the beach and the country with locals. It did not hurt that they know how to have a good time, own cars, and let us stay at their 8 bed beachfront pad.

Having such a stimulating, intellectual, and hands-on experience at the medical mission this past week has made it especially difficult to return to the slow-paced life of the campo. Conversation has returned to stating the obvious and commenting on whether or not I gained weight in my week away. However, I trust that I will readjust and get back into the swing of things shortly. I have to remind myself that I would not have performed nearly as well as a translator this past week had I not spent so much time in the campo gaining a rich understanding of the culture and customs of the people in the Dominican Republic. I guess listening and sitting for hours on end is finally manifesting its benefits. Cultural understanding is a complicated, multi-faceted thing and cannot be learned overnight by reading a book; rather, it must be lived and experienced. In my case, I am learning it by living among Dominicans, cooking their food, mopping my home like they do, peeling my fruit like the locals, and slowly adding more and more sugar to my beverages. I am learning what it means to share in the joy of other people and why sometimes family and a slow-paced life fulfill a very different part of the human spirit than fast-paced achievement. I miss the fast-paced but I am beginning to appreciate the balance of both ways of living. And no matter how slow life in the campo can be, the music will always elicit booty-shaking rhythm and dance.

My seventeen-day Holiday vacation was just about as good as I could have imagined. Loving family, delicious food, hot showers, plush carpets, basically everything I have been pining for in the Caribbean all came true at once. And precisely because home was so good, readjusting to my life as a Peace Corps volunteer was that much more of a challenge. The showers suddenly felt cold, whereas before they had felt refreshing, the heat suddenly felt oppressive where as it had only been a mild discomfort before my sojourn home. Never before have I appreciated America so much. However, at the same time, I felt nostalgic for certain Dominican comforts: blaring bachata, syrupy sweet passionfruit juice, rice and beans, people stating the obvious, wild street dogs and children prancing about in their birthday suits. It was refreshing to realize that part of me is now caught between these two cultures, inextricably so. Although I complain about the heat and the relentless mosquitoes and the extremely relaxed attitude towards work, I cannot deny my love for the people, their hope in the face of adversity and hardship, and their brightly painted houses, not to mention their God-given ability to rhythmically shake their behinds to the music and make it look good.

I could not help missing home as I sat waiting in the Miami terminal surrounded by seemingly-affluent Dominican families and their infectious banter. Boarding the plane, the fact that I was traveling alone was noticed by more than one sympathetic mother. A few Dominicans even questioned why I was flying alone and when I described that I live in the DR as a volunteer their faces betrayed shock and pity instead of understanding. As I have said before, family is everything to a Dominican, it means far more than career or social standing, it is a source of pride and close family ties are cultivated daily. The plane ride from Miami to Santo Domingo is a mere two hours but in that time I could not help but think how far away I already was from so many cultural and material comforts, especially my family and friends. However, when the plane touched down on the Dominican airstrip and the passengers all clapped and whooped with palpable relief and excitement to be home, I could not help but smile and clap along. Dominicans have a certain something, una vaina (a thing) perhaps, that does not allow an introspective American to be sullen for long. Try as you might, you are swept along in their alegria, in their cojalo suave (take it easy) attitude, and in their brotherly love (which at times is a little much for a rubia, but most of the time I think they mean well).

The ride from the airport to the Peace Corps office was equally eventful and full of Dominican flair. A cab driver that gives volunteers un buen precio named Wilson, picked me up with two of his cousins in tow. As we raced along the autopista, swerving in and out of the lanes and dodging motorcycles there was lively talk about how much the cousins enjoyed their Christmas holiday and the wanted to hear all about American Christmas traditions. They were a little disappointed to hear that we don’t stay up all night on Christmas eve drinking rum and dancing bachata like they do. At any rate, it was really nice to have a familiar face greet me at the airport, even if he kept me waiting for an hour and a half.

The following day I made my way to a suburb of Santiago with all my luggage in tow. I was signed up to participate in a bio-sand water filter training. I took interest in this course, which is offered by the local chapter of the Rotary Club, after seeing that so many people in my community do not have the money to buy filtered water from the colmado (mini-mart) and convince themselves that the aqueduct water is not responsible for their stomach ailments. Unfortunately upset stomach and diarrhea are common nuisances like bug bites and are therefore dealt with as something that is a natural part of daily life. The three day training was comprised of technical training in how to assemble and maintain the filter, as well as instruction on how to educate the families that would be receiving the filters and how to turn this knowledge into a successful, sustainable project in one’s community. Although the filters, which are no more than a large plastic conical receptacle with a tube and several layers of sand inside, have some serious cons (moving the filter ruins it, maintenance usually means replacement, and they do not filter out chemicals) they are, on the whole, pretty amazing. Composed of different levels of fine sand, small gravel, and bigger rocks, the two inches of water that sits on top of the sand creates a bio layer that devours and filters out 96 % of the bacteria and viruses that are present in the tap water. Pretty neat if you ask me. Because I attended the training, I am allowed to request 40 filters from the Rotary Club in Santiago for my community. Sounds easy enough right? I wish. Like with all development work that aims to be sustainable, I will need to enlist the support of a local community group that agrees that this project is something good for the community. Without this backing, it is just another crazy rant by the strange gringa that lives in the neighborhood.

My biggest challenge thus far in my new town has been building the trust of the community members. Never having dealt with a Peace Corps volunteer before many are jointly amused and bewildered by my presence among them. It would be an understatement to say they do not know what to make of me. Boys as young as five have already told me that if I am not willing to marry them than I need to find a friend for them so they can achieve the self-proclaimed goal of so many Dominicans, an American VISA! I get stares, I get pitying smiles, I get gifts of tropical fruit, but so far I have not gotten what I truly want, an organized group of people that want to work alongside of me. However, I have to keep reminding myself that this will not happen overnight and achieving tangible projects is only a small part of the interchange that occurs between volunteer and community. For me, the daily inability to make a little list and check things off as I achieve them has been a valuable lesson, albeit an extremely frustrating one. I have been raised in a society that instills and values goal-setting and personal accomplishments. Of course I want to help my community with as many tangible improvements as possible (a library and litaracy project, water filters, new latrines…) but I cannot do it on my own. Sure, I could probably write a bunch of grants, hire out some local contractors and get my chacos dirty, but at the end of the day, if the community does not feel like they had a deeply personal hand in the changes that were made, it will not be worthy change. Empowering the community to help themselves is what sustainable change is all about. But I cannot help feeling the tick of my two year service clock and my ever-present desire to achieve something. And it certainly does not help when a rogue community member will approach me in the street and ask why I have not started any work yet.

However, there does seem to be the scent of progress in the air. I have been trying to motivate and reorganize the local chapter of the Centro de Madres. Dominican women, when banded together, are able to achieve remarkable things for their children and their community. I was told that the women’s group in my community used to do quite a bit. They made cakes, tortas, and other confections to sell, they earned enough to buy three sewing machines to sew and make tablecloths, napkins, and the like, and they helped have a brand new primary school built for the community. In other words, when these ladies wanted to work together, they were a powerful force. In yesterday’s meeting, I was shocked and surprised to see more than 20 women show up, and on time! My previous meetings had depressing turnouts of five or six people. With this number we would finally be able to vote on a president, vice president, etc. and that is just what we did. Although the elections did not exactly pan out as I had expected; we picked the president’s name out of a hat and she squealed with anxiety and shook her head in fear of the responsibility this charge might hold. Now if that is not stepping up to the plate then I do not know what is.

This past Wednesday I called a special meeting to meet with my new dirigente (or leaders of my women’s group). The meeting went pretty well until people started showing up pissed off that they had not been picked as part of this special group. Also, this group of women seemed to think that they had their filter already secured, already in the bag because they were helping with the project. However, for me, because we only have 40 filters and one of those is being donated to the school, I have decided that only families with young children in the house will be eligible for the first round of water filters. This statement sent the women into an uproar. There are certain women on my committee who are grandmothers and no longer have young children in the house. In so many words they expressed to me that what is the point of helping with the project if they were not going to be getting something out of it. So much for my faith in altruism. However, all in all, the meeting went fairly smoothly. I invited the doctor from the neighborhood clinic to give a lecture focusing on proper hygiene, hand washing, and the importance of clean water. The families that come to this lecture on Monday as well as a future talk given by me will be put into the pool of those who can receive a filter.

In other big news, I have adopted a beautiful and affectionate dog. Her name is Blue and she is quite the celebrity in my community. A fellow volunteer that is finishing up her service wanted to make sure that Blue, who she rescued from the street and cared for for two years, goes to a fellow volunteer and a good home. Unfortunately, aside from the occasional small house dog, dogs are seen to have a solely pragmatic role in the Dominican Republic: they are protectors against theft. Most are street dogs that fight throughout the night, get fed just enough to keep them hungry and alert for an intruder, and get kicked and abused. Now you might imagine what kind of spectacle I make walking a dog throughout town. Why would you walk a dog people ask me? Blue and I are usually followed by as many as 10 barking, yapping, growling street dogs as we walk down the street. We are neither unobtrusive nor quiet. Most people come out of their homes to see what all the fuss is about and to greet us with bewildered smiles. Also, I’ve had quite a few people ask if I can give them my dog when I leave because she is so healthy, fat, and strong. When I tell them she is fixed they usually rescind their request. At the very least, Blue gives me something to look forward to everyday and has given my life a bit of routine that I was yearning for. We go on at least two walks a day through the rice fields. Only men work out in the rice fields so there are more than a few stares when I walk Blue there daily, especially when five or six kids come along.

Work is currently taking place on the house I will be moving into next door to my host family. We are building a new latrine, a place for me to bathe, and fixing the roof and two of the doors that have fallen off. It is quite a little hovel: it lacks water, sinks, and counters and has seven foot ceilings. However, it has character, it has room for my hammock, and it will therefore be perfect for Blue and I.

I was warned, but the warnings were unable to prepare me for what the season of Christmas on this island really entails. December in the Dominican Republic encompasses round-the-clock dancing, generous libations, eating lots of fatty Christmas pig, and near as I can tell, even more general merriment than the rest of the year holds. What I have come to appreciate and value most in the Dominican culture is the focus on family, sharing what one has, and the ability to have a good time or dance party (usually synonymous) in almost any circumstance.

Trying to motivate community members to do any productive work this December has proven futile. I have called meetings to which people readily agree to and tell me how important it is that we work together; I wait at the meeting with two dedicated muchachos who are the only ones that show up for anything I plan. After an hour of waiting I usually go home with mixed feelings of being lied to coupled with rejection. When asked about the meeting most respond that oh well you know how it is in December, I was sweeping the floor, I was washing the artificial Christmas tree (and yes I have seen this done), it looked cloudy out…lets just hope January will bring a new attitude with the new year. However, having been warned about the “December partyitude” in advance from other volunteers I have planned meetings without too much hope that attendance would be more than my personal fan club of two or three teenage girls. With this in mind, I have to focus on compartiring or sharing with my new neighbors and friends in this season of merriment. I did have to draw the line the other evening when I was repeatedly peer-pressured to drink rum straight with no chaser at midnight while watching telenovelas at Marcia’s house. The whole family kept telling me, but it’s Christmas Clara, followed by why don’t’ you drink? To this I respectfully replied that si yo tomo, but not cheap rum shots from the bottle (I’d like to think that that Claire has no place in Peace Corps). Also, I have had to draw the line at the neighbor’s consistent attempts to fatten me up and make me feel ill from overeating. Having a good time and feeling overstuffed and drowsy from over consumption somehow go hand-in-hand here. Despite my smiling and reassuring everyone that I am having a grand time, the fact that I have not been able to eat four servings of rice and lots of chicken, and lots of pork means that I must be sad and deeply troubles my new neighbors.

People are constantly murmuring in my new community that I do not eat and that I will waste away here because I hate the food even while I am busy eating more than I should just to complement the chef. At Marcia’s two nights ago watching television after I had had dinner, Marcia told me she was going to make sancocho, a traiditional stew made with three kinds of meat and lots of yams, platanos, potatos and other starchy root vegetables. It is quite a treat but it is not something you can eat when you are already full. Little did I know that she was making it that night, even though it was already 10 P.M. When I retired for the evening without sharing in the feast, Alberto, Marcia’s husband, chastised me for not partaking. He asked me what my current weight was and then in an all too threatening tone informed me that by the end of my service they will have made me twenty pounds heavier, all the while laughing demonically. Uh-oh.

On a side note, I am unashamedly hooked to “Las Munecas de la Mafia” a Colombian soap that is pure lunacy and entertainment. I started watching simply to share with the women in the community and I am now the one leaving the house to go the neighbor’s every other night when we do not have electricity.

My favorite Christmas tradition that I have not only witnessed but brazenly participated in is called “la Mañanita” or diminutive morning. In the case of my community this involves meeting out in the street at 4 am ready to sing, dance, and act as obnoxious as you please in the spirit of taking what your neighbors are forced to give. Awesome if you ask me. I was invited to participate in this lovely little tradition on the night of December 6, I was told to meet outside at 4 am and the rest would take care of itself. Wanting desperately to avail myself of new cultural opportunities I set my alarm for 3:45 A.M. and went to bed wondering what the “mananita” was all about. Sure enough, my eight month pregnant neighbor Marcia, who had spearheaded the entire mission, about 10 teenage girls and boys, and two other community mothers were waiting outside as promised, all were dressed in ski-caps and sandals with socks in order to ward off the blustery 65 degree night air. No one could stop talking about how cold it was, I found it nice to not be sweating for once, but what does the gringa know anyway? I was handed an empty paint can, a large rock, and told to play my tambora as loud as I could. For the next two hours I am proud to say that I beat that paint can with so much Christmas spirit and joy that I was later congratulated for my drumming skills. The idea is that you go house to house, pausing outside each one long enough to try and wake up the sleeping people within. Three Christmas songs are sung and when that does not produce a person at the door, lots of shouting, clapping, and banging on the wooden walls of the house ensues. At some houses we were met with straight silence, other people threatened to maim us if we did not move on down the street, and others opened the ventana just enough to throw coins (and in one case a 100 peso bill) into our greedy hands. One house gave us ground coffee, and another neighbor gave us some sugar. As the sun rose we happily marched to Marcia’s house, still singing and dancing in the street, to count up our booty that was so rudely obtained by force and intimidation. All in all we had gathered 300 pesos, the equivalent of about 10 U.S. dollars. Not bad if you ask me. I am told the tradition is to use the money to make spicy hot chocolate (by spicy I am referring to ginger, which is super picante to Dominican palettes) to warm everyone up and start the day right. I had a great time participating in this tradition and as long as I am participating in the merry making it is fun but when one is on the other end, the normal sleeping person, it is extremely irritating. Not only are you deprived of sleep but you are threatened into giving money away so the obnoxious hooligans can enjoy hot chocolate and cookies on your dime…I am going to chalk this up to lost in translation and continue pounding my drum when I am invited.

It has unfortunately been raining pretty consistently this December, which is very rare for this area of the country. With dirt streets, the rain has made simply leaving the house a trying event. I still have not figured out how Dominicans manage to stay so clean in such muddy conditions, but I am always the sloppiest, perhaps because I think not leaving the house because the streets are muddy is a tad ridiculous. Also, I am not sure if my host family senses when the path to the latrine will become slick and nearly impassable and thereby choose to stop themselves up by avoiding all sources of fiber, but I am the only one in the house who has had to suit up for the journey to the outhouse, much to my host mother’s chagrin. “But Claire, do you really need to go to the bathroom? The path is so muddy!” To which I reply, yes, and no, you don’t have to accompany me. This idea of never leaving me alone is definitely a cultural difference. Just last week, both of my host parents had to go to Santiago for the day and my host mother was distraught at the idea of me sleeping alone in the house. I assured her I would be fine, that I lived alone in my last community, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. I was informed that Bertina, the fifteen year old neighbor who resents my existence and rolls her eyes at all of my attempts at conversation, would be sleeping in my bed for “safety.” I failed to see how this fifteen year old would help if my security was in fact threatened. I pried further and was told that all the local thugs would somehow sense that I was sleeping alone and take it upon themselves to come in and steal my laptop and soccer ball (yes these are my host mother’s words) but they would not dare mess with me with Bertina by my side. Gracias a Dios my host father decided to arrive late that night and I was spared sleeping with someone who looks like if given half the chance, she would end my life.

So far, my days in town have been spent sitting with lots of older women and lots of young children. The children are very adamant that I teach English classes so twice a week I hold a class for kids thirteen and under and twice a week I hold a class for high school aged kids. After three classes with the young kids I could not figure out why the kids could not remember how to say, “Hello, My name is….” Some of the kids could say a few things in English but did not seem to be retaining any new information that I was giving them. My poster board examples made the children’s eyes glaze over. That is when it dawned on me, I bet these kids cannot read! After doing a poll I learned that only one 14 year-old out of the group could read. So I decided to change tactics and told the kids that we were going to switch to literary/art class. I think I am doing these children a disservice trying to teach them English when they cannot even read in their own language. So, in the spirit of Christmas, last Saturday morning I brought art supplies and we all made Christmas cards. I taught them how to write Feliz Navidad in English and other such phrases but I think for now, we are going to focus on drawing, painting, and reading.

Los adolescentes are very enthusiastic about my English classes. The enthusiasm does not always translate to good attendance, but I figure seven out of thirty is a good start. Class has been pretty fun so far as the last half hour is always devoted to teaching me lots of slang and dirty words in Spanish, which we all agree is extremely important for my full integration. Class usually ends when my talking is drowned out by bachata or raggaeton music from someones cell phone. I don’t fight it, we usually just end with some dancing and I figure it sure is nice not to have to worry about actually preparing these kids for an exam or having curriculum that needs to be learned.

December, despite the rain, the mud, and comments about fattening me up, has been extremely fun and full of surprises. Although I am headed home to the good ol’ United States of America for the holidays, I feel I have experienced much of what makes Christmas so great in the Caribbean. Perhaps next year I will even eat some Christmas pig on December 25th.

Happy Holidays to all my friends and family!

Laura arrived Thursday evening, the eleventh of November. Interacting with someone who knew my pre-Peace Corps self was like looking in a mirror for the first time in eight months…scary. I struggled to remember what was jarring for me when I first arrived in the country and what made me nervous. Now, eight months in, nothing seems too out of the ordinary. Why wouldn’t that 90 year old vieja rub Vick’s Vapo Rub all over my legs? Why wouldn’t Tang and hot dog buns be a nutritionally complete breakfast? Why would the guagua stay in the correct lane and not go up on the sidewalk? Why wouldn’t the taxi take advantage of the ambulance and ride its tail through heavy rush hour traffic? Why wouldn’t the Lord’s Day signify rum is an acceptable drink all day, starting in the pre-dawn hours? Why wouldn’t five people get on a motorcycle, especially when the baby fits so well on the handle bars? Why wouldn’t you pee in a plastic bucket inside the house instead of walking five feet to the latrine? Why would you walk across the street to buy something at the colmado when you can send the muchacho? Why would you lower the tv volume if you can just yell into your cellular?...all normal things, right?

Laura sure was a trooper. She had made it clear to me that she was not looking for a pristine beach vacay, the kind most people think of when they hear you are going to the Dominican Republic. To me, this vacation brings to mind the following: laughing under swaying coconut trees, drinking rum on the beach, and dancing the sultry nights away with non-threatening Dominican men who speak English with cute Latino accents. But no, Laura bravely said she wanted to see what my life was like as a United States Peace Corps Volunteer.

Seeing as Laura does not speak Spanish (I’m sorry Laura but knowing Hola, Adios, and Mucho Gusto does not mean that you are conversational), translating became a full time job during her visit. And try as I might to convince my friends and neighbors that Laura did not understand their language, every time I returned from the restroom women and children were crowded around Laura with a family photo or some local item of pride gesticulating wildly at Laura in the hopes that perhaps I was mistaken when I explained that Laura did not understand. My Dominican friends scoffed, “but you understand Clara! And she is white and blonde too, so why wouldn’t she understand?” Deep breaths are a requisite part of surviving here with a modicum of sanity.

So, in a crazed effort to showcase all that this magnificent island has to offer in terms of varied topography and microclimates, we spent a good deal of her eleven days on crowded buses and antiquated carro publicos. However, I think there is definitely something to be said for experiencing first-hand the frenzied chaotic order that is public transportation in the DR. I find myself questioning much of the trip if the bus or motorcycle or car I am in will actually be going where the driver said we would be going and low and behold, we always arrive! Maybe there is not always a seat, maybe the bus does not leave when the ticket said it would, and maybe you find yourself running personal errands with the driver, but you almost always arrive…eventually.

Because I have spent very little time at my new site, I felt strongly about showing Laura my original site. We arrived mid-day and were greeted with impressive Dominican hospitality in numerous different homes. We lunched at Judy’s house where she had cooked up an even-bigger than normal midday spread because they were entertaining their visiting relatives from New York. We then visited one of my all-time favorite Donas, Dulce, to pass the afternoon over my favorite coffee and fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, WITHOUT sugar. Dulce (ironic because her name means Sweetness) might be the only Dominican woman who allows me to drink juice without sugar in it, not succumbing to the belief that unsweetened anything might cause real physical damage. After popping in to many neighbors’ homes and introducing my new shiny American friend, we finally settled at my best friend Lucias’ house, for the evening festivities. Lucia, in typical fashion, had taken it upon herself to throw a dinner party in our honor. Quite possible one of the poorest if not THE poorest family in Tres Palmas, Lucia always astounds me with her ability to entertain and share what little she and her family has. Lucia and her mother prepared a delicious dinner of pollo, casava bread, yucca, and a special dessert treat of whipped cream with “Cheetos” (and no, you don’t have to be under the influence of drugs to appreciate that that combination is culinary genius.) Also, it is, according to Lucia, very popular with the kids these days at Christmas parties. Because Lucia’s home is one of the few homes in town that is not connected to the power lines, Lucia insisted we finish off the party in style by painting Laura and I’s nails by flashlight. Lucia, aside from being innovative in the kitchen, could probably be hired by any nail salon in New York City that specializes in putting bling and rhinestones on toes. We wrapped up the evening by visiting with my host family until it was way past our campo bedtime.

The next day, Saturday, we set off to visit my new community. We made a stop just long enough for me to unpack and repack my bag for the next week and to explain to my neighbors that I would be back to begin working within the next ten days. We decided to spend the day at the local beach of El Morro in Monte Christi. Unfortunately, because of the recent storms, there was nothing left of the sandy beach and the giant waves had left rocks and boulders on shore. The formidable waves prevented us from swimming (even on a calm day, this area is known for its riptides) but we enjoyed the sunshine over our frosty beer nonetheless. In the afternoon my friend Andrea met us at the beach with two Dominican male friends in tow. We went out dancing and drinking at a “discoteca” in Monte Christi and I was happy to give Laura a taste of the local music, always deafeningly loud. Our new male friends insisted that I allow them to come and meet my host family when they dropped me off in my community. I said they could use the latrine, but I really did not feel comfortable having my new friends over when I had only been at the house for three full nights. I did not want to send the wrong message to my host family: that I was a late-night partier who brings Dominican men home on Saturday nights, at least I did not want to send that message in my first week.

The next morning Laura and I set off on the long journey to reach the beautiful mountain site of Jarabacoa. This required taking about 6 different forms of public transportation, from taxis, to guaguas, to pick-up trucks. When we arrived at Jen’s site in Manaboa, up the mountain from the outdoorsy, adventure city of Jarabacoa, it was mid-afternoon. I was immediately struck by the change in temperature. It seemed impossible that we were still in the Dominican Republic as the temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees. Not only that, the mountainous scenery and rushing rivers seemed more like Colorado than a tropical island.

We spent the next two days hiking around Jen’s beautiful site, cooking, and relaxing. After our mountain adventure we set off for the beautiful Samana peninsula in the northeast of the country. Arriving at my friend Sarah’s site in the late afternoon we relaxed and took in her gorgeous view while Sarah attended a meeting. I was flabbergasted to discover that not one local colmado could sell us beer because they were all owned by Evangelical families. It felt like a bad joke. We spent the next four days traveling around the peninsula. We went to the epic El Limon waterfall, a resort beach in Samana, and three different secluded, white-sand-swaying-palm-tree-beaches, in the area. All-in-all it was a relaxing change from my normal scramble to survive in the DR.

Laura and I returned to Santiago on Sunday. We ended the trip in epic fashion by watching Jersey Shore in our hostel. I feel that Laura was able to get a small taste of the many indescribable things that make the Dominican Republic so familiar, so special, and so jarring all at the same time.

Perhaps our adventure vacation would have gone a bit more smoothly if we had simply checked into an all-inclusive hotel, but that would not have been nearly as fun. Showing Laura what it is like to be a Peace Corps volunteer was stressful at times, uncomfortable, and trying, but those emotions are so much a part of my daily life in the DR that I had to remind myself to take care of Laura and reassure her that we would in fact survive the vacation. For me, the DR has brought out more tears and more laughs than any other time in my life, and I think I was able to show Laura just a glimpse of why that is.

HITCHING A RIDE

BEAUTIFUL BEACH IN SAMANA

LUCIA WITH CHEETO SURPRISE

AT EL MORRO (the beach by my house)

DULCE TUMBARING GRAPEFRUIT

TOE BLING

CONTEMPLATING THE NEW WORLD WITH COLOMBUS

Adjusting to my new town has not been super-suave, but then again, I have only spent 2 full days there. My biggest challenge thus far has to do with the fact that I am pretty much on my own after 7:30 AM when Josefa leaves for her full work day as a school administrator. Unlike a typical Dominican household, where there is always a Doña willing and able to fix meals and the like, living with a woman who has a career outside of the home has made fitting in a little hard. Her husband tends to his rice fields throughout the day and pretty much only makes short stops in the house in order to fry cheese, fry chicken, or to make a chocolaty oatmeal drink. He thinks I am weird and do not understand Spanish when I turn down all of the aforementioned foods. That being said, I found myself walking down the dirt road the first day hoping to be invited in to people’s homes in order to chat and explain why I was living in town. This was easier said than done. Most scowled at me and did not invite me in. The local hairdresser (a woman with a large blow dryer in her house) did take one look at my unacceptable hair and invited me to let her fix my mane as soon as I deemed it necessary. Basically, she was embarrassed that I was showing my face in public with my unkempt nest and was politely offering me a way to remedy the situation. I thanked her and ended up spending most of the day with her and her husband. We watched CNN Español, ate white rice and fried chicken for lunch, of course drank some afternoon Tang, and had a long conversation about the banana export industry in Monte Christi. All in all it was a great first day.

On Monday I made my way down to the grammar school. Because my new town has never had a volunteer they assumed the only thing I could offer them would be English classes. Talk to any other volunteer and they will tell you that teaching English is a bit of a sticky situation. Most Dominican children want to learn English, but they also believe that this knowledge will spread through osmosis simply by standing near an American for a long enough period of time. Studying, practice, and effort will not be requisite parts of the process. Now, I understand that that is an unfair generalization; there are many Dominicans that do in fact learn English. However, teaching middle schoolers English is not how I want to spend the majority of my Peace Corps service. Visiting with the principle on Monday morning, I was informed that the primary school, grades fifth through eighth, was expecting me to teach their English classes because the “teachers did not know English” and were therefore not currently teaching English. It is a very similar situation to one from my own grammar school when my sixth grade teacher would teach double religion class instead of science because she did not know any science. In order to remedy this situation and walk the fine line of appeasing my new town and not becoming a babysitter at the grammar school, I have decided to offer the school my services in the form of a teacher training class after school hours. Also, I have decided to teach several English classes outside of school that will be open to all community members. I might upset the Principal with my unwillingness to work as an unpaid slave at the school, but hopefully, with time, the community will understand. As of now, I want to save my energy to work on projects that I deem more sustainable and more necessary for the community than teaching an eight year old how to say “Derek Jeter is my favorite baseball player.” Be it latrines, a community garden, a nursery, or environmental education classes, I definitely will have ample projects to keep me busy in my new home.

On the first Tuesday of November, I received a call from the Peace Corps informing me that all volunteers in my region were being consolidated in a hotel in Santiago to wait out the arrival of Tropical Storm Tomas. Having just arrived in my new community it was uncomfortable explaining that I was taking off so soon. For me, it also drove home the reality that no matter how hard I try to live at the level of my community, I will always be different. If an emergency comes up, Peace Corps and the United States government can intervene on my behalf to ensure my safety. This is a luxury that the average campesino will never enjoy. The principal asked if she too was supposed to come with me…I politely said she was welcome to accompany me to Santiago but Peace Corps would not be paying for her hotel room.

That being said, staying at a fairly-fancy hotel with hot water and air conditioning and buffet food was a luxurious change from my vida diaria. However, by day four of consolidation, I was ready to get off the cruise ship. Too much heavy-saucy foods, mixed with too little exercise, mixed with too much free internet and contact with the outside world is a recipe for disaster. We made the most of our experience by venturing out infrequently to play some hoops with some local youngsters who had obviously all been watching the AND 1 video series because I recognized more than one of “Hot Sauces” dance moves. Also, a bunch of volunteers and I played some pick-up soccer on the basketball court. We also kept busy by frequenting the casino at our lovely hotel in order to try and increase our measly wages, which ended for all but one volunteer, in less money than we had before. The Peace Corps budget does not really factor in a gambling cushion in our monthly salary, but at least the cocktails and sandwiches were free at the casino. It was not a total loss.

When we were finally released on Sunday, I headed to the capital to attend a week- long in-service language training. Basically if you left training in May as anything but an advanced speaker, Peace Corps wants to make sure we receive some more help in the language department to avoid offending our communities any more than we do already by wearing Chaco sandals and unbedazzled jeans (a girl asked me if I could even call my jeans jeans because there was no butt bling.) I don’t think I know the answer to that question anymore, at least not in the Republica Dominicana. I found myself meeting and living with yet another host family (I have now lived with five in the DR) in Pantoja, the barrio near our training center on the edge of Santo Domingo. It was a pretty typical meet and greet, I ate dinner while the six year old showed me his break dance moves to club-level blaring raggaeton courtesy of Daddy Yankee while the mother proudly expressed her approval of her son’s dance prowess and even made him rap for me. After dinner she made sure I was content by letting me watch Bad Boys II with her son in the downstairs bedroom. Because it was in English we fast forwarded a lot to watch and re-watch all the action scenes.

I left the capital a day early on Thursday afternoon to meet Laura at the airport in Santiago. I was entertaining my very first visitor!

The transition to my new site has been…awkward. Last Thursday was a landmark day in my Peace Corps service. As I sipped coffee with my host mother, Mathilde, she made me promise that I would still sell her my new bed at the end of my service, even though I was moving anyway. I felt both disheartened to be leaving such a loving host mother and excited about the change. Mathilde was visibly upset that her self-proclaimed whitest daughter was not going to be living up the street anymore. As the cloudy morning turned to drizzle I could not help but think that the weather was a direct reflection of my mood. Knowing that Mathilde really enjoys my religious metaphors, I comforted her by remarking that even God was crying, in the form of rain, because of my departure.

I am a rather indecisive person who suffers from buyer’s remorse and an irritating tendency to mull over things that cannot be changed; therefore, I was plagued with the thought that I was making a horrible decision. The decision being that I wanted a site change; I thought, ‘what if my new site proved to be “worse” than my current situation?’, ‘what if I had not given my current site enough of a chance, and what if my neighbor Popi was right when he said the reason I felt bored in my old site was because I was lazy and read books all day?’ Goodness gracious. However, when the Peace Corps driver Pedro rumbled down my dirt road in an out-of-place looking Land Rover, I knew the only thing left to do was embrace the change I had set in motion. He was followed by a gaggle of 8-10 neighborhood children wondering if I would gift them any of my possessions before parting from town. There was lots of Clara, ¿pero tu te vas de verdad? Followed by lots of, Si, mi amor. Pedro proved himself to be a proficient mover and had all of my things loaded into the Land Rover within minutes. Meanwhile I flailed around trying to be a good hostess and find something for Pedro to eat for breakfast after he told me he was hungry and inquired about what I had for him.

Driving out of my campo we passed through Capotillo, a small border town with a monument to the “Restauracion” from Espana en 1863. I mentioned to Pedro that there was a monument there and he felt the need that we check it out because he had never been. I felt very much like Pedro and I were on a date as I took pictures of him in the rain at the deserted monument. Priceless. We then proceeded to make our way to my new site in the northwestern province of Monte Christi. Leaving behind the rolling green hills laden with grapefruit, café, oranges, and cacao, less than an hour and a half later we had arrived in the salt marshes of Monte Christi. My new home is a rice and banana growing region: flat, hot, lots of cacti, with mosquitoes that are bolder than most. Pedro and I arrived in the rain. I had visited this pueblo once before, the week prior in order to meet with the “movers and the shakers” of the community, but still did not know if I was supposed to be moving into the home of Josefa or if they had found me a different family to live with. Of course, Josefa was not home when I arrived and her husband looked at me as though this was the first time he had heard that an American was going to be sharing his living quarters. Calling ahead the day before to let them now I was coming should have sufficed, but somehow my arrival failed to come up over dinner the night before between husband and wife. Anyway, I let Carlos know that in fact yes I would be moving into his home. After moving my bed, stove, gas tank, mini-fridge, and suitcase, I put my condiments in the fridge, gave away lots of grapefruits to the gawking children who might never have seen a pale person before, Pedro and I said our goodbyes and left for the capital. It was off to cholera training.

According to Dominican health authorities, cholera has not yet crossed the border into the DR but so far there are at least 300 recorded Haitian deaths due to the outbreak. And in a country such as Haiti where statistical records are not always reliable, one can only assume that that is a low estimate. Both countries share a river, share the same watershed, and neither has any form of water treatment plant. So I think unfortunately it is only a matter of time before cholera rears its ugly head on Dominican soil. The two major Haitian/Dominican markets held twice weekly in Dajabon and Jimani respectively have been closed down. Dominicans are still selling produce but the Haitians are no longer permitted to cross in order to sell or buy. I have also noticed an increase in racial tensions as Haitians are thrown off buses in the ignorant assumption that they are contagious. Referred to as “Haitian diarrhea,” cholera appears to be the newest ammunition in the overt racist banter that I have the misfortune to overhear daily. Learning all about the signs and symptoms of cholera, how to prevent it, and how to treat it, I returned back to my pueblito ready to dole out some truths.

I arrived Saturday night. I walked down my little street and felt the blatant stares and questioning looks of my neighbors imparting the air with certain heaviness. I whiffed the familiar odor of being new and different and smiled to myself at how being a Peace Corps volunteer proffers unlimited opportunities to feel out of place. Much like in the Sesame Street jingle about one of these kids is doing the wrong thing, one of these kids just doesn’t belong, I reveled in my new out-of-place-ness.

Turning down fried cheese and fried salami (a typical Dominican dinner) I requested the safest meal I know that Dominicans can always make for me, a hard-boiled egg. That evening I walked around the streets in order to meet the local colmado owner (a 7-11 type establishment which sells beer and liquor, basically serves as the pueblo/campo grocery store) and Josefa’s sister. We watched part of one of the World Series games at the sister’s home where I was blown away by how large and nice the television was. Not only that, but the family had cable! Having grown up without cable, I don’t think I did a very convincing job hiding my excitement at the prospect of flipping through 300 plus channels of pure Latino/American entertainment. However, in my first three days of observations, I have found that many of the families have satellite tv, multiple cell phones (still have not figured out why more than one per person is needed) and more fly looking shoes than should be legal, but they are also without potable water, use varying levels of hygienic latrines, have electricity about half the day, and have no waste management system so trash is piled in the streets. Welcome to the developing world.

On the walk back to my new home that evening Josefa bought me a soda, flavor: red. Not wanting to be rude but also wanting to make it known that red drink is not my beverage of choice at 10 pm, I politely told Josefa that I mainly just drink water, coffee, and the occasional juice. Big mistake. Juice in my new town equals Tang. Josefa must have told the neighbors because the next day after Josefa left to teach school in a neighboring pueblo, I was offered more Tang than could possibly be normal from various neighbors. Drink up I thought, it is time to integrate and attempt to fit in, even if my stomach and health has to pay the price.

The differences between my last campo and my new pueblito have been pretty stark. My older rural area was definitely easier on the eyes, greener and much cleaner (mainly owing to the sparse population) but my new pueblo exudes youthful energy, not to mention lots of blaring sub-woofers and tricked-out mopeds, motorcycles, and scooters. I finally feel like I am in the Dominican Republic.

Peace Corps service thus far has been a nomadic adventure rife with extremes. When surrounded by fellow volunteers enjoying a frosty beer looking out at the beautiful Caribbean I cannot help but think I’m on Spring Break 2010. But the next day I might be digging in the dirt with twenty Dominican farmers planting cacao and discussing the yucca crop. Peace Corps certainly is filled with extremes and sometimes I struggle with how to navigate the turbid waters separating my life in the campo from my life in the capital. I feel that I have spent the better part of my first seven months packing and unpacking my camping backpack as I cart myself around the country. I am proud to call three women my Donas or mothers in the country and will soon be meeting a fourth maternal figure in my new community.

Having spent the last five days in Santo Domingo it never ceases to amaze me how stark the differences are between the haves and have-nots in this country. I left my remote campo on Thursday morning white-knuckling on a motorcycle in the pre-dawn darkness to come to the capital. Leaving behind dusty dirt roads, lazy days, latrines, and frequent blackouts, I am always both excited and overwhelmed to arrive in the capital in an air-conditioned Nascar-piloted Caribe Tours bus where Pizza Hut, IKEA, movie theaters, and the American Embassy offer endless guilty pleasures (but no, I have not yet been to IKEA). Everything can be had on this island (even yerba matte and hazelnut extract) but not within the means of the salary of a Peace Corps volunteer. One of the goals of Peace Corps is to engage in cultural exchange by living at the same level as the people in your community. Most days living this way only seems natural, because everyone else is doing it. Also, human beings are extremely adaptable if they want to be; after a week it seemed plausible that I had been using a latrine and washing my lettuce with bleach to kill the water-born parasites my whole life. No biggie. But sometimes going from the campo routine to the civilized capital can be a little too much, too fast for this rural gringa. Take for instance this past week. I was blessed with the unfathomable treat of staying at the HILTON in Santo Domingo with fellow volunteer Jenn and her sweet and gracious mother who adopted me for their vacation in the capital. My normal digs in the capital is the unsavory volunteer pension, which could be the cause of my constant losing battle against Scabies. Its not prison, but sleeping eight to a sweltering room is no pleasure cruise. However, it does offer American television in the lounge and free potable water, so normally that’s more than a volunteer could want. All that changed on Friday. Entering the lobby of the towering, sparkling, luxurious Hilton I was unable to control my nervous giggles as a sharply dressed Dominican man offered me a washcloth and a bottle of complimentary water. I think he knew by my oversized backpack and dirty feet that I was not paying for the room. I knew this was going to be good. Making my way to the 11th floor suite with a view out onto the Caribbean ocean and a king size bed with enough down pillows to confuse me, I had to remind myself to breathe and remain calm. I took a hot shower and enjoyed camembert, a steak salad, and malbec vino for dinner. God bless Jenn’s parents.

On Saturday I went to Isla Catalina for a scuba dive trip. Having just recently been certified, this was my first dive as a “certified diver.” I was slightly worried about the state of my GI system after such a decadent meal and my body was confused why it was filled with food other than peanut butter and bananas (one of my favorite campo dinners). Arriving at the dock an hour and a half nauseating bus ride later, I convinced myself that being in the water would certainly rid me of my escalating queasiness. Silly me. Luckily I had paid attention during the safety videos and remembered that it was possible to throw up under water and continue breathing by purging your regulator or breathing apparatus of “unwanted” materials. The upside of such a harrowing experience is that I got front row seats as all the tropical fish flocked to my face for feeding time. On the second dive I felt well enough or stubborn enough to attempt another dive, thinking the worst was behind me. Silly me. Once again I fed the fish. Despite the need to spend lots of energy suppressing vomit and remembering to breathe, I was still able to enjoy the dives immensely. Nothing is in vain when you get to see a puffer fish all puffed up inches from your face. Yay for scuba diving!

Having had a low grade fever and nausea for several days, I decided to stay in the capital to get looked at by the Doctor on Monday. My symptoms pointed to Dengue Fever, but my blood work came back negative. The current prognosis is parasites. I have been parasite free for about two months so I should have known that I was due for the return of mis amigitas. Therefore, in my decrepit state, Peace Corps is paying for me to stay in a swanky hostel with hot water and Wi Fi. Too bad whenever such luxuries are available it is hard to fully enjoy it. But I’m still smiling as I sit watching “The Biggest Loser” on NBC in an air-conditioned room. Going back to the campo is not going to be so easy this time.

It seems that procrastinating is certainly part of my nature as I sit down to write my first blog entry a good eight months into my Peace Corps service. But hey, sometimes although I'm a little late in the game, I still showed up and put on my uniform (ok, hopefully no more sports metaphors for a while). That being said, I've decided to start keeping a blog because I think it is a much better forum for sharing my experiences with a wider range of people than my current system of emailing. Great! So this is my first time keeping a blog, and I'm not really sure how one goes about keeping a blog, but here goes nothing...

Trying to sum up my past experiences from two months of training, to swearing-in, to the first five months at my site seems like an exercise in futility. Therefore, I will begin in the here and now. My current community is located por la frontera, in the northwestern province of Dajabon, about a 7 km walk to the border of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. As a community enviromental development educator (CEDE) I was solicited by a local group of farmer's to help with reforestation. In the Dominican Republic there are also volunteers in health, youth, IT, water/sanitation, and business. As an enviroment volunteer, projects range from cultivating community gardens, nurseries, forming environmental youth groups, improved cook stove construction, teaching organic agriculture, etc, all depending on ones individual community's needs. The Dominican Republic is overwhelmingly beautiful, but unfortunately, environmental awareness and "green" practices have not kept pace with the industrialization of this developing island nation. In other words, something I still cannot get used to is the all-to-common practice of littering, sin verguenza (without shame). There is really no stigma whatsoever placed on eating a candy bar, bag of chips, or any other colmado snack and tossing the wrapper into the wind without batting an eye. This is simply what is done and therefore, the streets, especially in the larger cities, are filled with trash. So although the past few years have seen an awakening in general awareness that the environment needs to be protected, there is still a disconnect between that knowledge and then what is actually done in practice. Enter nagging Peace Corps Environment Volunteer always quick to teach local children that no, the ground is not a trash receptacle, at least, when I'm around.

I was placed on the border in a "cluster" with two other volunteers (a married couple) a mere 20 minute walk down the dusty road from me. Despite both being solicited by different farmer's groups, upon arrival, I learned that the group that solicited me had decided to disband and join forces with the farmers in Matt and Lydia's town (the marrieds). That being said, three volunteers had the privilege of working with one organization, which proved to be too many volunteers for too little work. After sticking it out since May, I finally spoke with my boss and explained that perhaps there were too many of us in such a small area, not to mention, I was a little tired as being viewed not as an individual volunteer, but a third wheel. SO, I will be getting a site change this coming week! I am extremely excited and nervous to be starting over again with the requisite challenges of getting to know a new work situation, a new host family, and a new community. However, I know it will be for the best because at the moment I am feeling very frustrated by my lack of work and dearth of willing community support or interest in any of my proposed projects.

Although I have not yet visited my new site, I will be going out to meet the school principal and my host mother this coming week. I will still be on the border except I will now be in the most northwest province of Montichristi, often referred to as the "Wild West" of the DR. It is rather sparsely populated, desert-like, and appears to be a lawless land (just kidding, sort of). It is also home to a beautiful beach called El Morro which is never crowded, probably owing to its remoteness. According to my program director, this community has never had a volunteer so I look forward to showing them the strange ways of gringos and actually being called by name instead of a laundry-list of past volunteers. I mean honestly, my town only had to learn one new name and I still got called Margaret or Laura on the regular. I believe my new assignment will be more youth oriented which I am looking forward to because the kids always show up for events, even when it's cloudy out. Also, they are more forgiving of my confusing Spanish and are easily bribed with lollipops!

Kids at the Regional Brigada Verde Youth Conference for the Cibao

 The only road in my communityHere are some random photos:

  My muchachos clearing land for the community garden.

My host brother Yefri is on the left.

 

The coolest form of transport in the Campo: A trike motorcycle.