Escojo

Escojo Mi Vida is a Peace Corps initiative aimed at tackling the issues of HIV/AIDS and teenage pregnancy that exist here in the DR. Along with these topics, we volunteers teach youth about values, self-esteem, racism, drug and alcohol abuse, abstinence, birth control and other topics directed towards adolescents and young adults. In the past 3 weeks I have begun an Escojo group with twelve youth in my community aged 14-19.

This past weekend was the Escojo Regional Conference for those of us fortunate enough to live in the beautiful eastern region of the DR. The annual conference offers volunteers the opportunity to bring 2 youth to Santo Domingo and further their knowledge about Escojo. It also offers youth an opportunity to travel and see parts of the country they might otherwise never see. The Conference took place at a Catholic retreat center located right along the Caribbean Sea and was a great success.

It was great to see 40+ youth work together and become fast friends. It was also great to see a development program work the right way and move towards true sustainability. Many of the speakers at the Conference were Dominicans who have graduated from the Escojo program and have now become leaders themselves. It’s always great to see Dominicans taking the development into their own hands and not rely solely on the presence of a Volunteer.

We offered many charlas and activities focused on HIV/AIDS prevention and teenage pregnancy awareness. There existed a less than small amount of irony talking sex and giving condoms to teens in a Catholic center, but what are you going to do? Hay que protegerse. All of the youth had to take care of an egg in pairs for the weekend as if it were a baby. It was never to leave their sight and more than a few babies died along the way. We had a bonfire with smores and an overall great time.

My two youth, Robinson and Elizabeth, were really empowered by the Conference and are already planning community service activities and fundraisers for our group. I couldn’t be happier to see 17 year olds taking the initiative and already becoming the peer educators Escojo is designed for.

My jóvenes Robinson and Elizabeth

Roasting marshmallows at la fogata.

The group with their Certificates.

Peluquería

The year: 2004. The City: New Orleans.

It was 20 months before Katrina would devastate and Bourbon Street was buzzing in the days leading up to the Sugar Bowl. I was there for the game, though I had no dog in the fight. What I had was a ticket, a desire to see one of America’s most unique cities and a mop of hair on my head.

Being 19 at the time made for a somewhat anticlimactic stroll down Bourbon, the city’s center of tourism and debauchery. The Tiger and Sooner fans were out en masse and the infamous beads were flying. Maneuvering through the crowded streets while underage and unable to actively partake in the festivities was akin to walking through Caesar’s unable to lay down a bet. A royal frustration. A test of self-restraint.

I was not allowed to so much as enter most of the street’s establishments. One of the few that would have me was a barbershop. A proper barbershop. A throwback with the red, white & blue pole. The elderly barber seemed interesting enough and, no doubt, full of great stories. Most barbers are after all. So barbers on Bourbon must be master storytellers.

The worst haircut I have ever received soon followed. It was difficult to determine whether the old man suffered from Parkinson’s or was simply inebriated, but he was in rough shape. His hand moved in a perpetual ‘jabbing’ motion. Not a problem under normal circumstances, but a problem when scissors and my face are involved. In the approximately 15 minutes I spent in this quirky old man’s chair, I blocked out a doubtlessly fascinating story and managed only to perspire straight through my own clothes and the barber cape. Though it was unseasonably warm for January, it was not the heat but fear for my wellbeing that sent my sweat glands into overdrive. I walked away physically unscathed, but it was some time before I sat for a haircut again free of apprehension.

To this day this remains my most vivid memory of my time in pre-Katrina New Orleans. Not the National Championship game nor the French colonial architecture but some ridiculous story of a ridiculous, had-to-be-there, experience in a Bourbon Street barbershop.

The year: 2010. The city: El Seibo, DR.

My barber’s name is Denny. His peluqería is a one-room building just up the street from my host family’s home and not far from my apartment. Denny is a nice guy. His accent is thick. He talks fast, but he’s nice. Denny drinks. Denny cuts hair while he drinks. Denny is a nicer guy.

The peluqería is a fountain of chisme. Chisme is gossip. Old men come here to get haircuts and gossip. Not unlike in the States. If you speak elderly man Dominican Spanish, you could learn a lot of interesting things about your community here. Unfortunately, I am less than fluent in elderly man Dominican Spanish and learn nothing. I smile awkwardly and nod while waiting my turn in blissful ignorance of all the latest chisme.

In my first visit I explained to Denny how I like my hair cut. He heard nothing. The bachatta was blaring on the stereo and he was focusing hard on his Presidente. I can hardly blame the man for shoddy work. I am most likely his first non-Dominican customer and my hair type is not what he is accustomed to working with. Denny doesn’t use scissors. Just clippers. He has been known to spontaneously shave my beard without warning. He charges an extra 50pesos for these sneak attacks.

As my hairline continues to prematurely recede, I need haircuts at less and less frequent intervals. But each time I’m due, I approach the peluquería with trepidation, never quite sure what to expect. A genial Dominican who talks too fast? A tipsy guy prone to sneak attack shaves? After 5 months and 4 visits, I still don’t know. I’m not sure I ever will. Denny keeps me guessing. He keeps things interesting. He forces me to relive my day on Bourbon Street here in the DR. He’s a nice guy.

Flying Solo

I have been moved into my own apartment and living solo for about three weeks now. After 6 months living with 3 host families, it is a great feeling to have a space that is entirely your own. Most Dominicans find the desire to live by oneself as odd. It’s simply not the custom here. I am asked by all my new neighbors where my wife/girlfriend is as they crane their neck to get a glimpse inside the gringo’s casa. They peek in with wonder as if they are getting a glimpse into Area 51 and not into the roach-infested studio apartment of a twentysomething living on a volunteer’s salary.

It’s small and cheap and perfect for a volunteer living more or less out of a suitcase for the next 20 months. I pay the equivalent of about $70/month. Pretty insane to think a place this size would cost upwards of $1,000 in cities like New York or DC. I’ve got a great view from my porch of the mountains to the north and very tranquilo neighbors, which are definite pluses. Plus my host aunt lives right behind me, meaning anytime I feel like mooching I need only walk 10 feet to a hot meal or fresh squeezed juice.

Having full control of my diet and not devouring daily heaps of viveres has been life changing. I no longer spend my days suffering from or trying to avoid gastrointestinal issues. I can eat what I want, when I want. I can play my own music. I can read at all hours free of guilt. I am no longer inundated with the bulla that comes with living in a Dominican household. It’s nice. The beginning of yet another new chapter of service.

I have made a few observations since moving into my own Dominican casa.

1) Window screens work - My host family had screens on their windows and I had almost no problems with bugs for my entire stay there. Within days in my new place I was bitten to hell and came down with Dengue fever. Not the greatest week of my service.

2) Ants are the bane of my existence – They are everywhere. I was okay with them going after the sugar. I let it slide when they got into my cereal. But when they tainted my peanut butter they crossed the line. I quickly learned to stash all food not sealed in plastic into my dorm-sized mini-fridge. Ants own me.

3) Dominicans are loud – This I’ve known since Week 1 in country. But living alone has reinforced just how much yelling, loud radios/TVs and general bulla there is in the typical household. There is still bulla, it is the Dominican after all, but it is now taking place exclusively outdoors.

4) “Water sucks, it really, really sucks” – I was spoiled rotten in my host family’s house in that we had a tanaco (a water tank that stored water daily and pretty much ensured that we would have water 24 hours/day). Now I live like a more average Dominican in that I receive water to my place twice daily for a total of about 4-6 hours/day. It’s a whole new ballgame organizing meals, showers and bowel movements around the time the water comes. If it comes at all.

5) Elvis had the right idea - Peanut butter and banana sandwiches are as good as it gets. They have replaced rice as the primary ingredient in my diet. I haven't gone so far as to grill them (Elvis-style) but will give it a go in due time. I could eat one each day for the next 20 months and not even begin to tire of them.

I got plenty more observations but don’t wanna fill this up with complaints. I’m ecstatic to be living solo and no amount of ant armies or leaky pipes can bring me down.

La Vista