Llegó la Lluvia

The rainy season has officially arrived. After watching much of April and May pass by in relative dryness, it has been raining for almost a solid week and with no end in sight. The showers have even been accompanied by the only thunder and/or lightning I have witnessed in this country. While I normally would be looking forward to the next thundershower and the lazy day that accompanies it, rain (and lots of it) completely alters the pace of everyday life here in the DR. Dirt roads become mud holes, rivers rise, tin roofs leak and daily life becomes more complicated. All those things together make for extremely slow days when people rarely leave the house and work and school become optional. I’m enjoying the down time and there are few things better than sitting on the porch with a book while the rain falls, but I really hope the rains leave with the month of May. That said, hurricane season opens in June and all predictions say that this season will be active, so the rain is likely here to stay.

As the rainy season begins, the election season has come to an end. ¡Por fin! Election campaigns have been in full swing since the fall and are possibly more obnoxious than U.S. elections, if you can believe that. Politicians and politics in general are equally ridiculous and corrupt here as they are in the States, but here the ridiculousness is far more overt. Political favors are done in the open rather than under the table.

The senatorial race in my province was especially bizarre in this cycle. I won’t bore you with the details, but at the end of the day an aging man with zero political experience won in a landslide over the incumbent. Only after it was determined that the aging man’s popular young son was constitutionally unable to run for office in this province did ‘Papá’ get named as his replacement. Like in America, politics is a ‘What have you done for me lately?’ game. And the ruling Purple Party has paved roads, erected buildings and paid straight cash in exchange for votes. With a résumé like that, there was never any doubt they would win and win big. 31 of 32 Senate seats big. Talk about a supermajority.

Politics have been at the forefront since I arrived in DR last August, but the months of being inundated with all things electoral are over. The trucks carrying banks of blaring speakers and caravans holding up traffic are gone. The television and radio ads have ceased. The political favors have been put on hold for another 2 years, when presidential elections set the events of political lunacy into motion once again.

So for now it’s less bulla and more lluvia. Lots and lots of lluvia.

Celebrando el Este

This past weekend I went to another weekend-long camp called Celebrando el Este (Celebrating the East). This youth conference/camp is designed to be a celebration of the eastern region the DR, the DR itself and the entire globe. Over the course of 3 days we touched on issues of diversity, geography, history, world cultures and more.

All volunteers living in the eastern region were invited to attend and bring 2 youth along to participate. Fortunately for my youth and I, the conference was held just down the road from my site at Rancho Don Fernandez, a ranch founded by former gold glove-winning shortstop Tony Fernandez, who is from nearby San Pedro de Marcoris.

The Dominican educational system is, well, shit. Therefore, topics of history, geography and all things having to do with life off of this island are rarely taught and seldom learned. For example, most Dominicans think New York City and the United States are the same thing. Almost no Dominicans can find the DR on a map and few have knowledge of other cultures and religions that exist in the world.

Along with our group of Peace Corps Volunteers of many cultural, racial and ethnic backgrounds sharing stories and culture, we invited volunteers from both the Korean and German equivalents of Peace Corps to share their cultures as well. The Korean volunteers did a tae kwon do lesson, which the kids ate up. We also presented info on 9 other countries around the world and give the kids passports and stamps for ‘visiting’ each of these countries. And we tie-dyed t-shirts, which was a first for our youth.

It was a fun weekend and provided valuable info to the kids. Discrimination and racism are serious problems here in the DR and any chance for youth to compartir with people of different backgrounds and educate themselves is a good thing.

Korean volunteer and youth practicing tae kwon do.

Tie-dying shirts.

With my 2 youth.

The youth with their certificates.

Patronales

Every town or city in the Dominican Republic has an annual celebration in honor of its Patron Saint called Patronales. Patronales here in El Seibo is the first week of May and is highlighted by the only bullfights left in the Dominican Republic. Yes. That’s right. Bullfights.

A group of 4 volunteers and I hitch hiked from another city in the east to my site on Sunday afternoon to see this for ourselves. Bullfights are one thing. Bullfights in the Dominican are a very scary prospect. The ring is erected for this week only and is located on the western edge of town. Right beside it is the shadiest looking carnival imaginable. The ferris wheel and handful of other rides were clearly first used in 1950’s America and made their way down here after being deemed unsafe for human usage circa 1975.

There are no bleachers or spectator seating set up around the bullring. Instead, there is some plywood placed upon ancient scaffolding that one can stand on for the price of 50pesos ($1.40). Once we secured our vantage point and enough rum to make us forget about our personal safety atop the scaffolding, we patiently waited for the toros to arrive. Random Dominicans entertained the crowd by riding horses, playing stickball and plugging their favorite politician (Elections are May 16^th).

About one hour after they were due (or right on time in the DR), the 5 bulls arrived and everyone got ready for the madness. This isn’t Spain and the fights are to be humane. The matadors evade the bull using a cape but do not kill it. That said, humane treatment of animals doesn’t really exist here.

The first bull charged its way into the ring and the 3 Dominican matadors in full costume (plus baseball cleats) got to work. The matadors walked away unscathed and the toro seemed to lose interest quickly, spending most of his time staring at the positively suicidal spectators lining the inside, yes inside, of the ring. In time, men on horseback entered the ring, roped the bull and drug it away.

This pattern continued more or less with each passing bull. The bulls did get the best of the matadors occasionally, taking them to the ground and giving the crowd something to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ about. The one glaring difference was that with each subsequent bull, more and more drunken Dominicans would enter the ring to taunt the toro and try to play matador. Using the shirt off their back or a political poster, they would provoke the bulls and risk their lives.

By the 5^th and final bull, at least 60 Dominicans charged a 2,000 pound animal, pulled its tail, jumped on its back and tackled it to the ground. Pure insanity. One swift kick of the leg or thrust with the horns could have produced serious injuries. In fact, one man died earlier in the week. That death did nothing to deter the locals from risking more death and/or bodily mutilation by playing with dangerous animals.

While this Dominican shitshow was disturbing, it was most definitely entertaining The makeshift ring, the creepy carnival, sketchy scaffolding, the drunk Dominicans. It was a unique cultural experience that only takes place here in my site. That said, I did not make a return trip later in the week. Once was more than enough. I can handle waiting 365 days until the nextPatronales to put myself through that again.

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

The Grita

Here in Peace Corps DR we are fortunate to have ourselves a wonderful little Volunteer-run publication called the Gringo Grita. The Grita is made by volunteers, for volunteers and is an outlet for we vols to share our success stories, lack of success stories, poetry, campo recipes, witticisms and more. Each of the biannual issues features profiles of volunteers closing their service in which they share their experiences and words of wisdom. I can’t imagine that many other Peace Corps countries have such similar publications so it is something to aprovechar. Yet another perk of serving in the DR.

I recently decided to put some of my infinitesimal free time towards writing something to submit to the Grita. I have no idea whether what I wrote will be accepted and printed so I figured I could at least share it here.

Keep in mind that this is written for PC volunteers who are oftentimes out of the loop as to cultural and/or political happenings back in the States. It is also written towards an audience of Spanglish speakers, which explains the occasional italicized insertions of Spanish.

Teabagging is All the Rage

Upon applying to the Peace Corps, I had developed a romanticized vision of living high atop a mountain in the Andes. Or maybe in a mud hut on an African savannah. Perhaps in a Mongolian yurt. Asia’s tepee.

Wherever I ended up, I fully expected to forego all forms modern technology. Spend two years of my life unconnected. Offline. Completely off the proverbial grid. This expectation left me feeling equal parts liberated and terrified. Giving up the rat race, turning off the cell phone, shutting down the computer and leaving the 24 Hour News Cycle behind sounded like an incredibly cleansing experience. That being true, I have friends that gave up Facebook for Lent and suffered withdrawals over the course of just 40 days. Could I really make it 2 years?

As we all know, being placed in the DR doesn’t leave us wholly isolated from technology unless we put ourselves in self-imposed exile from all modern devices. We are given cell phones. Internet exists for many. While we live in the developing world, we can choose at our own discretion to cross that invisible threshold, log onto the internet and step, ever so briefly, into the developed world.

While I had that romanticized view of life offline, I have no complaints about occasional access to the glorious interweb. It suits me, as I am somewhat of a news junkie. I like knowing what Obama is doing. What congress is not. Where in the world Osama Bin Laden isn’t. Which movies I missed. Who is leading the medal count at the Winter Olympics and all else going down in the Great Wide World. But while sometimes it is nice to be informed, other times the information is just too much and makes me further embrace the relative simplicity of our lives aquí and being away from the insanity allá.

Case in point: Did you know the biggest current political fad in the States is Teabagging? You heard me. And this is not just happening in frat houses across the country but everywhere. In Red states and in Blue. White people all over the U.S. have gone crazy for Teabagging and have adopted Sarah Palin as their leader.

I am being serious in that there exist an ever-growing number of politically motivated groups referring to themselves as Tea Party Patriots. These Patriots have spawned an entire coalition of offshoot groups known as the Friends for Liberty. They are upset with the current political and economic situation in the US of A and are dead set on reclaiming their freedom by means of public rallies, the blogosphere and the airwaves of Fox News as Glenn Beck lends his voice and infinite wisdom to the cause when not too busy crying on national television. Some of them have even foreseen the possibility of “another civil war” on the horizon.

The name is derived from the “No Taxation Sin Representation” colonists of 1773 and their raucous Tea Party of the Century in Boston. Unfortunately, the modern day Teabaggers did not hire a youth consultant before adopting a name now synonymous with clandestinely inserting one’s testicles into an unsuspecting mouth. One simple Google search and the angry activist Teabaggers would have been led directly to Urban Dictionary and quickly learned why Americans under the age of 30 can’t help but snicker at their ill-monikered “movement”.

In all seriousness, and, scrotal humor aside for the moment, the Tea Party movement seems to be gaining traction. It was a driving force in the late Ted Kennedy’s Senate seat going to a relatively unknown former-nude-male-model-of-a-Republican and causing the Democrats to lose a filibuster-proof supermajority in the Senate and, along with that, any realistic chance of passing a meaningful piece of legislation relating to universal health care.

What once seemed to be a movement of bat-shit crazy right-wingers wielding firearms at Obama rallies is now catching on with independents and libertarians from coast to coast. The bat-shit crazies are still there and answering to the gruesome twosome of Beck and Palin but an ever-growing number of angry Americans are latching on in order to “reclaim America via the Patriot movement”. What began as some loonies questioning Obama’s citizenship and/or religious affiliation has spawned into something bigger, creepier and with potential political power in an election year.

And so goes my current relationship with technology and the internet. Sometimes I read about Olympic glory, discover new music and Skype good friends. Life is swell. And other times I read about rampant adult teabagging, Tiger Woods’ infidelities and other inanities driving the ever-evolving cultural zeitgeist. ¡QVMV! Sometimes I am upset and utterly perturbed by what it is I am reading and desire a return to my blissful island ignorance. I vow to resist, to lock my laptop away, to use restraint when passing the barrio internet café. But without fail, I inevitably crawl back, at 30 pesos/hour, like a junkie in need of a fix.

Could I have made it 2 years offline? I’ll never know. The Andean mountaintop, African savannah and Asian tepee are but distant, romantic daydreams. Hispaniola is home and technology exists in varying forms. I will never be sure if I could have stuck out two years without the wonderful World Wide Web. But I can be sure that I could have gone my entire life without knowing that grandparents across America are Teabagging en masse.