The rest of the story...

Vickie

This is a hard post to make. So hard in fact that I've put off writing it for about 8 weeks. On June 13th, Jim and I ended our Peace Corps service. It was completely a health related decision. Jim was sick and couldn't recover. We struggled with the decision for 2 months, but finally it just became impossible to keep doing the work while feeling sick and not knowing whether he could recover.

So, we packed up most of our things -- all that we could possible lug around from Los Patos to the capital via guaguas and taxis - about 6 or so hours away. Probably the next few days were the easiest days for me because I was relieved to be going home, back to my friends, back to good food, back to a place where I felt comfortable. It was easy not to think about what we were leaving behind while our focus was on getting to a safe place.

Once we got home, Jim was diagnosed with E Coli and treated and is now free of the bacteria. He was never diagnosed in the DR - we were never close enough to doctors and clinics to get a diagnosis. Apparently, once your intestinal system is stressed (from multiple antibiotics and recurring bacterial infections) it is very hard to bring it back to normal so Jim has been on a lactose free, bland diet since we returned. In the past few weeks he has started to eat more normally and has improved. So, that is all good.

What have we been doing since June 13th? Well, the first day back we bought a car and and 2 cell phones. The second day we were home, we looked at house that a friend of a friend was going to put on the market the following week. We loved the house. It was in the part of town we had planned to move to after our Peace Corps service. The price was fair, we needed a place to live, we thought it was the perfect house for us -- just needed a kitchen renovation -- so we bought it!

We had a list of things we really wanted in our down-sized home. A non-creepy basement, a garage, a nice yard with maybe a patio instead of a deck that needs refinishing every couple of years, a front porch, and a sunny spot for a garden. We never expected to really find all of these things in a city neighborhood. We had looked around the Highlands and Crescent Hill many times over the past 8 years or so without ever finding all of those things. Well, guess what -- this house had it all, down to the sunny spot for the garden.

Meanwhile we stayed with a couple of good friends, where we had time to recuperate and regroup, relax and try to get our bearings again. Their hospitality made it possible for us to take the time we needed to refocus.

After a few weeks, we found the perfect little Ford Ranger truck. So now we were up to speed: 2 vehicles, 2 cell phones, and a house.

We moved our first PODS (Portable On-Demand Storage) into the house on July 25th. We had some furniture and quite a few boxes of kitchen items. Since our plan was to re-do the kitchen we sent most of the kitchen boxes to the basement, arranged the other furniture, and sat down to talk about when to order the next PODS. This PODS had stuff from when we sold our house in Oldham County and moved to an apartment in the Highlands, about a year and 1/2 ago. We happened to be sitting on the couch with a good friend, talking about wanting to repaint everything in 6 months or so after we'd settled in, and she said - Really if you're going to paint - do it before you move in the next PODS. So, we did -- and with an old house, it's a lot of work -- but we're making progress - 2nd PODS was delivered last week. Still painting though -- decided to do the whole house -- outside needs it too. Kitchen renovation should start within a week or so. Then I guess we'll be living in the basement.

So, all this is just to say we've been really busy, which is a good thing, because it keeps us from dwelling too much on what we left behind. We're really sorry we couldn't complete what we had set out to do, what we planned for, worked for, trained for, and were ready to do. We miss our friends and co-volunteers in the Dominican Republic, and the people that we met and were just getting to know.

Earlier, I said I was relieved to return home to a comfortable place, and I was. The understanding that I have now, that I didn't have before is how hard it is to live, really live, not just visit, in a different culture. I understood it intellectually, but I didn't feel it. I didn't feel the strain it is to lean forward in every conversation, straining to understand, not just the words but the intent of what is said, and missing it half the time. I didn't understand how much I would miss just sitting comfortably with friends, laughing and talking about shared memories and current events. I didn't know how much I would miss fresh vegetables, spices, chocolate, and protein. I seriously underestimated how much I needed my routines and activities: bike riding, hiking, quilting, jewelry making, genealogical research, and gardening - to feel like myself, to feel complete.

I realize that I had lost my identity -- or that the culture I was in did not recognize my identity -- the things that mean so much to me really were not a part of this new culture and so I was an outsider. It does not feel good to be an outsider. You lose that thing that makes you strong and confident. You often feel clumsy, incapable, and uncertain. It is no fun at all. I know that in time, this would have changed -- or I believe that it would have and the Peace Corps assures you that you will assimilate in time - and they give you a whole list of ways to help with the process, but the process is messy and miserable and only changes by degree. It relieves you of pretenses and defenses and brings about a transformation. But we didn't make the transformation and left during the messy, uncomfortable part, so that is the baggage we dragged home along with our suitcases.

However, it'a a beautiful, cool, sunny day here in Louisville. I have so much and it's mostly good. I'm retired! I live a mile from the park and a mile from the bakery. I have the time I need to think about what to do next. I have a grandson who just started Kindergarten. I have friends, family, and Jim. So life is good and the journey continues.

Jimmy Wheatley's Super Fantastic Time Machine (A Brief History of Time)

by Jim

Who knew? It really is possible to travel in time!

Everything being relative, however, I am unable to tell you exactly where I am at the moment. I know it is not in the future, I’ve been there (that's where you live). It could be the past but I’m pretty sure if I walk up the trail into the mountains here I will move further back in time.

Therefore, I must be in the present. But, this present is strange; I don’t understand anything.

Eating here is a problem. This morning I decided to follow the Peace Corps advice and take care of myself first. I was hungry. I decided to walk around 

the pueblo and visit the two colmados (tiny stores that sell rum and beer, soap, grain and the occasional limp carrot) and the two street venders that set up shop each day on the main drag, to see what I could find. I found one tiny onion, one tiny tomato, 4 pieces of bread and three mangos. There was nothing else. But when I returned home, a neighbor had dropped off a dozen mangos and some bananas.

We are not starving, and it seems like we always manage to find something (se Dios quiere) but it is pretty close to the edge. The fruit here is incredible and yesterday I found some avocados, today no.

I’ve been thinking of traveling further back in time. All I need to do is walk up the mountain. I am a little afraid, however, because I have heard that illegal Haitians live there. I know it is just fear of the unknown, but to me, “There be Dragons”! or, at least Haitians living in huts with no electricity, no running water and no latrines. That is what I think I will find. Another problem is that they speak different language back then.

I think there must be a worm hole nearby. There are military checkpoints along the road leading away from here. The soldiers are trying to catch the Haitians; the past is trying to sneak into the present.

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (last year in the US) the same thing was happening. As I recall it couldn’t be stopped. The past can be relentless.

I have learned a few things traveling through time. A lot of people living in the past are trying to travel to the future. Only Peace Corps volunteers, some religious folks, NGO’s and a few ne’er-do-wells are traveling the other direction. And, most of the folks living in the future just want everybody to stay where they are.

Haitians

By Vickie

Jim was stuck in the capital undergoing some tests, but I decided to head back to our site on my own on Saturday and then head out for Kreyòl camp on Monday morning. 

Before leaving for camp, I was completely oblivious to who might or might not be Haitian. The day before I left, a girl about high school age came to stay with Katy. Her name is Yanuli, she’s Haitian, and she normally lives with and works for Katy’s mom.  Katy’s mom left for a week in the capital, probably because that’s where she’s registered to vote, and in the Dominican Republic, you have to vote where you registered – forever. That’s why all Peace Corps volunteers are in “Stand Fast" mode. That means don’t get on the roads for any reason. Lots of extra traffic because of the voting laws and tempers are high.

So Yanuli is here. Her mom is in Haiti and Yanuli says she coming here soon. Yanuli says there are many, many Haitians here and that some do not speak Spanish at all. I know this is true, because yesterday Jim and I walked up the dirt road beside our house – straight up the side of the mountain for about a quarter of mile to where it levels out. The view of the sea is beautiful and unobstructed from up there. 

And there's a nice breeze.

There is a small canal filled with water that runs from here all the way to Pedernales, a town about 2 hours from here on the Haitian border. It was built by the government so the farmers can irrigate their crops. Above the canal the trees have been somewhat cleared and there are crops growing: corn, plantanos, mangos, and probably lots of other things we couldn’t see.

We did run into 5 people up there, all carrying sacks of fruit or viveres (white, bland food like potatoes, bananas, etc.)  As usual, we said, “Buenos días,” to everyone we met. Normally, we get a big smile and a return, “Buenos días. ¿Como estan?”  But this time, we got only nervous smiles.

 Finally, I decided to try Kreyòl. “Bon swa,” I said to an older man carrying a basket of fish. Big, big smile, a wave, and a “Bon swa,” in return.  Yes, there are many Haitians in my community. Now I notice the men and women sitting beside the main road selling fruits and viveres grown up on the mountain.  I listen carefully and hear Kreyòl.  So, I’ll keep studying and maybe Yanuli will help me.

Kreyòl Camp

 By Vickie

On Saturday, I  made it back from the capital to my site without any problems. I took a taxi to Caribe Tours, where there were about 15 young Peace Corps volunteers headed to…… our site. It is known as one of the most beautiful, inexpensive, and unspoiled beaches in the DR. They had all been in country for a year and were taking a week off to vacation.  We separated in Barahona and they headed off to find food, while I wandered around looking for a guagua to take me home.

The weekend passed uneventfully and I headed to Batey 9 on Monday morning at 8. Fortunately, one of the volunteers I met on Monday had given me good directions to Batey 9, because somehow I got left off the distribution list for information about the camp. I caught a guagua to Barahona – old hat. Once there, I got help from the lady sitting next to me in finding the next guagua that would take me to Batey 4. Basically, she grabbed my motorcycle helmet, said, “Follow me,” and started asking around until she found the guagua. I can tell you that I truly do “depend on the kindness of strangers” to survive here.

This guagua drove slowly out of Barahona and into the flat, dry, dusty plains to the North. Covered with scrub brush and sugarcane.  Sugarcane and dirt: gray, dusty dirt.  And bateys. Houses of tabla (rough wood) and zinc. Streets of dusty dirt. Electricity is sporadic, water comes to the batey through a pump where people take buckets to collect water. Some have water inside their homes, but many don’t.  

At Batey 4, I got off the guagua and looked at the group of men on their motoconchos waiting under large shade tree for customers. I picked out an older guy and told him I needed a slow and smooth ride.  We rode down a dirt road beside a canal looking out over miles and miles of sugarcane, with beautiful blue mountains in the distance, fading into the blue of the sky.  I told him a little bit about why I’m here – volunteering, working with people – and he told me about how politicians say things but don’t mean them – that they are liars. “Sí,” I said.

Washing clothes.

I have to say I’m glad I’m in a pueblo and not in a batey. When we first arrived and walked around, I just became more and more depressed as we walked. Everything is dirt. Everyone has to live in dirt. Yes, they sweep the dirt and pick up the garbage in their yards. But in common areas and outside of the batey, there is trash – trash in the road, in the scrub brush, stuck on the barbed wire fences. And even if there’s no trash, there’s still dirt. The children walk in it, play in it, the parents work in it. It’s just really hard for me to accept it and the first sight of it was very discouraging. And it was in the afternoon and the heat and sun were oppressive and suffocating.

Main Street

A beautiful smile.

After a few days though, greeting and being greeted by adults and children in Kreyòl (or Spanish – our choice) with beautiful smiles and a willingness to stop anything and talk with us, or to share warm “biskwit” (biscuits) fresh from the dutch oven cooked over a fogón, I started to feel the beauty there. In the evenings, the air was cool and fresh with an uplifting breeze flowing down from the mountains. The sunset and shadows on the mountains were a visual delight, and always there were sheep, goats, children, dogs, chickens, and cute little pigs running around to keep us entertained.

Add dutch oven -- biskwit follows!

Start with hot coals.

The view from our dorm room.

He came every day to watch our class.

The week was wonderful. Our teacher, Getro, works at a private school in the capital. He teaches Spanish and English, but he also speaks Kreyòl and French. He’s Haitian. There were 9 of us in the class – all young volunteers in their early 20’s. I’m the doña – mother. We stayed in two separate dormitory type rooms, maintained by the pastor there – an evangelical pastor who has lived and worked in the community for 25 years. He loves to host Kreyòl camp because he thinks it’s important that we understand a little bit about the Haitian language and culture before going to work in the bateys.

My camp mates and teacher.

The Dormitory.

A few amazing things happened while I was there. The first day, I arrived at about the same time that a huge air-conditioned bus arrived, unloading a group of nurse practitioners from the US. They were there to dispense medication, give Pap smears to the women, and do dental work – just for that one day. They set up shop in the girls’ dorm. The amazing thing was – they were from Carson Newman College in East Tennessee. That’s where my dad spent his first year in college, before WWII intervened. In the middle of nowhere, listening to the familiar cadence of my east Tennessee cousins. It was a happy surprise.

I also found a very surprising thing at one of the small homes in the batey. A huge confederate flag used a door curtain. The house was painted in the colors of the flag – blue and red. Our teacher had walked to the house with me to ask if it would be OK to take a picture. After we left he said, “Ésto es una cosa de brujas.” That’s a witch thing. The colors, the bottles buried in the ground and the little scraps of fabric hanging under the porch were all signs of witchcraft he said. I have a lot to learn.

Thursday afternoon at around 4 PM we were treated to a music and dance exhibition – a group of men rolled into town in the back of a truck, with handmade and hand-painted wind instruments and drums. The amount and variety of music they made with these simple instruments was amazing. The set up a rhythm, got a groove going, and two men dressed in jeans, Tshirts, rag skirts, wildly decorated caps, and sunglasses, did a very sexy hip gyrating dance – imitating women? Anyway, I was reminded of Michael Jackson in the precision and subtlety of each move, mostly concentrated in the hip area. After awhile, they headed off down the street with a large crowd following them, dancing and singing.

Earlier that day, while we were in Kreyòl class, we heard a wild, terrified screaming squeal coming from down the street. We all ran to the windows to see who was being murdered. Under a large tree a small group of men had hog-tied…..a hog. A monstrous gray hog lay kicking and crying out for dear life. He knew exactly what was up. A large group of little boys stood watching the spectacle. After awhile the hog settled down – not sure if he was just worn out or if they had drugged him somehow. I thought maybe they had cut his throat, but no. There was a motoconcho parked there with  two boards tied longways across the back. The men hoisted this monster onto those two boards and tied him down.

To market, to market to sell a fat pig.

The real surprise for me though, was the next morning. I walked out from the dorm, headed to class, and under that same tree, lying on a table was the gray hog – minus head, feet, and entrails. All day long, the men cut pieces from the hog, hung them in the tree and waited for customers to come by.

I left at noon that day, working my way back home, making the connections with help from strangers, and Jim met me at the street leading up to our house. As the day was crushingly hot, he convinced me to head to the little river that our town is famous for and hop in. This river is about 200 yards long, it comes up from underground and flows into the blindingly beautiful sea. It is clean and cold and we were refreshed. Sigh.

 

Playa Esperanza

Playa Esperanza!

Home, not so sweet home!  Not yet, anyway.

Maybe never! Who knows?  I don’t know if I can really do this. Hell, I don’t even know what to do. Maybe that’s the point. I need to figure this out.

But, this place is so damned beautiful it can bring a tear to your eye just to look around. It is that beautiful. Imagine the most beautiful tropical paradise you can, with no high rise hotels, thatched roofed huts and colorful houses on the side of the mountain overlooking the sea and no tourists. Ok, now, it is twice that beautiful.

There is a problem though. I’m not here on vacation. I’m here to help.

For the past three months the Peace Corps has spent a lot of money and time to prepare me to do just that. They’ve said, “just do your community diagnostic. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You will figure out what to do, Relax!”

I was told that by a string of very successful volunteers who have done incredible things here. They made presentations to us about their projects.

Well, I’m not a trainee anymore and I feel the pressure.

Here in Playa Esperanza, I can tell, the people are watching. They are curious. They think, who is this old guy and what is he going to do?

This is a poor community. The people here need jobs, latrines, running water and electricity. What can I do? And, just to add a little more pressure, that community diagnostic thing needs to be done in partnership with someone from here. We are supposed to make a joint project presentation to the Peace Corps at the end of July. I don’t even know who that person is yet. Yep, pressure!

Did I mention the crystal clear river that comes out from under the mountain and spills into the Caribbean a five minute walk from here? I think I will go have a swim and lower my stress level….

So, what I’ve been doing is walking around a lot. I walk to the computer lab in the morning and hang out with the teenagers playing on Facebook. One of my goals is to help make this lab sustainable. They run Linux on the computers. I’m not sure if that is a great idea so I’ve been Googling lots of stuff about Linux, trying to get up to speed. I’ve got lots of time.

Later, I take a walk around the pueblo and aggravate the inhabitants. Here’s how it works. I spot a victim sitting in the shade. It is really hot here. I stop and introduce myself. They always offer me a chair. We talk. I try to remember their names. This is especially difficult as I usually cannot pronounce their names. What I wouldn’t  give for a Sam, Fred or Susie. Of course, everything is in Spanish.

I took a walk on the beach late yesterday afternoon. The fishing boats had just returned. There is no dock or harbor here, just a beautiful gravel beach with huge waves. The boats, small, painted blue and white, surf in and are quickly pulled up on a very steep beach. There was a group of people under some trees. There had about 50 fish piled up; large fish, 2 to 2.5 feet long. I have no idea what kind they were but I have discovered they taste delicious.  The fishermen were paying their assistants one fish each for their day’s work and bartering the rest. Money? There is not much around.

Last night I was playing bachata in the street with my amigo, Victor. He is a talented 29 year old who really has it going on on the guitar. His guitar is crap, of course, and borrowed. But, he can follow anything and he knows how to jam. So, we are playing Stand By Me, bachata style. I’m singing. There is a crowd of kids listening and dancing. When I get to the chorus, I have help. There are these three girls, all about 10 years old, dancing and singing, “Darling, darling stand by me, won’t you stand by me.” Their dancing was perfect and so was their singing. Incredible!

So, I stay here, feeling a bit manic. Loving the place and wanting to be anywhere else in the world, all in the span of an hour.


Note: The real name of our place is not Playa Esperanza. The Peace Corps asks that volunteers not put actual locations in blogs. I'm a rule follower.

Swearing In

By Jim Wheatley

There are 40 new Peace Corps volunteers in the Dominican Republic.

 When you are accepted in the Peace Corps, you have only been accepted to go through training. Training is hard, very hard; ten weeks of working as hard as you have ever worked, to learn a culture, a language and whatever specialty the Peace Corps has decided fits you and the needs of the host country. There are tests, lots of tests. You have to score at least an 80 on everything and your language level, on some international scale they use, has to be at least a 5 out of 10. Luckily I came here 6.

So, after 10 weeks of boot camp, if they keep you and if you decide to stay, there is a swearing in ceremony. Ours was May 9^th 2012. It  was kind of a big deal. The US ambassador and several other dignitaries spoke. About  150 people were there. Other than the 40 new volunteers most of the rest of the attendees were Dominican. It was really quite a shindig. Taking the Peace Corps oath in two languages and singing both countries national anthems was kind of emotional.

And, there was this other thing: I was voted by the class of new volunteers to speak on our behalf. Did I mention that the whole event was in Spanish? Well, it was and so were my remarks. I was very honored to have been chosen. I had a little help from some of my Dominican friends and I think it came off OK. At least the Peace Corp Country Director and the US Ambassador were smiling at the end.

Here’s my speech in two languages:

Honorable Embajador de Estados Unidos, Raul Ysaguirre,

Estemado Ernesto Reuna, Ministro de Medio Ambiente y Recursos Naturales,

Estemado Arthur Flanagan, Director de Cuerpo de Paz,

Estemado Miguel León, Gerente de Programas, Cuerpo de Paz,

Estemada Rosanna Hidalgo, Representante de las Families

¡Bienvenidos!

Y, Bienvenidos a todos los profesores de español, todos los entrenadores de Cuerpo de Paz, todos voluntarios,  los familias que nos ayuden,  me esposa, Vickie. Y, bienvenidos a Esperanza y Pedro, nuestra familia y nuestros amigos.

Cuando llegamos a la Republica Dominica, los primeros días, nos sentimos como una pelota perdido en hierbas altas.

Pero, después de diez semanas con los mejores profesores de español en el mundo, después de diez semanas con los entrenadores técnicos fantásticos, ahora no estamos en hierbas altas. Ahora, nos sentimos como una pelota perdido en cañaveral.

Es difícil.

De hecho, ha sido doloroso.

Hemos tenido denge.

Hemos tenido una rodilla rota.

Hemos tenido una pierna quemada.

Hemos caído en un hoyo de la calle.

Ya, hemos tenido problemas de la piel y más.

Y, nos hemos sentido solos y tristes.

Pero, después de diez semanas estamos aquí! Todos, los cuarenta voluntarios nuevos. Pero, ¿Por qué? Solo son tres horas por avión parra llegar a Miami. ¿Por qué nos hemos quedado?

Nos hemos quedado porque en El Seibo hemos tocado bachata con quitaras con Domingo debajo de la luna llena.

Nos hemos quedado porque conocimos a Ariel su primera día en su trabajo nuevo como un traductor de ingles. Y Descubrimos que él había aprendido hablar ingles por un voluntario de Cuerpo de Paz que vivió en su pueblo.

Nos hemos quedado por la cara de orgullo que vimos en Manuela cuando trajó su madre, su abuela, dos tías y dos hermanos al ayuntamento para la presentación  público del documental que su grupo de jóvenes hizo con la ayuda de unos aspirantes de Cuerpo de Paz.

Y, yo me he quedado porque cuando conocí a los otros aspirantes y voluntarios de Cuerpo de Paz, me di cuenta que nunca he sido parte de un grupo como este. Un grupo tan inteligente, tan creativo, tan serio y tan dedicado. Deseo seguir siendo parte de este grupo.

Yo no se si es posible hacer una diferencia aquí pero, creo que debemos tratar.

Como decía la Madre Teresa,

“Si no puedes alimentar a cien personas, alimente sólo uno.”

Translation;

When we arrived in the Dominican Republic, those first days we felt like a lost ball in high weeds. But, after 10 weeks with the best Spanish teachers in the world, after 10 weeks with fantastic trainers, now we are not in high weeds. Now, we feel like a lost ball in a huge field of sugar cane.

It is difficult.

In fact it has been painful!

We’ve had denge.

We broke our knee.

We burned our leg.

We fell in a hole in the street.

We’ve had skin problems and more.

And, we’ve been lonely.

But after 10 weeks we are still here!

All of us, 40 new volunteers.

But, why? It is only three hours by plane to Miami. Why have we stayed?

We have stayed because in El Seibo we played bachata on guitar with Domingo under a full moon.

We’ve stayed because we met Ariel his first day on his new job as an English translator. And, we discovered that he learned English from a Peace Corps volunteer who used to live in his pueblo.

We stayed because of the look of pride on Manuela’s face when she brought her mother, grandmother, two aunts and brother and sister to the Mayor’s office to see the public presentation of the documentary her youth group made with the help of Peace Corps trainees.

And, I’ve stayed because when I met the other trainees and volunteers of the Peace Corps I realized that I had never been part of group like this. A group so intelligent, so creative, so serious and so dedicated. I want to remain part of this group.

I don’t know if we can make a difference here but, I think we should try.

In the words of Mother Theresa, “If you can’t feed one hundred people, feed just one.”

CBT – Community Based Training

by Vickie
Again, no photos but we'll add them when we can.

We survived Community Based Training.

 The bad thing about community based training is that everything we’re doing is not real – it’s just practice. It’s important and I learned a lot, but it was a time to endure.  The living conditions were pretty terrible because the kitchen and bathroom were dirty-make that filthy, our host family refused to buy the clean, sealed water we’re supposed to drink, hand washing did not exist in their home, and in the filthy bathroom, there was no toilet seat. Jim lost 15 pounds and I lost 10 as a result of consistent diarrhea. My thigh muscles are pretty strong now from 5 weeks of squatting over the toilet, so with every awful thing, I guess there is something good.

The other good thing about CBT is that we had an excellent trainer and a great group of 12  trainees, working together in El Seibo for 5 weeks.  During the very first week, we had to complete a mini-Community Diagnostic. This is where you talk to complete strangers in their homes about who the heck you are, what a Peace Corps volunteer is – and then asking these strangers questions about resources, problems, leaders, education, civic groups, etc. etc. – in the community.  This is done with a level of Spanish that is really inadequate to the task.  We also, spent time observing in the elementary school, and making informal observations about the pueblo (small city) – like how many and what kinds of stores they have,  how do people get around, where do they get water, what social agencies exist, etc. etc. 

At the end of the week, we each had to develop a  10-15 minute presentation in Spanish – outlining strengths and weaknesses in the community – especially in the area of education – and then develop possible projects we might undertake in the community – IF we were going to be there. Very stressful, but this is what we’ll be doing for the first three months of service in our real community. Mostly this is called “compartiendo”or sharing.

 Domincans talk to each other a lot. They always say hello and ask after your family when they see you on the street or sitting in the galleria – that’s kind of like the front porch. You’re always invited to come in and sit down and you’ll get the best seat in the house – even if it’s only a plastic chair. If they can afford it, you’ll get a fruit drink or un chin’de café – a little coffee. This is true, even if they don’t know you.  If you smile and say hello, you will be invited in.

After the first week, we spent lots of time giving and receiving charlas (workshops) on education programs that volunteers are involved in here in the DR. The thing is – until this year, there was no education sector in the DR – it was ICT – Information and Communication Technology – it’s what all 12 people in our group thought they were signing on for. When we got here – we were told that the literacy level of the students in the DR is so low that the volunteers in ICT were spending most of their time teaching literacy skills – so – the PC hired a new leader and we are in the process of creating a new program – Education. 

I’m thrilled of course – and everyone in the group is so positive and ready to take on this new program – but with very little background in Education. We spent time in elementary schools learning how to assess reading levels and how to work with students who are both above and below level in reading – in Spanish.

So the first three months after we are sworn in as volunteers (in 2 more weeks) are spent talking, asking questions, learning everything we can about the community, in conjunction with our project partners. Our project partners are people from the community and we will each have two partners. 

These are people who volunteered to help us integrate into the community by talking with us and introducing us to key people they may know. They may also end up working with us, but not necessarily.  Heaven knows why they would volunteer to work with strangers from the US for two years – probably to find out why the heck people from the US would choose to live in a poor country working with strangers  for 2 years away from their family and friends. Maybe we can all help each other out with some self-analysis. Maybe 6 months from now, I’ll be able to explain why I’m here!

A living fence. A branch is planted. Then each year the new branches at the top are cut off and used as new fence posts by planting them. This way the wood is always living and never rots. Also provides some shade. Cool!

The house where we lived for 5 weeks. Upstairs is an apartment the family rents out. Downstairs includes a small clothing shop - part time business for the family.

Meeting with our youth groups.

The local elementary school where we worked.

Jim is  teacher now!

No - not modern art. A water container (tinaco) fell off the roof of the school and shattered. The kids played in it all day. 

The alley behind our house. The tin is a fence.

Food!

by Vickie
Sorry there are no photos yet, but they don't load up fast enough -- we'll add them later, si Dios quiere.

Jim and I got back to Santo Domingo Saturday, April 28^th, at around noon. We are very happy to be back with our first host family, in a clean house, a toilet with a seat, running water, and absolutely delicious food! Did I mention in the last post that Jim lost 15 pounds in the 5 weeks we were gone and I lost 10? We are now happily eating our way back to our former plumpness.

Speaking of food, I’ll tell you a little about the local specialties. Of course there is the daily rice and beans with maybe a little chicken or beef on the side.  But there are lots of really tasty foods, too. One of my favorites is fried platano. The platano is very sweet and when lightly sautéed in a little olive oil, it is like eating dessert. 

We just finished eating a tasty soup called “chambre” which just means vegetable soup. It’s a mixture of pumpkin, cabbage, carrots, white beans, and other  vegetables (like tayota) that we don’t have in Kentucky.  We eat lots of viveres—(vee-ver-es) which include all root foods and bananas – I guess generally any white, starchy food is a vivere. When mixed with herbs and topped with a little fried salami or cheese and sautéed onion, it can be quite delightful.  At the very least it fills you up pretty quickly.

One of my favorite treats has been a sort of sweet cornbread – but more like a cake in texture and sweetness.  It is cooked on top of the stove in a huge cake pan with a big hole in the middle. This is absolutely wonderful with a cup of steaming coffee in the mornings.  They do use the oven here – to store pots and pans in. Everything is cooked on top of a gas stove.  We are definitely purchasing a cake pan. The Peace Corps provides  a small 2 burner cook stove like the ones we use for camping.

But the absolute best thing about eating here in the Dominican Republic is the fruit. Fruit trees are everywhere: cherry trees, mango trees (and there are probably 20 varieties of mango – some for every season),  papaya, avocado (and you’ve never tasted an avocado like the ones here – AND they are huge), guayábana (sweet and tart at the same time – amazing), tamarindo (tart and refreshing). Esperanza just made us a papaya, pineapple mix with crushed ice. Heaven! We also get batidos – something like a milkshake – the best is lechosa-ca. That’s papaya mixed with Carnation and ice. Carnation is big here, but so is leche de vaca. That means cow’s milk straight from the cow. Of course, they have to boil it – but you should taste it in oatmeal with a ton of sugar and cinnamon.  Another early purchase will be a blender.

Everything here has a ton of sugar added and so I’ve stopped asking for café amargo – bitter coffee – because sweet coffee truly is so good and people look at you really funny if you drink bitter coffee. Everyone here uses a greca, which is what Jim and I have been using since we learned about it from our friend Karen. Wisely, we brought ours from home, so with a greca, blender, and cake pan, I think I can be pretty happy here.

I do miss some foods though. Granola for breakfast is unheard of. French fries, crackers,  cheese sandwiches,  fried viveres, Ramon noodle soup – those are pretty common – but granola or any kind of cereal really – except Corn Flakes (pronounced  CorFlakies) – not done.  No one eats peanuts or peanut butter, chocolate (even though the DR is a major exporter of cacao to countries like the US and Switzerland (Cadbury and Nestle are big buyers). 

Wine and beer are rare. People here actually drink El Presidents light – I guess it’s probably akin to Miller Light or Bush light – pretty awful. Jim has taken a liking to rum – which is cheap and plentiful – but I’d just as soon drink my Listerine – pronounced Leestereenie.)

What they do eat for dessert here is abichuela con dulce – that’s black beans with sugar and milk. I do not like abichuelas con dulce and I’m positive that I never will.  So, in light of this, one of my favorite things to do here is to go to a big box store like Walmart orTarget – here they are La Sirena and Jumbo – and walk up and down the food aisle imagining all the things I will be able to eat once Jim and I get our own place to live. 

Meanwhile, every day I can look forward to sweet coffee, fried platanos and a fruit drink or two!

Why the Cock Crows

by Vickie

So, roosters. 

They are beautiful in the sun.  The one beside the house has feathers that are a shimmering mix of copper, jade, gold, and ruby hues. He resembles, if for one moment he stands still, the masterwork of an artist. He stands, not in the austere space of a Paris museum, but surrounded by trash and dirty water and naked children.

The story goes that roosters crow at dawn. This, I can verify, is not true. As far as I can tell, every rooster in the Dominican Republic begins crowing at 4:15 and stops when the sun comes up, about 2 hours later. The sound – and I mean the sound of a rooster who sleeps about 12 inches from your  bed on the other side of a wall that has a window covered by only iron bars – my bedfellow almost – the sound is like a bolt of lightning that shoots through your head, into your heart, and out through your stomach.

I am almost always asleep when he begins and you’d think my vital organs would remember and not contract in shock each and every time. But they don’t remember and I never go back to sleep so I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the cock’s crow.

First, they’re all a little different. The smaller ones are high-pitched and not so loud and scary. The big ones have powerful, terrifying crows – and my bedfellow is a whopper. Yes, the sound is terrifying – because he sounds as if he is crying out in abject terror while in the jaws of one of the hounds of the Baskervilles. I am convinced that the cock’s crow is the result of fiendish nightmares coupled with mass hysteria.

A cry escapes….

ERRRRR….

The hound squeezes his jaw tighter and there is a pause – you can almost hear the gasp for breath…then..

Eeeerrrr…..eeeerrrrr   

a  pause  - then a small, puny

errrr

a longer pause, a deep breath and the final plea flung out to his rooster god for salvation

errrrrrrr000000000000000000000

There is no cock-a-doodle-do about it.

His fellow roosters hear him, near and far, and call out in sympathy and terror, imagining themselves in the jaws of the hungry dogs – mass hysteria throughout the pueblo for a couple of minutes. Then, I guess they fall back to sleep until another wakes in terror and screams into the night.

 ERRRRR….

Eeeerrrr…..eeeerrrrr   

Errrr

errrrrrrr000000000000000000000

There are variations in the pattern. I hear one old guy every night. I imagine that he is quite old because he only has three ERRRRRR’S left in him, and they all sound a little shaky.

ERRR

Long pause

Errr…gasping for breath

Er..r…r.r.r.er

I admit that there are some roosters who don’t actually sound terrified – they actually sound like they’re crowing just for the pure joy of it. I imagine these are the youngest ones – who haven’t been around long enough to be haunted by the terrors that surround them in the night and the fragility of their lives.

Good bye!

By Jim Wheatley
April 7, 2012

     She is seven, almost eight, and she can read. Not bad considering what I’ve seen in some of the schools here. But  this pueblo has better schools than most. She lives in the house across the street from where I’m staying, a tin shack, pitiful really. I’ve been inside. There are three tiny rooms.  I’m not sure how many people live there, 8 to 12, three generations. They do the cooking outside on some rocks.

     The Peace Corps wanted me to catch a couple of kids from the street and test their reading levels. So that is what I’m doing here. And, I notice she smells.  I think how terrible that is and I judge her mother.

     Her mother says “good bye” to me every day. She really means hello but good bye is the only English she knows.

     Later I see mom walking down the street carrying two five gallon buckets of water. And , later I see her again, and then again. I realize then that there is no water in the house and every drop has to be carried home from god knows where, for all those people, to cook, to clean, wash clothes, and flush the toilet. Daily baths are an extravagance. It is Semana Santa (Easter Week) and all of the relatives will be stopping by later and mom is cooking on the rocks. The kid will have her bath, mom is just too busy right now and probably needs to walk back to the water with the buckets again.

She sees me watching from across the street. She waves. “Good bye” she says.

La Música

March 5th 2012

by Jim Wheatley

     It’s a long story, but last night I found myself sitting on the patio at Domingo’s house, playing bachata.

     How did I get there? I had followed the music the day before. He saw me listening from the street and invited me in. People here are like that.

     Domingo is one of those guys you read about in National Geographic or see when someone posts an ultra cool video on youtube. He is the genuine article. He plays an old guitar that is always a little out of tune. Actually it is a piece of crap and can’t actually be tuned. He uses a pencil and string for a capo. But, he has these monster 3 fingered picking chops like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Also, he sings. He sings high, thin and full at the same time, fragile and strong (think Ibrahim Ferrer).  And I’m playing all these bachata licks and we are rocking out and I’m thinking this is incredible, how did I get so freaking lucky, and where in hell did I learn to play bachata? Maybe it is because I’ve heard it nonstop, day and night for 6 weeks.

     The scene is important, too. The house is made of rusty tin and unfinished block. The patio is just a small broken slab of concrete with a partially fallen down roof above. This would constitute a pretty rough barn in Kentucky. Here there are five kids, 4 with clothes on, playing under one dim bulb hanging from a rafter. There is a small TV.

     In the night sky Venus and Mars seem so close the sky looks three dimensional; like you could reach past one and touch the other; like you could almost triangulate yourself and for once understand your position in the universe. But of course you can’t and I digress.

So there we sit, two guys that have absolutely no common experiences. He’s never heard of Kentucky and thinks New York is a country. He has a strong dialect and it is difficult to communicate. But, we really don’t need any of that. We just play the old style bachata, one song after another in the star light, occasionally congratulating ourselves when we know it was a really good one. And, both of us thinking the exact same thing – This is too much fun! 

Water, water everywhere, but....

by Vickie

El Rio

El Tinaco

     So, when it rains here, the river floods, causing the latrines and underground systems to overflow, contaminating the water source. The water that normally runs through the tubes to gigantic black plastic containers on the rooftops- tinacos - is shut off because "El agua esta sucio." (The water is dirty -- and by dirty, they mean full of poop.)
     So, it has been raining for two days.

La Tuberia

     This morning before 6:00, Roberto, Maria's husband was up, had found a guagua-ita (little truck) to haul buckets and 5 gallon containers of water to the house for bathing, cooking, and cleaning. He pulled up and unloaded the water. Gloria - the doña - or female head of the household (his mother-in-law) dragged the water down to the bathroom for us to use for bucket baths and flushing the toilet.
    Flushing the toilet with water is an art form. You need just the right amount of water: too much - a geyser; too little - no results. AND, you have to aim for the hole with just the right amount of force: too much -- a geyser; too little - no results.

Gloria

     While I'm worrying about flushing the toilet, Gloria has made our breakfast, washed up after our breakfast, gotten ready for work - nice dress and heels -- flagged a moto concho and headed off to the campo for work, from 8-12, where she is a teacher supervisor. She'll be home to fix our lunch, clean up after our lunch -- which is the big, hot meal of the day with rice, beans, meat, vegetables, and fruit. Once or twice a week she does our laundry out back with a sort of wringer-washer thing. Then, back to work for the afternoon session which runs from 2-6.
     In the end it's all about the water.
     
   

 
   

Fatalism

by Vickie

     Middle of the afternoon, sol fuerte, close to 90 degrees, hot, humid, grimy. Everything in this city is grimy. Crammed into a guagua with a backpack  and motoconcho helmet on my lap, breathing the unregulated black exhaust from the hundreds of cars, busses, and motorcycles trapped in yet another tapon (traffic jam), sun glaring into my eyes, unable to move. The chofer and cobrador (person who hangs out the door of the guagua calling out the route, jumping off occasionally to round up customers, and making sure everyone pays) arguing vehemently – yes while driving – with lots of arm waving and backwards looks – careening crazily across lanes of traffic, cutting off old men on motoconchos whenever possible and laying on the horn when foiled in the attempt, I suddenly realize my only thought is, “Oh, we’re approaching the overpass. How nice, a few moments of shade.” Really, this isn’t like me. But I was returning from a 4 day trip to a batey.

This is NOT a batey --it's the beach, seen from the bus!

      In the Peace Corps training, we are learning about some cultural tendencies in the Dominican Republic. One of these tendencies is a sense of fatalism. What will be, will be. Si Dios quire. Americans generally don’t have this tendency. We tend to think we are in control of our destinations as well as our destinies. We drive carefully, following traffic laws, and buckling our seatbelts. We plan our trip, short or long, leaving enough time to get there and we expect that we will not be involved in an accident along the way. If we are involved in an accident, we have insurance. Ha! This sort of thinking is not always part of the Domincan psyche – and of course I’m making sweeping generalizations. But, for a moment, I was not thinking about impending accidents, ignoring feelings of suffocation,  certainly not thinking about what was happening to my lungs, just grateful (a Dios- or fate) for a moment’s respite in the shade.

Tim is calling on one of his neighbors.

So, the batey...

Tim has completed one year in the PC.

Fairly typical housing -- way better than the barracks.

     A batey is a something along the lines of a coal mining town in Eastern Kentucky back in the 30s and 40s – a company town, where everything is set up to take advantage of cheap, almost slave, labor. The sugarcane companies built barracks for Haitian workers which were rounded up by their fellow Haitians and basically sold to the sugar bosses, or they were tricked into coming by the empty promise of citizenship in the much richer Republica Dominicana. Barracks are cement structures with rows of homes, actually just windowless rooms about the size of a stable, with openings – no doors. Well who needs a door in this climate?  In these, whole families lived, slept, and cooked, and existed – and still today live, sleep, cook, and exist. The bateys exist only in Cuba and the Dominican Republic and the one we visited seemed to be mostly Dominican – at least no one we met spoke Kreyol – the Haitian language. Maybe because the batey has been around so long the Haitians have integrated and learned Spanish. For a lot more information, try this link:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batey_(sugar_workers'_town)

Tim's home -- Sarah is a nearby volunteer.

     The sugarcane company near Consuelo, where we were, has been gone since 1998. They just shut down the factory and left, leaving behind the workers and a dead town. The company had taken care of everything:  roads, garbage removal, leadership, and maintenance of any and all systems that existed in the town.  When they left no capacity for leadership or understanding of the infrastructure and how to maintain it existed. When the company left, the jobs left, but the people had nowhere to go.

Sarah and Tim and their new wheels--er...ride.

I'm looking at the latrine and thinking.

     We arrived by motochoncho on Thursday, down a dirt road and over a beautiful river – not bad! Then, Tim showed us his house – well shack – made of wood slats, zinc roof, and crumbling cement floor – latrine and bathing structure out back – more wood and zinc. The 13 year old latrine – a cement cylinder about a foot high, and from what I could tell, pretty full, was separated from the “showering” area by a curtain. The shower is a big bucket of water with a smaller bucket inside so you can pour water over yourself – much nicer in the afternoon when the sun has warmed the water.

     I have to say that at the first sight of the latrine my intestines seized up and everything inside solidified. The happy ending involves a Mexican restaurant, free time, cold beer and an indoor toilet with a toilet seat. I hit the Jackpot – so to speak.

Sarah is making tostones by headlamp light!

We were joined for dinner by the student group!

     Again though, very little control over where I sleep, where or what I eat, when the electricity is on or when it is off, when the water flows and when it does not – Oh and when it will rain in torrents, as it did for 2 days while we were there – adding mud, flooded (dirt) streets, and flowing garbage to the mix. Luckily, during the worst of the rain we were visiting three nuns from Canada and Cuba, who spoke a mix of French, Spanish, and English and served us cookies and tea in Winnie the Pooh cups and saucers. !Que suerte!

Computer center that Peace Corps is helping to get established.

     So, limited resources, limited autonomy, limited choices, mixed with the vagaries of nature, and the occasional good luck – fatalism. For me, a small window into the mindset of those who live very close to the edge.

The elementary school across from the computer center

     I didn’t tell you about those in the batey who work from morning until night to maintain their homes and gardens in beautiful, pristine condition, while working, attending church and civic meetings and looking like a million bucks,  never failing to take time to help a neighbor or just to sit and chat. Always, there are those who resist the awful allure of fatalism, and exert what control they can over their corner of the world.

Volunteers and trainees waiting for the guagua.