Just my luck

How is it possible that twice in a row the elements have kept me from enjoying a Seahawks game when I have the rare opportunity to watch them?  First against San Francisco – thunderstorms at the stadium delayed the game to the point where halftime was finishing at 11pm, had to go home.  That entire game happened in the second half!  Today I’m at William’s house at 1pm, in time for kick off, but I have to help him with some computer stuff.  I get to watch maybe a half hour and thunderstorms start HERE.  Cable goes out.  Comes back on RIGHT after game ends.  Blast.

Yesterday I got shocked by lightning.  Twice.  Sitting in my humble abode, strategically placing plastic containers under the many drips coming through my roof, periodically mopping up the small river streaming under back door, I was attempting to make a phone call through the computer to my brother.  The sky had been lighting up for a while now, but there was no electricity, so I figured I was safe just working off the battery.  I was wrong.

I saw it strike off in the distance and felt a small shock through my ear buds (can’t hear much through laptop speakers when rain drops are pounding your tin roof), but still a very noticeable.  I took them out in a flash and thought it’d make for a humorous post on good ol’ Facebook.  As I was just finishing typing the status update, another bolt struck, MUCH closer.  I felt it enter through my fingertips touching the computer and my entire body clenched up followed by an involuntary shout.  It wasn’t a short shout, or a shriek; it was a sustained, uncontrolled release of sound from my face hole for almost 2 seconds I’d say.  Hairs on end, sitting wearing nothing but my boxers in a plastic chair with rubber flip-flops on, I checked my heart beat.  Not too fast.  I looked around, wondering what it would have been like without the flip-flops on, or touching one of the many puddles forming on my cement floor.  I wondered how my computer refrained from exploding.  But mostly I warily shut the computer and sat back down to think about what had just happened.

This morning I went to nearby property for sale to take pictures for William and send them to a friend who is interested.  Very secluded, off the main highway, through my community and down a long, bumpy dirt road, there is about 9 hectares of land including a big house with separate kitchen and recreation area for about $70,000.  The house is extremely nice by Dominican Standards, but would be quite a project for an American buyer.  Planted on the land are hundreds if not thousands of plantains, lime, avocado, corn, cacao and more.  Needless to say I am very interested. 

It’s the perfect vacation and early retirement home.  Sure it would require work and management of the land, but that’s the fun part.  Not only is it a vacation home, but also it has the potential to create income, and very few expenses (no property tax, maintenance fees, none of that garbage).  Just outfit it with solar panels and it’s good to go.  It’s wishful thinking at a time in my life when a move like that would be next to impossible, but it’s a good glimpse into the future about what I might be interested in.         

The Fabled Ensenada Beach

I am sitting in the back of a big, flat-bed truck.  It will be another hour before we are near my site.  Strong wind and harsh raindrops are pelting me in the face.  My dog, Chewy, is huddled between my legs, snout in my armpit, soaked through, shaking from cold and fear.  I am surrounded by 25 screaming lunatics. 

5 days earlier:

Tuesday after CTS (Business plan competition) class:  “Andy, Tirzo quiere que te subas a su casa.”  Hmm, ok I’ll head over there one of these days.

Wednesday passing by Tirzo’s house on a moto: “ANDY ANDY parate!!”  Whispering, “oye vamos a playa y queremos que vaya con nosotros.”  Ummm, can’t say now, might have a softball game, I’ll let you know later.  “Ay pero Andy como gozamos ahí, ay sí, lo pasamos demasiao bien Andy, ay sí.”  Ya ya ya. Like I said, I can’t say right now, I’ll tell you later.”  The disappointment is apparent on his face.

After speaking with Scott, who showed interest in this trip, and finding out we had no softball game Sunday, I confirmed.

Scott conveniently finished being a PCV and had to turn in his phone, thus I couldn’t reach him Saturday. 

Information about the trip:  It costs $200 pesos.  They’ll pick us up ‘pa’ ya’.  We’ll ride in some sort of large flatbed truck.  The beach is called “La Ensenada.”  It is perfect for Dominicans as it doesn’t get deep for like 50 yards, and few Dominicans know how to swim.

I think to myself, a trip to the beach, should be fun, tranquilo, I’ll bring my pup.  I’ll even bring the football, maybe teach these kids a thing or two.

Reality of trip:  $200 peso cost.  Picked up ‘pa’ ya’ in a flatbed truck, about 25 of us in the back, along with Chewy and I.  We are sitting in the middle of the bed, ass on hard iron floor, no back support, I am keeping Chewy quieto while 23 Dominicans are SCREAMING and YELLING like its their first time in the back of a truck.  Chewy is losing his mind.  I am going deaf.  BUT, the sun is shining, we are going to the beach, how bad could it be?

One and one half hours later we arrive.  The entrance is lined with various busses, parked back to back to back.  The music is deafening from 100 yards.  We make our way along the beach. There are hundreds of people, it is 9:30 am, everyone has a bottle of rum in their hand.  Everyone must shout in order to communicate.  We settle on a spot.  Tirzo is asking people for 50 pesos to pay for a table.  I ask someone in our group, “It’s 50 pesos from 25 people to ONE table?”  He looks at me like I’ve just asked him what the meaning of life is.  I quickly realize I will be getting no useful information out of him.  Finally Tirzo comes to me, I say I will sit on the ground.

So I hang my pack on our little shrub-tree, tie Chewy to the tree as he cowers in fear from the hundreds of legs passing by and deafening sounds coming from the restaurants.  I take out my book, clear my spot under the shrub, removing twigs, rocks, and shards of glass.  I am the only person reading on the entire beach of this I am sure. 

It is quite a sight:  Hundreds stumbling around before noon.  The standard outfit is wife beater, gym shorts, sandals with socks – and not Velcro sandals, thong sandals; very Dominican.  Not a single person beyond the dark line way out in the water where the depth increases beyond waist level.  Each restaurant is a wooden shack with tin roof, shoulder to shoulder, serving fried fish and fried plantains.  They are all playing the same music, the same songs from a not-so-long playlist (which is the playlist for every Dominican establishment in the country).  These songs are being played at a staggering volume.  And although they all play the same songs, they of course are not played synchronously, which made for a clashing sound of drums, fast-paced Merengue Típico horns, high-pitched Bachata chords and the voices of the common people shouting over it all.        

Now I like to have a good time at the beach as much as the next guy, but my idea of a good time isn’t getting belligerently drunk at 11am, slicing my foot open on a hard of broken glass and throwing as much garbage as I can create into the ocean.

At 10am, I went for walk with Chewy.  I went west, to the point where I could only hope that beyond awaited less people.  I was right!  Less people, noise and garbage!  Jackpot!  We broke into a jog and took in the tranquil views and lapping waves…well I did anyway.  Any time we were within 10 feet of the water Chewy was tugging for dear life in the opposite direction.

Along this stretch of beach were some very fancy vacation homes and condo rentals.  I eventually came to a hotel and realized I had reached Punta Rusia, a beach fabled for its beauty.  I went in, grabbed some information and looked at some rooms (bungalow style) since our group is thinking of going there for our 1 year anniversary.  Then I sallied forth to more virgin beach.  Ahhh the serenity.  I slowly tried to inch Chewy into the water.  He hated it.  Every once in a while, trying to get away, he would dash into the water and cut away.  Standing still in it, he almost got comfortable.  Almost.  I took him deep so he had to swim out.  Letting his poor self rest a second, I tied him to a tree and I basked in the shallow waves.  But alas, it was almost lunch time, and I wouldn’t want to miss the sight of a thousand Dominicans taking out their Tupperware and enjoying the rice beans and meat or espagetis they prepped at 5am that morning.

So we walked back, taking our sweet time, for some reason the hundreds of shouting people and clashing music didn’t sound appealing.  I walked close to the lapping waves, trying to accustom Chewy.  Man he hates water – a true Dominican dog, a viralata. 

Enjoying the sandwich I packed, sitting beside my pup, the looks I got!  A gringo amidst a see of Dominicans, with a dog, on a LEASH, NOT eating la bandera, but eating a sandwich, a SANDWICH!

The muchachos tell me they are taking my football out to play in the water.  Fine, that’s why I brought it, enjoy, but be careful.

They decide to play 50 yards out, right where the water gets deep.  I have an equation for you: what happens when a group of young, irresponsible muchachos who cannot properly throw or catch a dry football on solid ground, attempt to play with it in the water, in the deep end?  Oh yeah, and exactly NONE of them know how to swim?

You got it, lost football.

Disturbed from my peaceful state – reading with noise-cancelling ear-buds in – by one of the girls from my CTS class:

Her: Andy! The muchachos were playing with the ball out there and the wind took it.  It’s gone.   

Me: Well can any of them swim?

Her: No.

Me:  Then why were they playing out in the deep part?

Her: Eh la verdad.  It’s true.

Me.  Well can I go get it?  I know how to swim.

Her: No, they can’t even see it anymore.

Me:  Why didn’t they tell me before, I could have gotten it?

Her: They are going to do a recolecta and pay you back for the ball.

Me: (Yeah right) Ok, that’s the right thing to do.

I go back to my book.  Pit pat, pitpatpitpatpitpat.  The rain begins to fall.  Slowly first, like a slow clap in the movies.  I know what’s coming.  I scramble to get my book and ipod into the plastic bag in my backpack before the full-blown applause comes.  Just in time, all is safe.  Poor Chewy, never should have brought him.  I sit with him and shelter his shivering body from the onslaught of rain as best I can.

It is an agaucero, a downpour.  Our things are covered, yet somehow are still soaked through.  We make a run for the large shelter.  Everyone is there, ‘showering’ off all the sand and whatever garbage they couldn’t manage to toss into the ocean is left there.  Once our group arrives, we decide to leave as the downpour has no end in sight.  Of all the busses there, ours was the only ONE that was an OPEN, FLATBED TRUCK. 

Four lucky people sit inside with the driver.  About 8 lucky people sit in the shadow of the truck cabin in the bed, sheltered from the wind and rain drops pelting myself and the rest of the unlucky shcmucks sitting at or near the back of the bed.  Chewy is huddled between my legs and my pack, covered with my soaked towel and snout in my armpit, shivering, from the cold and scared shitless from the onslaught of shouting and celebratory screaming coming from the mouths of my traveling companions.  We are both the only miserable ones on board.  I can hardly keep my eyes open as the downpour has not let up and it’s getting colder as we maintain our level of wet and wind chill. 

The road was in bad shape when we got closer to my site, so we had to walk another 30 minutes to our houses in more rain and mud.  Wahoo!

When they told me there’d be another trip in 3 weeks, I said they’d have to pay me to come, and they could start with a new football.  They laughed and laughed and laughed.

World Map Mistake

Yesterday, a muchacho from my softball team came meandering up my trail to my house holding a large, white posterboard and a plastic bag with a folded-up world map.  He came in and casually handed me the items, explaining to me as if I already knew, here are the materials you've been expecting.

Apparently I was supposed to help some girl who works at the banca (betting/gambling station) in the next town over draw a world map for some assignment for her university.  Actually, "help" isn't a strong enough word.  I was supposed to do the entire assignment for her.  I was reassuredly told that my project partner had told me ages ago that I was to do this.  I confusedly accepted the materials on the condition that she come up the next morning and I could help her.  He replied, "of course, you can just start on it tonight and finish up with her."  Now I was annoyed.  "the project is due Saturday so (since I was leaving before to go to the capital) you'll have to get started right away."

I sent him away.

This morning at 8:30, the girl, who I've never even spoken to, comes waddling up my trail.  "Americano! Have you finished!?"  I responded with "are you kidding me?"  I handed her the materials and told it was a lack of respect to just send up her stuff and expect me to do it, especially since I've don't know her at all.  She was so confused that I was offended by this.

Me: "This is your project, you should do it"
Her: "What do you mean? Let's trace it"
Me: I suggested she divide the posterboard into a grid and transfer the map over square by square.
Her:  I think I'll trace it.
Me:  Well that certainly is the easiest way, as long as you don't mind ruining your map.  And that way, you really don't need my help.
Her:  Ok.  I'll trace it.  I heard there was someone in Higüero (next town over) who could do it for me (referring to Scott, another volunteer who I told this story to incredulously) but it's due really soon so I'll just do it myself.
[she leaves]

Este país.

Semana Santa

For the DR's holy week, I took a pilgrimage south.  It was fun.  It would have been more fun if I hadn't eaten some bad pica pollo, fried chicken, in the capital the day before my journey.  To put it mildly, my ass was smokin!

The South is very different from the North.  I live in the Cibao Region – green, lush, full of diverse vegetation and delicious fruits, mountains, rain, breeze, sandy beaches.  The South was gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but I wouldn’t change my site for anything.  Because I lost my camera and I suck at posting pictures to this blog anyway, I'll do my best to describe the imagery.  

The South – can’t beat the coastal views.  Rocky cliffs mixed with pebble beaches, making the water a glowing blue with treacherous waves with gnarly rip tides.  PACKED guagua rides (I heard a story about one stuffed with something like 27 people that rolled over, but no one was hurt because no one shifted position in the accident, all packed in there like sardines), less investment in transportation we’ll say (roads and vehicles) inescapable heat, no clouds, no rain, no breeze (in some areas), a more desert feel, sharper shrubbery instead of the bountiful fruit bearing trees I’m used to. 

I visited a batey as well in the South.  A batey is basically a sugarcane plantation; modern day slavery run by large sugar cane companies.  Picture the Dust Bowl: the town is a grid with train tracks running through the center.  There is a lovely breeze, unfortunately it carries with it little particles that mercilessly scratch your eyes.  There is a mix of Haitians and Dominicans all living on top of each other, with a dividing line somewhere cutting the grid into barrios – Dominicans here, Haitians there.  Few kids have shoes.  There is scarce wood to cook on a fogón (wood stove), so coal is used.  

Everyone is a few shades darker than what I’m used to in the North.  There is delicious biskwit, Haitian bread.  People are wearing jeans, coats and hoods in scorching heat…wouldn’t want to get any blacker.  There is running water in the morning and evening and a similar luz situation.  Some people have a place to take care of their bodily necessities, some people use plastic bags.  There are acres and acres of caña, sugarcane, and a barracks next to the fields where the “workers” live under armed guard.  They often don’t have shoes either, not to mention any semblance of a fair wage.  I understand caña is one of the products that can be Fair Trade certified.  I would much like to see one of those plantations.

The scenery on the guagua ride from North to South and Visa Versa is a gradual change.  It’s strange to think how foreign I felt in my site at first, and how comfortable I am now. 

What's Happening

Work is slow.  It could partially be my fault because I’ve been so focused on moving in, but at times I feel a sense of powerlessness when it comes to my main project. 

The cacao association was audited last August.  We had till March 31^st to show we’d made the necessary changes.  I seemed to be the only one concerned about this.  I could have done it myself, but that would kind of defeat the purpose of me being here.  So we finally coordinated a meeting and started making the changes; nothing major – update the memberships list with current data, demonstrate the flow of cacao from the farm to its first buyer, send copies of contracts to make sure they include everything Fair Trade requires (not so easy to find a scanner here, fyi), and most importantly, create a 1 year development plan detailing the purchases and projects you will undertake to improve the organization, farmers’ lives and community’s well being.  I had about a week to send in the changes.  Day after day I accessed the website trying to attach the documents but it just never worked.  About to lose my cool the day before the deadline, thinking they put their trust in me and I’m going to fail them, it finally worked.  Load off my shoulders.  4 days later we received an email saying the measures were approved and we shall continue to be certified Fair Trade producers. 

Today the Association will have elections for their governing body.  I'm anxious to see their methods.

Now I am awaiting a trip to our baseball field to build a table and some shelving from spare cuts of oak and mahogany.  I’ve always wanted some mahogany furniture ever since seeing Anchorman.  Not really, but saying mahogany is good fun. 

My house is seriously lacking in furniture – 2 beds, a small coffee table I put my gas stove on, and that’s it.  Actually I came home from Semana Santa after visiting the South and there was a newly constructed table sitting there with my stove and dish drying rack on it.  Love my neighbors. 

The quest for chairs, tables and shelving is on.  One day I hope to build an enramada, or outdoor shelter (no idea how to translate that, maybe some sort of gazebo?)  There is already a cement patio for drying cacao, but since I have none of that, it would make a great little gathering area.  My other thought is to but a basketball hoop up.  My only concern is that I’d have muchachos there ALL the time.

Relief

Finally, relief.  After suffering over a week with that wretched, infected bug bite of mine, I can lay on my back without cringing in pain, do everyday tasks without wincing in agony at the random use of my back muscles, you know, things like walking. 

I have a sixth sense about things that are going to pop, and I was saddened and pained when I failed to do so to the monster growing on my back.  I had almost lost all hope when I finally decided to bite my lip and go another round. 

Could be worse, could get dengue...

 I won’t give you all the gruesome details, after all, you may be about to eat, or just have eaten.  Suffice to say it was a discharge worthy of Youtube.  Now I am on a strict regiment of antibiotics, wound cleaning and bandage changing.  Should be a pleasant sight to behold at the beach for New Years.

Ok I’ll quit my complaining.  I’ve been watching HBO’s Band of Brothers and my suffering pales in comparison.  It’s an incredible show that chronicles the missions paratroopers.  It’s true, as I understand it, with bits from the actual veterans at the start of each episode.  Gives me goosebumps listening to them.  I highly recommend it if you haven’t seen it.

The six pups our dog let loose on the world a month ago are walking and talking.  I’m having trouble deciding which one to take and what to name it.  Please comment favorite dog names below.  It will most likely be a male.

About a week ago, I was catching a bola, or free ride, with an amigo and I asked him what his work was.  He works for one of the larger cacao producers in the town and often takes other crops of his to the nearest city, Puerto Plata, to sell in the market.  He invited along on the next trip, I agreed and found myself leaving our dark little campo that very same morning at 2:30am. 

I hadn’t slept a wink, courtesy of the purple-pink fiend rising out of my lower back.  Stuffed in the back of a two door cab for the bumpy, hour-long drive was a grand adventure.  It’s amazing the positions one finds when they are unable to lay their back against a seat cushion nor extend their legs beyond the knee joint.  I would have preferred to sit atop the mountain of naranja and rulo trailing in the bed, but for the company inside.  Miguel was driving, also on the campo baseball team, and Santo in the passenger seat, the one who invited me.

We arrived around 3:30am and unloaded the rulos.  At the unloading area we were greeted by a number of unsavory looking individuals, however, upon talking with them, were as nice as anyone I’d met here so far. 

After unloading all the rulos and counting them, they were sold in one fell swoop to one of the gentlemen present.  I assume he owned a colmado where he would later sell them in bunches.  Here are the rulos, in the vivere family along with bananas and plantains.  How many do you think there are?  A gold to star to the person who makes the best guess! 

Then it was onto the main market area.  We pulled in and parked parallel with over a dozen other trucks equipped with similar wares – lots of oranges, rulos, plantains, mandarins, pineapple, guanabana, coconut, yucca and more.  At about 4am it started raining and my companions shoved me into the truck for shelter (such a hospitable people, really), my eyes felt heavy and didn’t open again until 7am, with light careening in along with the familiar shouts and general hustle and bustle or bartering Dominicans.  I stepped outside sheepishly, having come along to see how things were done here with the sale of various fruits and veggies, yet sleeping through a hefty chunk of it.

Our oranges were sold in quantities of no less than 50, being laid into black plastic bags in fives by experienced hands, counting out loud so there was no mistaking the correct amount.  Each passerby was a potential customer.  I wondered how one could effectively differentiate their product here with so many substitutes close by, but somehow they did, and I heard on more than one occasion praise for our particular oranges over those of others.  I wondered if I would ever become such a connoisseur. 

Finally the oranges were dwindling and business was slowing.  We moved the truck to the other end of the lot and sold the rest at a discounted price to a buyer who did just that – buy up everyone’s leftovers.  During that last transaction, this curious individual showed up selling raffle tickets.  I’ll bet you can guess what the grand prize…

Hustlin'

After that transaction was completed, Santo and I were off to cobrar those who had bought our product fiao, or on credit, earlier that morning.  Before reaching the first debtor, we stopped in a little breakfast joint and had some typical Dominican fare; mangu, a mash of boiled, unripe banana with yucca, onions and cheese.  We washed it down with fresh OJ and coffee.  Then it was back to business. 

Big fort of sorts

So they collected their debts and we went for a drive down to the malecón, or beach-front road.  We pulled into the end of the malecón where this massive fort and statue of an old Dominican general overlook the water and meandered toward the shoreline. 

It was nice just shooting the breeze after a hard morning’s work (for them anyway) with the sun rising overhead.  My two companions, Miguel and Santo.

Miguel and Santo on the Malecon

Other incidents include this chicken.  She laid an egg up there next to the TV and we replaced it wit a light bulb.  The thing keeps coming back to sit on it, making awkward noises and ruffling up wires.  I’d leave her be but it’s right next to the door and the last time I walked inside unaware she was there she flipped out in a loud display of squawks and feathers, flapping around and out the door.  I thought she was going to take my head off and I’d be lying if the little bastard didn’t scare the bajesus outta me.

A perfectly good place to lay an egg

Also found this charming fellow dining on is own kind in my sleeping quarters.  I’m told these are harmless to humans, so I let him be.

No Peace Corps blog is complete without large images of creepy crawlies.  Yes it is eating its own kind.

Among other roommates recently found were two colonies, one of ants, one of termites.  I would have snapped a shot of them too but instead I drowned them in Raid. 

Ahhh the DR – Gorgeous beaches, hot, sunny days, exotic fruits, and bugs, if not huge, then numbering in the thousands.

Breaking News

"Cabarete trip huge success!"

"Volunteers find accommodation for New Years and enjoy themselves so much they stay extra night."

"Extra night comes to haunt volunteer as he is irreparably scarred with horrific bug bite unawares in hotel bed."

"Volunteer aggravates bite, located on lower back, by squeeeezing it with hopes of release."

"There is no release, and bite only seems to gain strength from attempts on its life."

"Victim has trouble sleeping on back, leaning back in chairs, and receiving pats on back."

"Pain moves into the deep muscle, maneuvering in bed becomes troublesome, seeks council."

"Caring friend in community forces Volunteer to call doctor.  Prescribed antibiotics."

"1 day into medication.  No improvement."

"Volunteer curses bug gods.  Blames karma for past centipede murder."

"Volunteer contemplates another round of squeezes, but becomes squeemish at the thought (A rare occurrence for the victim as he has always been a fond picker-squeezer."

"Volunteer becomes expert in tucking in mosquito net and sleeps on his side, backfiring on years of training at 'back sleeping'."

As you may have noticed, my thoughts are consumed by this bloody bug bite of mine.  I will post pictures, and you will understand why.  You'll all understand...

What else is new?  I've been desperately trying to figure some things out with my cacao farmers, but I am the only one who finds the matters to be of any import.  Who cares about long over-due bills that jeopardize the future of the association.  A small matter, already resolved.

The Holidays are on the rise.  People are decorating - Christmas trees, wreaths, lights.  It's similar to home, down to the torrential downpours , the temperature of course the main outlier.

I checked out the two vacant houses eligible for me to move into.  They're both decent.  One is definitely better - bigger, cement floor (other has some dirt floors) nice patio area, private, outdoor bathing area, nice latrine (thanks to the volunteer who lived there 5 years ago and built our splendid aqueduct), water, a light bulb (so I'm assuming electricity) and a single outlet!  Even a little covered kitchen area outside where I hope to build a clay oven (finally, bread other than hotdog buns, and maybe some pizzas, too).  Only problem is there are currently some Haitians living there.  They are on there way out, heading back to their country to see their families, or so I'm told, and it sounds like they aren't going to return.  That's all good and well, but I want to make sure I'm not going to be living there for a few months, settling in, building my stove, and I get a group of displaced Haitians at my door.  I couldn't allow myself to displace anyone from a house, especially people who journeyed here through God-knows-what kind of conditions, leaving everything behind to work their ass off in this beautiful, tiny campo.

Big Christmas plans have all fallen on the 22nd.  In the morning, I'm to head to Fundacion, the little town nearby where I had 5 weeks of training, to eat chicharrones (A traditional Dominican dish of grilled pig skin) with my old host family there.  They will slaughter the last little piggy of their litter early that morning and enjoy him for lunch.

That same afternoon, the cacao association in my site is having a holiday celebration at one of the member's houses.  We all threw in some doe to supply the affair with refreshments, but I plan on bringing the heat.  Kimmel heat.  I've got two over-sized bottles of cheap whiskey and I plan on doing my family proud by liquoring up these polite little farmers with a taste of the Homeland!  Admittedly, I see the drink doing better in cold, winter conditions, but one must make-do with what one has.

If I don't get back to you by whatever holiday you celebrate, Happy...whatever holiday it is that you celebrate!