Mas Cuentos

Neighborly Bonding

In this culture, if you walk by someone’s house and stop at the door for more than 0.5 seconds, they begin to insist that you come in and sit. God forbid you come in and stand, it makes them very uncomfortable. They often feel obliged as well to offer you some sort of snack, coffee, or refreshment. While this all sounds very nice, sometimes these situations are terribly irritating. To the less experienced volunteer, a situation such as this can lead to hour long delays in arriving where you were actually going and doing what you were actually going to do. You see, when someone invites you in and tells you to wait for juice that is “almost ready”, this could very well mean that the fruit used to make the juice is still hanging on the tree outside. While the host is off preparing juice, you are stuck sitting in a chair for 20 minutes, perhaps in silence, or perhaps making pointless smalltalk with another family member. You eventually receive your juice and you drink it, but while all you can think about is the thing you really needed to do, you feel bad about leaving right away, so you sit and make more small talk until you can figure out how to leave without being rude. You then try to leave, and they say, “don’t go” (no te vayas) or “but it’s still early”, (pero todavia esta temprano). So you decide to appease your host and stay a bit longer. In the end, the trip you took to buy eggs at the corner store took 1 hour instead of 5 minutes. On unlucky days, you can fall into this trap at several houses along the route between your house and your destination, turning a simple task into full-day’s event energized by 7 cups of coffee. I suppose this is why Peace Corps service is 2 years.

Fortunately, I have by observation of Dominicans, figured out that there are a few ways to avoid such situations. The key is to give very vague excuses. To an invitation such as this…

Inviting Host: Hey, come in, sit, sit down, let me get you some coffee…

My favorite responses are as follows:

Busy or Uninterested Passerbyer:

No, I have to arrive.

No, I’m going that way.

No, I can’t.

No.

Now that I have figured out how the system works, I can pick and choose when and whom I visit, making for very pleasant experiences.

Dr. Read

My Dominican Dentist, Dr. Read, or more appropriately called Dr. Klutz, has his office in the capital, a 10 hour round trip from my site. Let’s just briefly go over my last few visits with Dr. Read…

1^st visit: The Dr. takes out my mangled tooth (from “the incident”), and as he is filing it down with an electric sander, the tooth goes flying across the room. I take note that the Dr. says things like “oops” quite frequently, which makes me slightly uneasy.

2^nd visit: As the Dr. is shaving down my new retainer tooth thingy inside my mouth, the electric sander gets wrapped up in his rubber glove and he spends 5 minutes unsticking it. The Dr. then takes an impression of my teeth, and while removing the mold, he opens the stitches I had from surgery. As he notices blood on the mold, he says “whoops”.

3^rd visit: The Dr. informs me that he accidentally dropped my mouth impression on the ground and needs to take another impression. I’m not given the fixed tooth that I travelled 10 hours from my site receive.

4^th visit: The Dr. informs my friend, who had an appointment just before me, that I wasn’t going to like my new fixed tooth. I ponder for a second why the doctor says things like that. I enter his office with low expectations. He offers to show me the new tooth, and in doing so he drops it on the floor. He picks it up and hands it to me, and I notice that it has the color that resembles the tooth of someone who drank way too much coffee, a typical Dominican tooth I suppose. He suggests that I wait for him to request a better color from the lab. I agree. He then tells me of a trip to Disney World he’s planning for his family, and shows me a picture of the sports car he is bidding for on ebay. At least he’s getting paid well. I leave empty handed once again.

Si Dios Quiere

Si Dios Quiere…a phrase you here atleast 100 times a day, normally at the end of most statement. The English translation: If God wants it. There are some situations, however, that I find peculiar when this phrase is added at the end of a conversation.

For example…

Me: I’m going to the capital, I’ll be back tomorrow.

Dominican: If God wants it.

My after thoughts: Why wouldn’t God want me to come back? Am I going to die within the next two days? Is God mad at me, what did I do?

Another example…

Me: I’ll see you later for that very important meeting at 3:00pm

Dominican: If God wants it.

My after thoughts: Why wouldn’t God want you to go to the meeting!?!? I already told you that it’s very important!!! God loves important things and would never let anything get in the way of their realization!!! And if it rains that doesn’t count as a sign that God doesn’t want you to attend the meeting!!!

Watch this video!!!

Bittersweet

I’m not sure if I have ever mentioned in my blog that the actual reason Peace Corps sent me here was to design and manage a water project with the purpose of providing water to a community that currently has no running water. You might have noticed that I have spoken very little of this grand task, but trust me, it was for your own good. Rather than have given you the agonizingly slow step-by-step explanation of this miserable bastard of an assignment, I’ll save you the grief and give you a quick and easy synopsis of my wretched battle of futile returns.

September 2009: Arrive at site. Find out that instead of being assigned to a typical PC water project with 30-60 houses, I am given 224 houses and an old damaged set of underground pipeline to work with. I find out that my x-boss, (a man who weighs 300 pounds and has such trouble falling asleep at the wheel that PC has assigned him his own personal driver), had left his main duty of volunteer site development to the last minute, and had never actually visited my site to make sure it had a feasible project. Thanks Peace Corps. I am also immediately informed that the water source is located on the land belonging to a mean-old-lawyer-man that lives in the nearby city, and who has prohibited the community from using this water. My community project partner tells me that she is resolving the problem by way of asking her political friends for assistance. I trust her, and I wait patiently. Meanwhile, my fellow water volunteers are starting and finishing their land surveys and pipeline designs, and fundraising for their respective projects. I begin to feel worthless and bored.

End of January 2010: My project partner announces defeat after the governor, mayor, and senator all fail to provide assistance. I contemplate switching sites, but decide to see if I can make something happen with the name of the U.S. government backing me.

February 2010: I call the governor and senator atleast 4000 times each, spending half of my PC salary on phone cards. The politicians tell me each time I call that they are busy but will call me back, meaning that I was told 8000 lies. I slip into the beginnings of depression and desperation. I give up with politicians and seek assistance from the government water agency. This avenue initially appears promising, but ultimately resolves to nothing. My self worth diminishes to nothing. Just as I am about to give up for good, I get a tip from a fellow volunteer that the governor wants to talk to me. I call the governor and she sets up a meeting with the mean-old-landowner, herself, myself, and the members of my water committee. The meeting concludes with the landowner granting us permission to conduct the land survey, and with the understanding that if he approves the design, we can proceed with construction. An unimpressive slam dunk, but a slam dunk nonetheless. This glimmer of hope helps bring me out of my pathetic state of self-pity, and the fleeting thoughts of suicide begin to subside.

April 2010: We conduct the land survey and discover that the water source is of too low of an altitude to reach a large part of the community. After making a design and calculating the budget, we discover that the project will cost right around US$30,000, the most expensive PC water project to ever exist. I hit rock bottom once again. However, being so close to receiving permission to work, I figure we should keep fighting. We present the design to the landowner, promising him 3 of his own water taps, and he verbally agrees to the proposal, but tells us to wait for him to draw up a written contract before we start to work. Verbal slam-dunk. Landowner goes on vacation.

May 2010: I call the landowner at least 500 times to get the contract in order so we can start asking politicians for money. The landowner declares that he wants his son to come to the community to see exactly where the project will take place and to give his approval. I call the landowner’s son atleast 700 times and talk to him twice. The landowner calls me for the first time one morning only to tell me that his son had informed him that they just realized that there are cattle that belong to another man that drink from the river that is formed by our desired water source, and because of that, we can’t continue with the project. I throw in the towel and regret wasting the last 8 months of my life. I down an entire bottle of malaria pills.

June 2010: I bounce back. I decide that I didn’t really like engineering projects that much anyway, and that from this day on I would be a youth volunteer. Peace Corps doesn’t particularly agree with this decision, which I had actually made without consulting anyone. PC finds another water project for me in a nearby town. I agree to work on it as long as I can continue living in my original community.

July 2010: New beginnings. Miraculously, after 2 meetings with my new community, we have a fully funded project ready to start within a few months. The water system will be gravity fed. There do not appear to be any non-compliant landowners. Now that’s more like it.

While I did waste a lot of time waiting for the first water project to begin, it was time well invested into gaining the trust and friendship of community members. After being here for 11 months, the community members support all of my initiatives and efforts, something that can only be accomplished through personal time investment. For this reason, within a short period of time, we have quickly gotten a few new projects off the ground such improved stove construction, technical skills courses, and youth group activities. It was actually a blessing that the landowner never came through on his half because now I can just blame the failure of the project on him. Otherwise, I would have been faced with an outrageously expensive project that probably would have failed, upon which I would likely have been chased out of the village by and angry mob carrying flaming torches.

I guess that explanation wasn’t actually that brief, but considering this story took place over the better part of a year, it’s not too bad. Sorry this blog entry wasn’t that funny, but I needed to vent. Thanks for listening.

As a final plea for those who are willing to support, the youth camp we have planned for August 23-25 is still in need of funding. During the three-day conference, participants have a safe environment in which to examine their own culture, be introduced to other cultures, and gain the tools to combat discrimination in their communities. The conference will give my youth the opportunity to share and learn with 80 other young Dominicans throughout the northern region of the country. The conference will be financed by a grant through donations from each participating community, and from volunteers’ family and friends. The grant is through a program called Peace Corps Partnership, which allows family, friends, and the general public to donate to sustainable Peace Corps projects in a tax-deductible safe manner.

How Can You Help?
Donate! Tax-deductible donations can be made at this link.
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=517-389

Tell friends, parents, and co-workers to donate!
Thank you for all your love and support!

Cheers,

Justin

La Lucha

Sometimes I make bad choices; I’ll be the first to admit that. Sometimes bad choices lead to painful consequences. The following is a brief and to the point sequence of thoughts and events pertaining to two demonstrative personal case studies which coincidentally both happened on American holidays.
Thanksgiving 2009:
Meet up with volunteers at hotel. Enter hotel room. See friends. Feel joyful. Make talk of making a run to the liquor store to buy drinks. Notice ceiling fan and its unusually low position, less than an arm’s reach away. Recall one time in the U.S. when I touched a moving fan with the tip of my finger creating a light thud sound with each passing blade, giving me a sense of curious accomplishment. Decide to recreate this experience. Reach slowly towards the fan as friends look on. Instantly regret previous decision as a sharp pain shoots through my finger. Look at finger and see blood, but assume its not that serious. Go to bathroom sink to run water on it. Realize that the tip of my finger has the ability to flap open. Turn white. Nearly faint. Go to emergency room, 4 blocks away. Get 6 stitches. Return to hotel less than 2 hours later. Take a closer look at the fan and discover that Dominican fans are made of sharp metal. Make mental note. Party all night.

4th of July 2010:
Go to Samana and meet up with other volunteers at our weekend beach rental. Have a few afternoon drinks in the pool overlooking the ocean. Break out the football and start to play a game of catch. Reflect on the beauty of all things American: hot dogs, speaking English, money, football, etc. Watch as innocent game of catch evolves into smear the queer (tackle whichever guy has the ball), and continue to participate. Watch as good friend Duncan grabs ball. Move forward to tackle him. Quickly approach Duncan but come to a halt as my mouth is met by an illegally executed elbow defense maneuver. Notice by the touch of the tongue that my front teeth are now much closer to the back of my mouth than they used to be. Bleed from my mouth onto the grass as friends continue to tackle each other like barbarians. Walk towards group until someone notices the problem at hand. The barbarians point and laugh, not the reaction I was hoping for. Call the Peace Corps on-call doctor. Send for a cab. Enter a 15 minute depression due to the displacement of teeth, but more due to the fact that I must leave the party. Come out of the depression and decide to enjoy the party as much as possible until the taxi arrives to take me to the capital. Take shots of hard liquor with several friends. Take pictures with everyone, making sure mangled tooth is in full view. Start an elite club of individuals who were willing to lick my bloody mangled tooth. Final member count: 14. Taxi arrives. Begin 4 hour journey to the capital. Sleep the entire way. Taxi fare: $8000 pesos. Visit dentist the next day. Find out the agonizing road to recovery: Removal of tooth, temporary 2 week replacement of original tooth using glue, surgical placement of implant piece into jawbone, insertion of fake tooth on a retainer thing for 3 weeks, insertion of fixed-temporary fake tooth for 5 months, 2 root canals, insertion of permanent implant tooth. Smile again.
New fears acquired in the Dominican Republic: Fans, Elbows, Duncans.















While my personal (physical) development has taken a few steps backwards, community development is moving along quite nicely. Thanks to a group of American highschoolers, 4 local ladies are now proud owners of brand new firewood stoves. Normally, the women here cook with a giant pot set upon 3 blocks with a wood fire burning underneath. The fire fills the room with smoke, which the women breathe for several hours a day, leaving their lungs as black as the ceilings above their stoves. The concept of the improved cookstoves is that the fire is contained so that the heat is maximized while the smoke is directed out a chimney that exits above the roof. We have trained 3 local guys to build these stoves, which they earn RD$600 for each one that they build. We are hoping to eventually build about 100 stoves.
I took the 20 kids from my Brigada Verde group on a trip to my buddy Andrew’s site, where we spent the day with his youth group. We rode a cable car up to the top of a mountain, my kids gave presentations about how to take care of the environment, and then we hiked 3 hours back down the mountain. All the kids complained the next day that their legs hurt so bad they could barely walk. Whereas before, the kids had a somewhat indifferent view of nature, I think now, they actually despise it. Not really the outcome I was hoping for but what can you do…? I just explained to them they were all stronger because of their efforts. They then threw trash on the ground to spite me. Sigo luchando pa’lante.

Cuentos

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Culture Shock

Since I haven’t yet written about my Dad’s 16 day visit to the DR, here it is. I would love to say that he really adapted to the culture and made his best memories doing such things as waking up to the sound of chickens laying eggs in the morning (bk bk bk bk bk bk bkaaaaaaaah!!!) or taking cold bucket showers or riding with 25 people packed into a minivan; however, I’m quite positive his most enjoyable moments were sitting at the swim up bar at the all inclusive hotel. But all in all, he was a good sport in many respects such as riding with 4 people on a motorcycle, helping me with the land survey, dancing bachata with the local ladies, and accepting a marriage proposal from my Dominican neighbor.

One night, we stayed with my friend Kaitlin and her dog, and my Dad learned the dangers of living in a country without permanent electricity. We went to bed that night with the electricity on. My Dad woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of an animal rumaging through his stuff. He went to check on what it was, but when he got out of bed, he discovered that the animal had either taken or moved his glasses. He went to switch on the light and discovered the electricity had gone out. He suddenly found himself in the midst of a dangerous combination of circumstances: darkness and a terrible vision problem. He decided he needed to go to the bathroom before going back to bed, and clumsily found his way there, tripping on things as he went. On the way back to the bedroom, as he was entering the doorway, my Dad stepped on a fresh dog turd that Kaitlin’s dog had just left in a most convenient of places. My Dad then did what only a desperate blind man in the dark would do. He took his foot and wiped the poo onto the door frame and wall and went back to sleep. Then, just as he finally fell back to sleep, the electricity came back on and lit up the whole room.

When I saw him the next morning, he wasn’t in the cheeriest of moods. Kaitlin wasn’t to happy with the new paint job on the wall either.

Bola Races

Dominican word of the day: bola

A bola is a term for the ride you get whilst hitchhiking. Bolas are very common here and are used by many respectable people, not just gypsies and vagabonds. For this reason, every year, the Peace Corps volunteers organize a bola race.

The rules:

1. Racers must pair up with someone of the opposite sex to make a team of two.
2. Teams must dress up according to a decided theme.
3. Racers must think of a back story to explain their costume and reason for hitchhiking in a foreign country.
4. Racers must not reveal that they are Peace Corps Volunteers.
5. Racers arrive at the starting line the morning of the race, where the end destination is revealed just moments before the race begins.
6. Each team will be supplied with a bottle of randomly selected booze, which must be finished before crossing the finish line. Alcohol cannot be poured out, but can be shared with other people.
7. Racers must arrive at the finish line without paying for any transportation.
8. The 1^st team to cross the finish line together wins.

Problemas

Rainy season
Rainy season is a time when it rains a lot. It’s also a time when everyone stops participating in the activities that I have organized because they fear the consequences of being wet. It’s also a time when unwanted animals enter my house. The other night, I was in a deep sleep when a rat decided to dive bomb onto my mosquito net and land on my face. I immediately went into a squirmy fit and threw myself out of bed, wondering if what just happened was a dream or real life. Just then, reality was confirmed as I watched with a flashlight (because the electricity was out) as another rat dive bombed from the ceiling rafters down to the kitchen countertop. The rat then jumped to the floor and scurried across my foot which caused me to let out a murderous shriek (the next morning an old man who heard me imitated my girlish scream in front of everyone). I spent the next hour searching for the rat(s) in the dark, knocking everything over as I went. I was unsuccessful in finding the bastard so I conceded and went back to bed, making sure to tuck in the mosquito/rat net extra tight. The next day, I went and bought rat poison and left it all around the house. The next day, I found the rat hanging from an electrical wire outside my house, so I’m not sure if he ate the poison or got electrocuted, but either way, it died. A few more days past by and I decided to go camp for a night at the beach to celebrate my birthday with a few other volunteers. We came back to my house the next day, and two of my friends decided to stay the night. That night, when we decided to go to bed, we went to pull out my spare mattress which suddenly unleashed an ungodly odor all through the house. I grabbed the flashlight (of course the electricity was out yet again), and took a look behind the mattress, where I found a dead rat bastard. I instantly vomited a tiny bit in my mouth. While gagging on the smell, I took a closer look at the rat and saw that there were thousands of slimy maggots oozing out of it. We then spent an hour sweeping up maggots, mopping the floor, and figuring out how to improve the situation so that we could atleast sleep for a few hours that night. For the next few days, I cleaned and scrubbed everything in my house in attempt to remove the smell of death from my house, but it turns out that death doesn’t go quietly. Looking back at the series of events, I had two ways in which I could have dealt with the situation. Option 1: have rats walking around at night with the occasional dive bomb attack. Option 2: have a rat die, release a maggot explosion, leave a death stain on your guest mattress, and leave an permanent stench on the entire house. My new philosophy: Bring on the dive bombers!!!

Haircut
I got asked by the guy that gives haircuts in my community to lend him 100 pesos. I agreed based on the condition that he would give me a haircut in return. I now need a haircut. I went to his house, and he wasn’t home. The day after, I went to his house and he wasn’t home again. I called him and he said he would be back in a half hour. I waited two hours and he never showed up. I went back home. The next day I called him and he said he would call me back. He didn’t. The next day, someone told me they saw him giving a haircut down the street. I immediately walked down the road to see if this was true, and it was. I approached the haircut guy and told him I was next in line. He said okay. He finished with the other customer and told me it was my turn. I sat down in the chair, and he said he would be right back to cut my hair. He walked inside his house and I began to hear a lot of yelling. Then the haircut guy came flying out of his house, being chased at full speed by his own mother with a machete in hand. She was screaming such things as “You motherfu%$ing good for nothing son, you stole 2000 pesos from me and I’m going to kill you!!! She chased him around the house for a few more minutes as he screamed “ I didn’t spend the money, I just lost it!!!: Finally, he stopped and said “okay, if you want to kill me, go ahead, however you like!!!” She then proceeded to beat the shit out of her own son with her fists. I continued to sit in my chair, ready for my long awaited haircut. The haircut guy sat down and said to me, “let me calm myself down for a minute”. I said, “that’s fine, I’m going to go talk with someone down the street and I’ll be right back”. Two minutes later as I was walking down the street he passed by me on a motorcycle yelling “I’ll be right back!!!” He never came back. I still haven’t gotten a haircut. The haircut guy is 36 years old, he lives with his mother and owes everybody money.

My project
The water project is at a bit of a standstill because with the required pump system it costs too much money. So I might instead begin to help out a new community that has fewer problematic obstacles in the way; but either way, I will help a community build a water system that will provide them with easily accessible drinking water. And as always, the English class and Brigada Verde environmental youth group is going very well; After taking a few kids to the national conference in the capitol, I now have an abundance of interested youth. I am going to start another youth group that teaches about sexual health and behavior. I will also be starting a project to build improved stoves that eliminate exposure to smokey fumes as well as considerably cut down the amount of wood being burned.

Vacaciones

Its been way too long since my last blog, so I'm gonna hit ya'll with the best of the last few months. First of all, I had a very undeserved 3 week vacation when my friends Wes, Michelle, and Jessica came to visit, who were followed immediately by my Dad. With the former group, we had an action packed week which consisted of the following:

Saturday:
Picked friends up at airport
Went to Andrew's house, where Andrew, Duncan, Amy, and Jennifer, all Peace Corps Volunteers, were there to greet us.
We ate at Mello's, prepartied, and went to the carwash to drink and dance. Wes's Merengue dance skills earned him some strange looks form Dominican ladies.

Sunday:
We took my surfboard on a motorcycle to the guagua (public minibus)stop. The guagua driver decided it was a great idea to secure my surfboard by violently shoving it into the front grill while ignoring my screams to have mercy on my poor fiberglass companion. Gringos: -50 points. We rode to the beach called Playa Encuentro, I immediately checked on the condition of my surfboard, the tail end had been smashed and the fin folded over. Gringos: -100 points. I immediately told everyone not to pay for the transportation and proceed to get into my first Spanish-language heated argument with the guagua driver. This went on for a good 4 minutes and ended with us walking away without paying. Gringos: +200 points. Seconds after the guagua drove away, Wes realized he left his sleeping bag on the guagua. Gringos: -1000 points. We surfed, and headed back to my house. We then had typical Dominican food for dinner at my neighbors house, and then went out dancing at the local discoteca. By showing up with Jessica and Michelle, I instantly became much more respected by the local men because of my ability to bring beautiful white women into the community. Jessica and Michelle had so many dance requests they didn't sit down the entire night.

Monday:
We went back to the beach and surfed. Later, we set up camp on the beach using a mosquito net propped up by 4 sticks. I climbed a coconut tree and knocked down coconuts, which we cut open with a machete and drank the milk. Duncan, while trying to cut open a tin to make a funnel for drink mixing, stabbed himself in the finger about an inch deep. He then proceeded to bleed on everyone and everything. The drinks still ended up being made, and the night ended in drunken coconut football and then skinny dipping. After the rest of us got out of the water and put our clothes back on, Wes decided he hadn't had enough naked time, and proceeded to spend the next 30 minutes conversing with us like normal, except without any clothes, while Michelle (his wife) relentlessly screamed at him.

Tuesday:
We had a short surf session, and later rode motorcycles up to Duncan's site (the top of a mountain). We then went off to explore a series of bat caves, which required us to first scale a cliff which had a 200ft drop (I still don't think Jessica has forgiven me for putting her through that experience). We then found a spot with a nice view, set up camp, and cooked pizza in a pot on a wood fire.

Wednesday:
We went with two of my neighbors to see the 27 charcos (27 consecutive swimming holes/waterfalls). The beauty of nature blew our minds.

Thursday:
We had a relaxing day at the local river, and my neighbors came and cooked up a huge pot of asopao, a typical dish. We came home and played baseball with the local kids. Jessica tried to sneak 3 kids into her suitcase to take home with her.

Friday:
We went whitewater rafting in Jarabacoa and then stayed the night at a hotel in Cabarete. That night, while at the beach front clubs, every single one of us got unwanted offers from the beach prostitutes, Wes and I even got offered a group special.

Saturday:
Tearful goodbye as I sent my friends off to the airport.

I decided that my life calling is to be a tour guide.

My dad's visit will come in the next blog, but for now I'd like to talk about a new sport I invented. It's called extreme mountain running. Here's how this great idea of mine came to be:
I knew that because it had been raining so much, it would be a good idea to renumber the stakes from my land survey, as many of the numbers had been fading. I thought, why not turn this into exercise, and run the whole way up to the water source, renumbering as I go. So I put on my running attire, grabbed my permanent marker and machete, and headed up into the hills. As I got closer and closer to the water source, I discovered that the vegetation had completely overgrown, and the mosquitoes had completely taken over. I found myself machetying my way through thick, spiky, itchy vegetation, while getting eaten alive by giant mosquitoes. Every time I stopped to renumber a stake, I had to do a silly dance so that the mosquitoes couldn't land on me. On one such occasion, a mosquito flew into my ear, which threw me into a head shaking frenzy. This violent head shaking caused my sweat covered glasses to fly off of my face into the dense jungle-like thicket. I then found myself desperately searching for my glasses in a state of half-blindness while being relentlessly attacked by a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. After about 10 minutes of this torture, while practically on the verge of tears, I finally found my glasses, which I had somehow flung 15 feet away from my face, onto a branch. I then proceeded to the water source where there is a refreshing natural pool. I decided to take a dip to calm my nerves. The mosquitoes were even more rampant above the pool, so I thought I would outsmart them by submerging my entire body except for my face. Unfortunately, they outsmarted me and bit me all over my face, and now my face itches. Extreme mountain running is not recommended to the weak-willed.

Vale la Pena

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The other day my host brother name Yonatan (it’s spelled with a “Y” here) was arguing with his mom about how to spell his name. She insisted it was spelled Yonatna, which he was obviously forced to dispute. She then said, “well it’s spelled ‘Yonatna’ on your birth certificate”. His counter-argument consisted of some smart-ass comment that earned him a quick smack in the mouth. She then finished the argument by telling him that he wasn’t raised right (malcriado).

The issue: An argument with your own mother about the spelling of the name she gave you.

The result: Receive a smack in the mouth and get blamed by your mother for the bad upbringing that she gave you.

The lesson learned: Knowing how to spell will only hurt you, literally.

On a separate note, (yet for some reason still being related to violence), they celebrate Carnaval here, which is kind of similar to Mardi Gras except way more painful. People with crazy flamboyant costumes walk along the street and carry air-filled dried-out pig bladders attached to a rope. If you are a spectator watching from the sidewalk, you’re safe. But if you’re caught walking in the street or standing on the sidewalk with your back to the street, your ass gets pelted by a pig bladder that’s swung at full force by a man in a silly costume; it feels equivalent to getting spanked with a baseball bat. You’re thinking: easy enough, just stay on the sidewalk facing the street. Easier said then done. With the beers flowing nonstop, you start to forget about the consequences of putting your guard down; in fact, you start giving and taking dares to get a bladder beating from the biggest dude on the street. The next day, my ass was so bruised I could hardly sit down. Next year I’m going with a pillow shoved down the back of my pants.

As far as my water project goes, I’m still faced with the same problem but the politicians claim to be “working on it.” In the meantime, I’m starting a youth group called Brigada Verde (Green Brigade), which will be a club to promote environmental awareness and go on cool trips. I now have my English class more organized with a beginner and advanced class. I’ve moved into my new house, which is on top of a convenience store. I intend to set up a pulley system so that I can go shopping without having to walk out the door. I pay US$118 per month which includes daily lunches.

Strange Dominican Superstitions:

1. If you take a cold shower while you are sweating, you will be forever stuck with this goofy look on your face.
2. If you walk on the cold ground with bare feet, you’ll die. No one can tell me of anyone who has actually died from this.
3. Eating black pepper makes you sick. 

Dominican word of the day: vela

Vela means candle. But more importantly, it refers to the series of social events after a person dies. The reason I refer to these velas as social events is because that’s exactly what they are. People show up, sit in plastic chairs, talk, then eat the free lunch that is dispersed in personal take-out boxes, drink free coffee, talk more, play dominos, and then leave. There might be a few people praying off to the side, but for the most part, you don’t hear a thing about the person who’s death you are supposedly mourning. The first vela is held on the 8^th day after someone dies. Then there is a vela on the month anniversary of the death for the first 6 months, and once again on the year anniversary of the death. The velas then continue for every year anniversary for the next 6 years. That’s 14 free lunches if you stick around long enough.

This is why I have started participating in what I like to call “vela crashing”. In the 4 months I have lived in my community, I have been to 6 velas to “show my respects” to 6 people that I never met in my entire life. I also ate exactly 6 free lunches. If you’ve seen Wedding Crashers, you know that grief is ultimate aphrodisiac; well apparently here in the DR, grief makes you hungry, crazy hungry. I would feel bad but I’m certainly not the only one who vela crashes. Some people even send their kids to velas with orders to bring back 2 or 3 boxed lunches. If you recall the story from my previous blog, I was offered sex by two prostitutes while I was attending my first vela. Conclusion: velas have a lot to offer.