This is an exact account of my day today:
-HATE: I woke up and decided I needed to do laundry. As soon as I put my clothes in the lavadora - or washing machine- with soap and water, se fue la luz- or the power went out. So I had most of clothes sitting in soapy water, waiting to use the power of electricity to be cleaned. (On a side note: Dominican washing machines are not at all like American style washing machines. You take a hose to fill the “washing” side up, it spins in two directions for 15 minutes, and then you take it out and put it in a spinner that sort of acts like a dryer, but basically it just spins the clothes really fast causing the water/soap/strange looking fluids to exit. Then the clothes are rinsed with non-soapy water, put back into the spinner and then presto! Hang the clothes up to dry in the sun, and they’re ready in 1-12 hours, depending on the sun’s intensity and whether it’s raining or not. But without electricity, it's just one big annoying process). So yes, the power went out at the most annoying time- as soon as my clothes were nice and soapy. I didn’t even bother to do the laundry by hand either- I just drained the soap, tried to rinse it out as best I could and left them in the machine. I’ll try again tomorrow.
-LOVE: I went to Silvia’s house for lunch and she had made my favorite: la bandera, which consisted of white rice, beans and chicken. After lunch, her, Angelis (her son), Angel (her grandson) and myself went down to the neighbor’s house and watched Angelis literally climb a 30-foot tree and cut down branches of lemoncia. Lemoncia is a crazy tropical fruit which is basically an over sized seed with a thin green peel. You break the peel easy with your teeth and suck off a pinkish, slimy and stringy substance around the seed that happens to be delicious.
-HATE: After lunch, I went to my center and met up with Fausto, Selsy and Mon (my coworkers) to go to Santiago to buy books and supplies for our library. Because Fausto is currently borrowing his brother’s car from the capital, we all decided it would be perfect to go and load the car up with as many things as possible.
And that’s what we started to do. After only one store, we had $23,000 pesos worth of books and supplies in our cart, and when I went to pay for it with the bank card I opened before I left for America, it didn’t work. At first I thought I forgot the pin number, so I ran to a bank (thankfully right across the street) to try to take money out of an ATM. I frantically tried every pin number combination I could think of, but nothing happened. Fausto came and found me and we dialed the bank “help-line,” where I actually spoke to someone in English. After being on the phone with this person for 15 minutes, going through security checks to make sure I really was the person I was claiming to be, he tells me he can’t tell me my pin number over the phone.
Immediately Fausto and I rushed down the street to a branch of the bank that was still open and waited in line there for at least a half-an-hour, because there is NO SUCH THING as customer service in this country. After waiting for what seemed like forever and me glaring at the girl who had two customers ahead of us who she had not yet helped, she asked us what we wanted and then informed us that the pin machine was broken.
We scrambled again, walked back up to the store with our $23,000 peso bill already rung up, told Selsy and Ramon we had to go to another bank in a mall about 15 minutes away. Traffic was horrible, so it took us about 40 minutes to get there, and when we finally did the teller tells me I need my passport to do anything to the account.
I stared at her in the eyes for a few seconds and just started crying. I showed her my Peace Corps ID (which has my passport number on it) and tried to explain what had already happened and how I just need to change/know the pin number so we could go buy our books. The head boss lady felt sorry and took me into her office where she again went through security checks with me, looked at her computer for five minutes without saying anything, and then told me that the account was never setup properly in the first place and would never have worked anyway. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I just asked what I needed to do to make it start working. She said I had no choice but to return with my passport and basically re-setup the account.
There was absolutely no book buying done. We left the bank somber and I felt so embarrassed, angry and annoyed I barely spoke.
-LOVE: On the ride home, almost in complete silence, Mon tells Fausto to pull over at a convenience store type place so he can buy water. He comes out with two beers instead. He hands one to Selsy and me with a smile. I ask him what these are for, and he says so that I’m not sad anymore. And although I am NOT a proponent of drunk driving, Mon and Fausto share a beer in the front and Selsy and I share one in the back, driving toward sundown with the windows down and merengue in our ears.
-HATE: After dinner, I go upstairs to take my nightly bucket bath and there is the BIGGEST, UGLIEST-looking tarantula I have seen yet on this island, just chilling on the stairs. This thing was as big as both of my hands put together. I screamed, scared all the dogs and Francia, and then made her kill it with a broom that she broke in half during the process.
Oh well, I guess you win some and lose some…
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
your very own business marriage
Today, like most days, I went to lunch at Silvia's house. After being there for maybe a minute, she called me over and told me quietly that her daughter, Anji, wants to marry an American for money - Casar a negocio - a business marriage, she said.
Anji is willing to pay up to $7000 for a fake marriage that only needs to last between 3-6 months. However, and Silvia was very specific, there needs to be pictures taken of the couple at a hotel or something, making it look like a real wedding.
If Anji can secure a "business marriage," then she can immediately take her four-year-old son over, get citizenship and then send for her parents and brother and sister to come live with her in Nueva York. The American "husband" has to do nothing more than mark his signature: first for the marriage certificate and then again for the divorce papers.
In the back of my mind, I've always sort-of been waiting for this day. I don't really blame Silvia or Anji for asking me. It's just the way things work here, and if anyone can help them with this, it's the American girl who eats lunch with them everyday.
Part of me wishes I really could find a responsible American male who would do this for their family (I can't believe I really feel that way. Man, I've been in this country way too long). But of course, I know this isn't going to happen, and although it seems easy enough, things like this are always more complicated than originally anticipated.
I guess in some ways, too, it breaks my heart. Yes, the DR has its problems and corruptions. And I will be the first one to complain about the heat, but for the most part, people do live a happy life here (in my campo at least, here in La Caya). And yet, everyone is so quick to forget it and go. I think about how different Anji's son's life will be if she takes him to America. Yes, he will have more opportunities for education, for work, for all those things everyone knows are important.
But what about him being able to ride a horse down the street at age four? What about him going to school with seriously 15 of his cousins? And seeing his grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins-twice-removed etc. every single day? Or being able to walk down the road by himself to the corner market to buy a treat without worries? Or being able to take a machete (which is about as tall as him) and attempt to cut into a mango. They sure as hell are not going to let him do that in kindergarten.
Yes, America is great. As most of us realize, it is the land of plenty, and we are blessed to live there. But at what cost is it worth it? Marriage for money? Giving up everything you know and love, including your country, your language, your culture, to have the "American Dream?"
I told Silvia I'd try to find someone for her. I said that partly to appease her and partly because I meant it, or wanted to mean it at least. They've done so much for me, it's the least I could do for them.
Anji is willing to pay up to $7000 for a fake marriage that only needs to last between 3-6 months. However, and Silvia was very specific, there needs to be pictures taken of the couple at a hotel or something, making it look like a real wedding.
If Anji can secure a "business marriage," then she can immediately take her four-year-old son over, get citizenship and then send for her parents and brother and sister to come live with her in Nueva York. The American "husband" has to do nothing more than mark his signature: first for the marriage certificate and then again for the divorce papers.
In the back of my mind, I've always sort-of been waiting for this day. I don't really blame Silvia or Anji for asking me. It's just the way things work here, and if anyone can help them with this, it's the American girl who eats lunch with them everyday.
Part of me wishes I really could find a responsible American male who would do this for their family (I can't believe I really feel that way. Man, I've been in this country way too long). But of course, I know this isn't going to happen, and although it seems easy enough, things like this are always more complicated than originally anticipated.
I guess in some ways, too, it breaks my heart. Yes, the DR has its problems and corruptions. And I will be the first one to complain about the heat, but for the most part, people do live a happy life here (in my campo at least, here in La Caya). And yet, everyone is so quick to forget it and go. I think about how different Anji's son's life will be if she takes him to America. Yes, he will have more opportunities for education, for work, for all those things everyone knows are important.
But what about him being able to ride a horse down the street at age four? What about him going to school with seriously 15 of his cousins? And seeing his grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins-twice-removed etc. every single day? Or being able to walk down the road by himself to the corner market to buy a treat without worries? Or being able to take a machete (which is about as tall as him) and attempt to cut into a mango. They sure as hell are not going to let him do that in kindergarten.
Yes, America is great. As most of us realize, it is the land of plenty, and we are blessed to live there. But at what cost is it worth it? Marriage for money? Giving up everything you know and love, including your country, your language, your culture, to have the "American Dream?"
I told Silvia I'd try to find someone for her. I said that partly to appease her and partly because I meant it, or wanted to mean it at least. They've done so much for me, it's the least I could do for them.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
camp GLOW
What does it mean to be a woman? What does it mean to be a young girl turning into a young woman? How does a young, confident powerful teenage girl become a positive and strong woman when living in a culture of machismo? What happens when you’ve been told something your entire life and then in five days, you get completely opposing information that makes you question everything your parents, grandparents, aunts, cousins and friends have lead you to believe?
Camp GLOW. Two words to change your life.
A girl sees her first tampon, her fear vanishes and she learns it WILL NOT take her virginity. Girls find out at what age they are supposed to have a pap smear, whether they are sexually active or not. A presentation is given questioning their diet and they start to understand that all the oil, sugar and surplus of carbohydrates they eat on a daily bases are not part of healthy diet. They openly discuss peer pressure from boyfriends and friends to be sexually active. They are given condoms like candy. They weigh the difference between unrealistic women on TV and themselves. A woman with AIDS stands in front of them without fear and tells them she has been living for 10 years with AIDS and is happy. Then she points to a girl in the audience, one of them, and says she is her daughter. A group of teenage Dominican Haitian girls, who live in a Batey, give a presentation about discrimination. In five days, girls become best friends with other girls who are taller, shorter, fatter, skinner, richer, poorer, different skin colors - and then cry when having to leave each other.
All of this happened at Camp GLOW. I was lucky enough to be there to witness it. I was even luckier to have had the opportunity to bring girls from La Caya so they could experience it.
Last week I took three girls from my community, (just for fun, see how you would pronounce these names) Yocairy, 15, Yoryi, 16 and Geormy, 14, to an all girls’ camp about an hour southwest of the capital. GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) is a Peace Corps international initiative created to empower young women to take charge of their lives, no matter their circumstances. GLOW originally was started by Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) in Romania in 1995. Today over 20 Peace Corps countries participate in GLOW activities and camps, including the Dominican Republic.
Our GLOW camp was a five-day retreat with 18 volunteers, 20 different communities and 57 Dominican girls between the ages of 12 and 20 representing these communities. Each day was a different theme with correlating charlas (the Dominican word for presentations) about the theme. For example the first day was “I am healthy,” and thus everything discussed that day had to do with keeping your body healthy (from eating right, exercising to getting regular pap smears).
I helped with the charla, “Know your body,” on the first day to encourage the girls to literally know their body. We actually gave each girl a hand mirror so they could, ahem, “explore” if you will, on their own. As we discussed the anatomy of a woman’s body and how we can take care of ourselves, it became apparent that many of the girls had been lead astray about what was and was not true about our parts.
As the week continued, breaking old believes and stereotypes became an objective for all of us Peace Corps Volunteers. The word “mitos” or myths was used over and over to question what exactly the girls were raised to believe and if those beliefs are true or not.
In one activity, we gave each girl a speculum tool for a pap smear and discussed that pap smears check for cancer and are important for ALL females to have once a year after the age of 18, whether they are sexually active or not. Later we decorated the speculums like birds so the girls would always think of them as birds and not be intimated by them when they went to the doctor for an exam.
We showed the girls what a tampon is and how it fits in a female body. We then discussed how neither a pap smear nor using a tampon will take away their virginity.
We had a “fiesta de condones” or a condom festival, where the girls had to practice putting condoms on plantains. Now this may seem grotesque for even our American culture, but in a country where over half of the population is under 25- teenage sex is not something to be squeamish or ignorant about.
On the third day, we had a panel of six professional Dominican women (a civil engineer, a TV and Radio journalist, a psychologist, a librarian, a business owner and a young Dominican-Haitian college student who traveled to Mexico) come to the camp to talk personally with the girls about how they came to be successful.
One Peace Corps Volunteer (who has an AIDS Support group in her town) gave a presentation about people living with AIDS. She shattered myths about being able to contract AIDS by holding someone’s hand, or washing your clothes with someone who has AIDS (yes, these are common beliefs). She then asked the girls what they would do if they knew someone had AIDS and was being discriminated against. They all said, “we would welcome them,” “we would be their friend,” “we would do whatever we could to help them.”
“Great,” the volunteer replied. And then she introduced them to an extremely well-dressed and pretty middle-aged Dominican woman. When this woman stood in front of the girls and told them she had AIDS, the girls’ mouths dropped in surprise. Then this well-dressed woman pointed to one of the girls in the audience and said the girl was her daughter (the daughter does not have AIDS). Many of the girls, including the daughter, started to cry. Later that day, my girls came up to me and said they thought the woman was a doctor and was going to talk about how NOT to get AIDS, not a woman who was already diagnosed and living with AIDS.
Myths and beliefs broken by living examples. It honestly doesn’t get much more impactful than that.
My personal favorite charla (presentation) was about discrimination and was given by five Dominican-Haitian girls attending the camp who live in a Batey. Batey’s are communities in the DR that were created by sugar cane companies. The companies would bring in the cheapest labor they could find (almost always Haitians) and provide minimal housing and amenities. These communities became known as Bateys and today, they still exist even though now most are supported by the DR government, not the sugar cane companies. The Dominican girls of Haitian decent went around the room and asked their peers to honestly answer if they believed “mitos” about Bateys. One of these myths was that people eat each other. A few of the girls in the audience were brave enough to raise their hands to say they used to believe it. The girls then shared individual testimonies about a time in their life they had been discriminated against because of their skin color.
As I looked around the room, I could see the girls watching their peers as just that. Peers. Friends. Someone the same age as them with many of the same hopes, dreams, fears and feelings. They weren’t watching each other with foggy glasses clouded with myths that the world has placed on them, but with their eyes wide open, taking in their surroundings and the people around them for what exactly what they are: people.
I was at this camp watching everyone around me grow and explore, I couldn’t help but feel the same way about myself. It’s funny how the simplest things are always the most impactful, like just being able to play Shakira’s World Cup song on repeat and dance your heart out. How having a real moment with someone, doesn’t involve anything with technology or fancy things. It’s just conversation and the opportunity to be open to something different, something you’ve never thought of before.
Being at Camp GLOW reminded me of why I joined the Peace Corps. It wasn’t for my resume or the bragging rights to say I did it – I took a bucket bath almost every day for two years, I deserve all the hot water I want. No, it was to be involved with something bigger than myself. I want to spend the rest of my life giving girls and boys around the world the right to choose their own world. To be able to look at their own circumstances and question if the life they want to live, the person they want to be, is the person they are now.
I think sometimes, we as humans take for granted how great change is. And how on any day, any normal, any boring or especially significant day, no matter how old or young you are, you can make the choice to be whoever you want to be.
I also posted pictures of the week on my picasa website if you are interested...
Camp GLOW. Two words to change your life.
A girl sees her first tampon, her fear vanishes and she learns it WILL NOT take her virginity. Girls find out at what age they are supposed to have a pap smear, whether they are sexually active or not. A presentation is given questioning their diet and they start to understand that all the oil, sugar and surplus of carbohydrates they eat on a daily bases are not part of healthy diet. They openly discuss peer pressure from boyfriends and friends to be sexually active. They are given condoms like candy. They weigh the difference between unrealistic women on TV and themselves. A woman with AIDS stands in front of them without fear and tells them she has been living for 10 years with AIDS and is happy. Then she points to a girl in the audience, one of them, and says she is her daughter. A group of teenage Dominican Haitian girls, who live in a Batey, give a presentation about discrimination. In five days, girls become best friends with other girls who are taller, shorter, fatter, skinner, richer, poorer, different skin colors - and then cry when having to leave each other.
All of this happened at Camp GLOW. I was lucky enough to be there to witness it. I was even luckier to have had the opportunity to bring girls from La Caya so they could experience it.
Last week I took three girls from my community, (just for fun, see how you would pronounce these names) Yocairy, 15, Yoryi, 16 and Geormy, 14, to an all girls’ camp about an hour southwest of the capital. GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) is a Peace Corps international initiative created to empower young women to take charge of their lives, no matter their circumstances. GLOW originally was started by Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) in Romania in 1995. Today over 20 Peace Corps countries participate in GLOW activities and camps, including the Dominican Republic.
Our GLOW camp was a five-day retreat with 18 volunteers, 20 different communities and 57 Dominican girls between the ages of 12 and 20 representing these communities. Each day was a different theme with correlating charlas (the Dominican word for presentations) about the theme. For example the first day was “I am healthy,” and thus everything discussed that day had to do with keeping your body healthy (from eating right, exercising to getting regular pap smears).
I helped with the charla, “Know your body,” on the first day to encourage the girls to literally know their body. We actually gave each girl a hand mirror so they could, ahem, “explore” if you will, on their own. As we discussed the anatomy of a woman’s body and how we can take care of ourselves, it became apparent that many of the girls had been lead astray about what was and was not true about our parts.
As the week continued, breaking old believes and stereotypes became an objective for all of us Peace Corps Volunteers. The word “mitos” or myths was used over and over to question what exactly the girls were raised to believe and if those beliefs are true or not.
In one activity, we gave each girl a speculum tool for a pap smear and discussed that pap smears check for cancer and are important for ALL females to have once a year after the age of 18, whether they are sexually active or not. Later we decorated the speculums like birds so the girls would always think of them as birds and not be intimated by them when they went to the doctor for an exam.
We showed the girls what a tampon is and how it fits in a female body. We then discussed how neither a pap smear nor using a tampon will take away their virginity.
We had a “fiesta de condones” or a condom festival, where the girls had to practice putting condoms on plantains. Now this may seem grotesque for even our American culture, but in a country where over half of the population is under 25- teenage sex is not something to be squeamish or ignorant about.
On the third day, we had a panel of six professional Dominican women (a civil engineer, a TV and Radio journalist, a psychologist, a librarian, a business owner and a young Dominican-Haitian college student who traveled to Mexico) come to the camp to talk personally with the girls about how they came to be successful.
One Peace Corps Volunteer (who has an AIDS Support group in her town) gave a presentation about people living with AIDS. She shattered myths about being able to contract AIDS by holding someone’s hand, or washing your clothes with someone who has AIDS (yes, these are common beliefs). She then asked the girls what they would do if they knew someone had AIDS and was being discriminated against. They all said, “we would welcome them,” “we would be their friend,” “we would do whatever we could to help them.”
“Great,” the volunteer replied. And then she introduced them to an extremely well-dressed and pretty middle-aged Dominican woman. When this woman stood in front of the girls and told them she had AIDS, the girls’ mouths dropped in surprise. Then this well-dressed woman pointed to one of the girls in the audience and said the girl was her daughter (the daughter does not have AIDS). Many of the girls, including the daughter, started to cry. Later that day, my girls came up to me and said they thought the woman was a doctor and was going to talk about how NOT to get AIDS, not a woman who was already diagnosed and living with AIDS.
Myths and beliefs broken by living examples. It honestly doesn’t get much more impactful than that.
My personal favorite charla (presentation) was about discrimination and was given by five Dominican-Haitian girls attending the camp who live in a Batey. Batey’s are communities in the DR that were created by sugar cane companies. The companies would bring in the cheapest labor they could find (almost always Haitians) and provide minimal housing and amenities. These communities became known as Bateys and today, they still exist even though now most are supported by the DR government, not the sugar cane companies. The Dominican girls of Haitian decent went around the room and asked their peers to honestly answer if they believed “mitos” about Bateys. One of these myths was that people eat each other. A few of the girls in the audience were brave enough to raise their hands to say they used to believe it. The girls then shared individual testimonies about a time in their life they had been discriminated against because of their skin color.
As I looked around the room, I could see the girls watching their peers as just that. Peers. Friends. Someone the same age as them with many of the same hopes, dreams, fears and feelings. They weren’t watching each other with foggy glasses clouded with myths that the world has placed on them, but with their eyes wide open, taking in their surroundings and the people around them for what exactly what they are: people.
I was at this camp watching everyone around me grow and explore, I couldn’t help but feel the same way about myself. It’s funny how the simplest things are always the most impactful, like just being able to play Shakira’s World Cup song on repeat and dance your heart out. How having a real moment with someone, doesn’t involve anything with technology or fancy things. It’s just conversation and the opportunity to be open to something different, something you’ve never thought of before.
Being at Camp GLOW reminded me of why I joined the Peace Corps. It wasn’t for my resume or the bragging rights to say I did it – I took a bucket bath almost every day for two years, I deserve all the hot water I want. No, it was to be involved with something bigger than myself. I want to spend the rest of my life giving girls and boys around the world the right to choose their own world. To be able to look at their own circumstances and question if the life they want to live, the person they want to be, is the person they are now.
I think sometimes, we as humans take for granted how great change is. And how on any day, any normal, any boring or especially significant day, no matter how old or young you are, you can make the choice to be whoever you want to be.
I also posted pictures of the week on my picasa website if you are interested...
Monday, July 26, 2010
Mas Gordita
After being “standfasted” in the capital for three days, I am finally back in my site after my wonderful American vacation. Standfast is what the Peace Corps calls “lockdown” due to various factors, such as strikes, violence and in most cases, weather. I arrived to Santo Domingo on Thursday morning to a cloudy and drizzly day. Thursday night, I thought God had sent Noah’s Ark once again to save us from the flood.
It was a crazy amount of rain, and because of it, all of us Peace Corps Volunteers who happened to be in the capital were stuck there until Sunday. With intense rain like that, Peace Corps will take no chances of traveling. During the rainy season, streams turn into rivers which turn into lakes which happen to cover a good portion of the highway. What should be a couple hours driving, can literally take days.
Finally, on Sunday the ban was lifted and we could all be on our merry way around the country. After being gone for a month from my site, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I arrived yesterday to find everything pretty much normal. My neighbor painted their house (Dominican peach as I call it) and my Dona, Francia, got a new small flat screen TV. Yes, a flat screen. We are living the high-life here.
I spent most of the day yesterday in my house, cleaning up and unpacking. My neighbor Rosa came over to welcome me home, and insisted I come over and eat leftovers from lunch. It was such a blessing, because I was hungry and didn’t have any food in my house. After dinner, Francia caught me up on all the latest gossip. I went to bed with mosquito bites and sweat dripping down my back, and felt like both were normal.
As I walked up from my house this morning to my center, I ran into the usual characters and as I expected, they all told me the same thing:
“Pero tu eres mas gordita:” You are a little bit fatter. They said, as they grab at my stomach as if to prove it to me.
Normally this comment bothers me, I mean- it would bother any American, let’s be serious. But today, I just smiled and replied with an enthusiastic smile, “Yo se, Yo se!” I know, I know. “Yo comà mucho pa’lla,” I ate a lot over there (over there, referring to America).
I think about how these same conversations used to bother and offend me when I first arrived. In training they told us to expect things like this, but until someone tells you to your face that you are fatter, you never quite know how you will feel about it. Now, I sort of relish in it. I understand now when people tell me I’m fatter; they are not insulting me, but complimenting me. As if to say, “hey girl! Good for you for eating. We are blessed to have food and if you have it, you dang well should eat it!”
This afternoon I am in center just catching up on being gone. After about an hour of sitting here, Mari called me into the office. My coworkers, Mari, Selsy and Fausto, had bought soda, crackers, cheese and salami. This kind of a snack on a regular day really means something big is happening. I looked at them puzzled and said what’s this for? They all turned to me and said, “Because you’re back.”
I gave them each a hug and thought to myself how being fatter has never felt better.
It was a crazy amount of rain, and because of it, all of us Peace Corps Volunteers who happened to be in the capital were stuck there until Sunday. With intense rain like that, Peace Corps will take no chances of traveling. During the rainy season, streams turn into rivers which turn into lakes which happen to cover a good portion of the highway. What should be a couple hours driving, can literally take days.
Finally, on Sunday the ban was lifted and we could all be on our merry way around the country. After being gone for a month from my site, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I arrived yesterday to find everything pretty much normal. My neighbor painted their house (Dominican peach as I call it) and my Dona, Francia, got a new small flat screen TV. Yes, a flat screen. We are living the high-life here.
I spent most of the day yesterday in my house, cleaning up and unpacking. My neighbor Rosa came over to welcome me home, and insisted I come over and eat leftovers from lunch. It was such a blessing, because I was hungry and didn’t have any food in my house. After dinner, Francia caught me up on all the latest gossip. I went to bed with mosquito bites and sweat dripping down my back, and felt like both were normal.
As I walked up from my house this morning to my center, I ran into the usual characters and as I expected, they all told me the same thing:
“Pero tu eres mas gordita:” You are a little bit fatter. They said, as they grab at my stomach as if to prove it to me.
Normally this comment bothers me, I mean- it would bother any American, let’s be serious. But today, I just smiled and replied with an enthusiastic smile, “Yo se, Yo se!” I know, I know. “Yo comà mucho pa’lla,” I ate a lot over there (over there, referring to America).
I think about how these same conversations used to bother and offend me when I first arrived. In training they told us to expect things like this, but until someone tells you to your face that you are fatter, you never quite know how you will feel about it. Now, I sort of relish in it. I understand now when people tell me I’m fatter; they are not insulting me, but complimenting me. As if to say, “hey girl! Good for you for eating. We are blessed to have food and if you have it, you dang well should eat it!”
This afternoon I am in center just catching up on being gone. After about an hour of sitting here, Mari called me into the office. My coworkers, Mari, Selsy and Fausto, had bought soda, crackers, cheese and salami. This kind of a snack on a regular day really means something big is happening. I looked at them puzzled and said what’s this for? They all turned to me and said, “Because you’re back.”
I gave them each a hug and thought to myself how being fatter has never felt better.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
the in between
Tomorrow I am leaving for Santo Domingo. Tuesday, I will be on a plane and on my way to America. Although it’s only been about six months since I’ve been home, I am ready to go back. 2010 has already proved itself challenging in more ways than one, and what I need more than anything is some time with people I love. I’ll be home for longer than I anticipated (about a month), and hope to spend most of my time there hanging out with my family, especially my mom.
The last couple weeks I’ve been in my campo, my site trying to wrap things up and get things organized for when I come back in July. I gave my English classes their final exam, found the three girls I will take to a girls’ camp at the end of July and yesterday it all ended with a three hour meeting. Well actually, it was only about an hour and a half, but it started an hour and a half late so I still think it counts as there hours. Dominicans are not on “hora Americana,” or American time- as I insist with all my students that my classes start at 6 p.m. Hora Americana! Which means, don’t show up at 6:30 and expect me to be sitting there patiently waiting for your arrival.
The meeting went surprisingly well. We discussed changes that need to be done to the center, a few new people who will be added to our “management team,” and once again, discussed plans for the library. I tried to encourage my team to start without me during this month while I’m gone, but they didn’t want to do that at all. It’s a little disappointing that they don’t want to start on their own, but the library also gives me something to focus on and look forward to doing when I get back.
And just as the meeting was coming to a close, they had mandar-ed (a Cultural phenomenon of being able to send people to run errands for you) someone to bring us snacks- soda, crackers, cheese and salami. The snacks were in honor of me leaving… which seems a little ironic- but I also left my center last night feeling accomplished and content. A feeling I admittedly sometimes wish I felt more of here. Whatever the snacks where for, I think it really is a good idea to throw people a mini-party or something when they are leaving- it makes them want to come back.
On my way home I ran into Silvia. I eat lunch with Silvia and her family almost every day. Silvia takes care of her parents, my grandparents as I refer to them here. Her mom, Mercedes is in her 80s, and her dad Masop celebrated his 91 birthday at the beginning of June. Silvia and her husband Juan Ramon have three kids and their own house, but every morning the whole family goes over to the grandparent’s house to feed Mercedes and Masop, clean the house and take care of whatever needs to be taken care of. Despite Masop’s age, he gets up every morning, climbs the hill behind his house and takes care of his cows. The man gets up faster from chairs than I do. He is in incredible shape. They are all so loving and wonderful to me. One day, almost a year ago, I told Masop that I really like bananas. I am not joking you- almost every time I eat there (which is pretty much every day that I am here in site) Masop saves a banana just for me.
Anyway, so I ran into Silvia on the street after the meeting and we started to walk back to the grandparent’s house. She invited me to come over and have dinner with them, and I told her that she had already fed me lunch that day, that she didn’t need to feed me dinner too, and that I have food in my house to eat. She just looked at me and said, “Yes, but you don’t have soup.”
I thought about it for a second and just nodded. She was right. I had food at my house, but I didn’t have soup. I followed her to the house and had soup with the family. It was a sort of fusion between chicken broth and Top Ramon. It was simple and delicious.
Sometimes I think about my life here and I don’t know what to feel. There are moments when I honestly can’t wait to get off this island and back to my previous plentiful American life. And then there are moments when I think about how good life is here, despite how hot it can get. I am living as complex as I allow myself to live. I can let all my worries get me down, I can think and stress about the future and daydream about overpriced delicious coffee drinks that are found on every corner back home. Or I can let it go and just say yes to a delicious yet basic soup dinner. I understand that I probably won't ever live this way again or have these kind of choices, and so for now I am grateful. I am grateful to be in the in between. Excited when a meeting goes well and lucky enough to get on a plane and see my family back home.
The last couple weeks I’ve been in my campo, my site trying to wrap things up and get things organized for when I come back in July. I gave my English classes their final exam, found the three girls I will take to a girls’ camp at the end of July and yesterday it all ended with a three hour meeting. Well actually, it was only about an hour and a half, but it started an hour and a half late so I still think it counts as there hours. Dominicans are not on “hora Americana,” or American time- as I insist with all my students that my classes start at 6 p.m. Hora Americana! Which means, don’t show up at 6:30 and expect me to be sitting there patiently waiting for your arrival.
The meeting went surprisingly well. We discussed changes that need to be done to the center, a few new people who will be added to our “management team,” and once again, discussed plans for the library. I tried to encourage my team to start without me during this month while I’m gone, but they didn’t want to do that at all. It’s a little disappointing that they don’t want to start on their own, but the library also gives me something to focus on and look forward to doing when I get back.
And just as the meeting was coming to a close, they had mandar-ed (a Cultural phenomenon of being able to send people to run errands for you) someone to bring us snacks- soda, crackers, cheese and salami. The snacks were in honor of me leaving… which seems a little ironic- but I also left my center last night feeling accomplished and content. A feeling I admittedly sometimes wish I felt more of here. Whatever the snacks where for, I think it really is a good idea to throw people a mini-party or something when they are leaving- it makes them want to come back.
On my way home I ran into Silvia. I eat lunch with Silvia and her family almost every day. Silvia takes care of her parents, my grandparents as I refer to them here. Her mom, Mercedes is in her 80s, and her dad Masop celebrated his 91 birthday at the beginning of June. Silvia and her husband Juan Ramon have three kids and their own house, but every morning the whole family goes over to the grandparent’s house to feed Mercedes and Masop, clean the house and take care of whatever needs to be taken care of. Despite Masop’s age, he gets up every morning, climbs the hill behind his house and takes care of his cows. The man gets up faster from chairs than I do. He is in incredible shape. They are all so loving and wonderful to me. One day, almost a year ago, I told Masop that I really like bananas. I am not joking you- almost every time I eat there (which is pretty much every day that I am here in site) Masop saves a banana just for me.
Anyway, so I ran into Silvia on the street after the meeting and we started to walk back to the grandparent’s house. She invited me to come over and have dinner with them, and I told her that she had already fed me lunch that day, that she didn’t need to feed me dinner too, and that I have food in my house to eat. She just looked at me and said, “Yes, but you don’t have soup.”
I thought about it for a second and just nodded. She was right. I had food at my house, but I didn’t have soup. I followed her to the house and had soup with the family. It was a sort of fusion between chicken broth and Top Ramon. It was simple and delicious.
Sometimes I think about my life here and I don’t know what to feel. There are moments when I honestly can’t wait to get off this island and back to my previous plentiful American life. And then there are moments when I think about how good life is here, despite how hot it can get. I am living as complex as I allow myself to live. I can let all my worries get me down, I can think and stress about the future and daydream about overpriced delicious coffee drinks that are found on every corner back home. Or I can let it go and just say yes to a delicious yet basic soup dinner. I understand that I probably won't ever live this way again or have these kind of choices, and so for now I am grateful. I am grateful to be in the in between. Excited when a meeting goes well and lucky enough to get on a plane and see my family back home.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
a staring state of mind
Dominicans have a way of staring. They do it with no shame or regret. If something or someone is strange or puzzling, they have no qualms about sitting two feet away and just staring. When I first got here, over a year ago, it made me feel uneasy. How could it not? It’s that feeling you get when you think someone is watching you, but in reality someone really IS watching you.
Now, a year later, when Anna Maria, Eve and David visited, they told me I stare too much. On more than one occasion, Anna Maria hit me across the arm to wake me from my trance of staring at random strangers. Mostly, I stare at other white people. I find myself removed from them, wondering what they are doing in the DR and if any of them will leave the tourist parts of the island and see how the “real” DR functions. Anna Maria and Eve promised they would help me get my “social skills” back when I come back home. Another year left, and I will have to take them up on their offer.
Today, a nine-year-old boy sat down at the same table as me in my center and played the usual staring game. By now, I’m use to it and just carried on with my tasks as if he wasn’t there. We talked for a few minutes at first- I asked if he passed his grade and he said yes. Then he pointed to my nalgene water bottle and asked me to bring him one back from America the next time I go. I smiled and said “vamos a ver,” or we’ll see. He then asked me if he could read a book from the library.
The current state of our library is dismal, and is what so many of my generous friends and family from back home donated money to help me fix. The boy asked me if he could read a book and enthusiastically I told him he could read any book he wanted!
He picked out a large children’s picture book with some writing and set it on the table. Now it was my turn to stare at him. He scanned the first page for a few seconds, making mental notes of the images and the colors. He looked at the two or three sentences at the top of the page for less than 10 seconds and then flipped on to the next page. After repeating these actions four times or so, I asked him if he was reading the book.
“Oh, I don’t know how to read,” he said matter-of-factly.
Surprised, I asked him if he was joking. He told me no, and that he didn’t know how to read. I asked him how old he was again (nine-years-old) and how he just said he passed his grade and will be moving on to the next grade next school year.
Now he looked at me like I was the crazy one. “Well yeah, I passed, but I don’t know how to read,” he repeated.
“So what do you do in school then?” I asked.
“I write some and then read a little from one book called Nacho.”
“But you don’t know what this says?” I asked pointing to a word on the page. “Do you know what the different letters are?”
“No,” he said again.
I tried to give him a 2-minute lesson on how each letter makes up a different sound and how they combine together to form words that we then can read. He seemed interested and said that his teacher never told him that. I tried to continue, but quickly realized how over my head I was with trying to teach him how to read in one afternoon. Soon he got distracted and went to play a game on the internet. I hate to admit it, but I felt relieved.
As he politely left the table and put the book back on the shelf, he left me staring at the place where he was just sitting. A year later, and things like this still shock me. This nice, well-mannered nine-year-old boy has been pushed through school, going from one grade to the next, without ever learning how to read. Kids like him are everywhere in this country and unfortunately will probably graduate high school without ever being taught to read.
The make it through just staring. They stare at the blackboard all day at school. They stare at their teacher and copy everything he or she puts on the board into their notebooks, without ever realizing what exactly they are writing or learning. Most kids can write, because they’ve been taught to write the letters- but if you were to ask them to point out the letter “S,” or the letter “C” they’d never be able to do it.
So when something or someone different comes along, they just continue to stare. They have never been taught to question or to wonder why things are the way they are or how things can be better. Of course, this is a general statement and of course there are many smart Dominicans who have educated themselves.
But in my small town, with limited money and limited resources, most kids will never get that chance. How do I wake people up from this staring trance? As I feel myself fall into, how do I resist it? This country needs a wake-up call, and maybe teaching one nine-year-old how to read, how to resist the staring, is a way to start.
Now, a year later, when Anna Maria, Eve and David visited, they told me I stare too much. On more than one occasion, Anna Maria hit me across the arm to wake me from my trance of staring at random strangers. Mostly, I stare at other white people. I find myself removed from them, wondering what they are doing in the DR and if any of them will leave the tourist parts of the island and see how the “real” DR functions. Anna Maria and Eve promised they would help me get my “social skills” back when I come back home. Another year left, and I will have to take them up on their offer.
Today, a nine-year-old boy sat down at the same table as me in my center and played the usual staring game. By now, I’m use to it and just carried on with my tasks as if he wasn’t there. We talked for a few minutes at first- I asked if he passed his grade and he said yes. Then he pointed to my nalgene water bottle and asked me to bring him one back from America the next time I go. I smiled and said “vamos a ver,” or we’ll see. He then asked me if he could read a book from the library.
The current state of our library is dismal, and is what so many of my generous friends and family from back home donated money to help me fix. The boy asked me if he could read a book and enthusiastically I told him he could read any book he wanted!
He picked out a large children’s picture book with some writing and set it on the table. Now it was my turn to stare at him. He scanned the first page for a few seconds, making mental notes of the images and the colors. He looked at the two or three sentences at the top of the page for less than 10 seconds and then flipped on to the next page. After repeating these actions four times or so, I asked him if he was reading the book.
“Oh, I don’t know how to read,” he said matter-of-factly.
Surprised, I asked him if he was joking. He told me no, and that he didn’t know how to read. I asked him how old he was again (nine-years-old) and how he just said he passed his grade and will be moving on to the next grade next school year.
Now he looked at me like I was the crazy one. “Well yeah, I passed, but I don’t know how to read,” he repeated.
“So what do you do in school then?” I asked.
“I write some and then read a little from one book called Nacho.”
“But you don’t know what this says?” I asked pointing to a word on the page. “Do you know what the different letters are?”
“No,” he said again.
I tried to give him a 2-minute lesson on how each letter makes up a different sound and how they combine together to form words that we then can read. He seemed interested and said that his teacher never told him that. I tried to continue, but quickly realized how over my head I was with trying to teach him how to read in one afternoon. Soon he got distracted and went to play a game on the internet. I hate to admit it, but I felt relieved.
As he politely left the table and put the book back on the shelf, he left me staring at the place where he was just sitting. A year later, and things like this still shock me. This nice, well-mannered nine-year-old boy has been pushed through school, going from one grade to the next, without ever learning how to read. Kids like him are everywhere in this country and unfortunately will probably graduate high school without ever being taught to read.
The make it through just staring. They stare at the blackboard all day at school. They stare at their teacher and copy everything he or she puts on the board into their notebooks, without ever realizing what exactly they are writing or learning. Most kids can write, because they’ve been taught to write the letters- but if you were to ask them to point out the letter “S,” or the letter “C” they’d never be able to do it.
So when something or someone different comes along, they just continue to stare. They have never been taught to question or to wonder why things are the way they are or how things can be better. Of course, this is a general statement and of course there are many smart Dominicans who have educated themselves.
But in my small town, with limited money and limited resources, most kids will never get that chance. How do I wake people up from this staring trance? As I feel myself fall into, how do I resist it? This country needs a wake-up call, and maybe teaching one nine-year-old how to read, how to resist the staring, is a way to start.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Pico Duarte
First things first: all of the money for my library has been donated! Thank you to everyone who donated money, helped spread the word and/or supported my cause! Because of all of you, my Peace Corps grant has been filled, and giving my community of La Caya a library is one giant step closer. I could never have done this without all your help and support, and my gratitude is literally as big as this island.
Now, we are waiting for PC in Washington DC to send a check to our PC office in Santo Domingo. Once this happens, I will open a joint- account with my project partner and we will then start the process of buying all the books and supplies we need to make this library a reality.
I will keep my blog updated with the library’s progress. Hopefully within a few months, La Caya will have the small but need library it deserves! Thank you again!
Second: Remi and I returned home victoriously from our five-day mountain hike up Pico Duarte- the Caribbean’s highest mountain peak. It proved to be a long, hard and at times strenuous hike, but well worth the fight. It was beautiful, and it felt pretty incredible to be in the mountains again. Surprisngly for both of us, a lot of the trail reminded us of Nevada and California- more specifically where those two worlds collide: the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
The DR is an incredibly diverse island, and even on our five-day hike we witnessed this at great lengths. There would be times when we would be climbing at about 5000 feet and the air would be hot, the dirt dry and the smell of sagebrush (no lie) would linger. It honestly felt like we were hiking around Lake Tahoe, and after our day of good hiking, we could head over to T’s for some delicious tacos. And then, the trail would drop over a thousand feet in altitude and as we climbed down, we would be walking through a swampy kind of Caribbean wonderland, all the while being shaded by bamboo trees. At these moments, it felt like monkeys could be flying above us searching for fruit in the tall trees.
The trail continued like this for all five days, up and down, up and down. It felt like we climbed about 10 mountains before we actually got to Pico Duarte. It took us 2.5 days to get to Pico Duarte and then 2.5 days back. I never would have thought it would take just as long to get back as it did to get there, but seriously with all our ups and downs, I believe it now.
The five days were as follows: the first day we hiked 18 kilometers, the second day 12k, the third day 26k, the fourth12k again and the fifth 18k again. Everyday we would end at a different camp ground along the trail, which had old wooden houses with open fire pit stoves in them for us to sleep and cook in. On the third day, we actually climbed up to Pico Duarte and back down again to our campsite in the “Valley de Boa.”
I actually thought the hardest days were the second and fourth, because they had the steepest ups and downs, even though they were the least amount distance-wise. However, after we finished the second day, we ended in the Valle de Boa, which is a vast valley with a river skirting the edge. The valley is at the base of La Pelona, which is the mountain you must climb before you actually reach Pico Duarte. The valley was beautiful, and we stayed there two nights, as we summated Pico Duarte and returned to the valley in one day.
Climbing Pico Duarte on the third day was great. It took us about 5 hours to get from the Valley to the statue of Juan Pablo Duarte, which looms over the peak. The view from the top of Pico was spectacular and breath taking to say the least. You stand up there, the wind blowing, the Dominican flag soaring, and you see all the mountain ranges laid out in front of you. We were lucky enough to be there on a clear day, before the clouds rolled-in in the afternoon. It was almost scary, to be that high and to know how far down the bottom actually is.
I haven’t yet mentioned our guides. Although the hike can be done without guides, we took the advice of other PCV’s and hired a guide, Tony, 50-something-years-old) from Mata Grande- the town where the hike began. Much to our demise, Tony insisted that we needed two guides (him and his 70-year-old brother) and a mule. The mule was a great idea, because it carried our bags up and down the mountain, and Remi and I only had to bring a daypack each with us for water and snacks and such. Although Remi and I really didn’t need two guides, now that it is all over with, I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
The brother, the 70-year-old, literally drank rum and smoked the ENTIRE time. Not joking you, climbing the mountain, going down the mountain, at camp, the guy always had a cigarette and a flask. And his cigarettes were not regular cigarettes. He hand rolled them all… with lined paper. Like paper you use in school, out of notebook. No filter, no nothing, just tobacco and lined paper. On the third day, he followed us up Pico Duarte on the mule, while Tony stayed back at camp with our bags. He always gave us a head start and when we were about ½ way up La Pelona, I could smell his tobacco and I knew he was coming.
Both Tony and his brother were skinny, toothless, Dominican country men. They had spent most of their lives in those mountains and knew them like the backs of their hands. Tony cooked dinner for us every night, which consisted of rice and beans or rice and lentils. We ate salami and cheese for lunch and after our day was done hiking, Tony would treat us to burnt coffee or over-sugared hot chocolate. It was great, I wouldn’t have wanted it another way.
The guides loved Remi too. As most of you know, Remi is quite handy in the great-outdoors, and he proved this to me and our guides without having to speak any Spanish. The first night he and I froze in our sleeping bags, because we didn’t have a sleeping pad or anything. The next night and all that followed, Remi made us mattresses out of pine needles and soft fern branches. Tony told me we should sell them to people.
At our second campsite, there weren’t enough chairs around the fire, so Remi built one out of three sticks, old rope he found on the ground a rock. Our guides couldn’t get enough of it, and each sat on it with amazement. The third night, Remi was bored and so he literally welded a spear out of an old tent pipe he found on the ground. The guides kept looking at him and then telling me what he was doing in Spanish. It was pretty hilarious, because even though Rem speaks no Spanish, the guides were impressed with him to say the least. The entire five-days they kept looking at him like, “what crazy thing is he going to do next?”
We finished the hike on the fifth day with flying colors. Remi and I beat Tony, his brother and the mule almost everyday. Tony told me it was rare to have people who could out-walk him in the mountains. We climbed to the top of Pico Duarte (and several other small mountains and hills along the way). I can now check it off my list of “must-dos” while living in the DR. And if you ever find yourself in the DR, looking to climb the Caribbean’s highest peak, go to Mata Grande and ask for Tony. Tell him the guy who made mattresses, a chair and spear sent you.
Now, we are waiting for PC in Washington DC to send a check to our PC office in Santo Domingo. Once this happens, I will open a joint- account with my project partner and we will then start the process of buying all the books and supplies we need to make this library a reality.
I will keep my blog updated with the library’s progress. Hopefully within a few months, La Caya will have the small but need library it deserves! Thank you again!
Second: Remi and I returned home victoriously from our five-day mountain hike up Pico Duarte- the Caribbean’s highest mountain peak. It proved to be a long, hard and at times strenuous hike, but well worth the fight. It was beautiful, and it felt pretty incredible to be in the mountains again. Surprisngly for both of us, a lot of the trail reminded us of Nevada and California- more specifically where those two worlds collide: the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
The DR is an incredibly diverse island, and even on our five-day hike we witnessed this at great lengths. There would be times when we would be climbing at about 5000 feet and the air would be hot, the dirt dry and the smell of sagebrush (no lie) would linger. It honestly felt like we were hiking around Lake Tahoe, and after our day of good hiking, we could head over to T’s for some delicious tacos. And then, the trail would drop over a thousand feet in altitude and as we climbed down, we would be walking through a swampy kind of Caribbean wonderland, all the while being shaded by bamboo trees. At these moments, it felt like monkeys could be flying above us searching for fruit in the tall trees.
The trail continued like this for all five days, up and down, up and down. It felt like we climbed about 10 mountains before we actually got to Pico Duarte. It took us 2.5 days to get to Pico Duarte and then 2.5 days back. I never would have thought it would take just as long to get back as it did to get there, but seriously with all our ups and downs, I believe it now.
The five days were as follows: the first day we hiked 18 kilometers, the second day 12k, the third day 26k, the fourth12k again and the fifth 18k again. Everyday we would end at a different camp ground along the trail, which had old wooden houses with open fire pit stoves in them for us to sleep and cook in. On the third day, we actually climbed up to Pico Duarte and back down again to our campsite in the “Valley de Boa.”
I actually thought the hardest days were the second and fourth, because they had the steepest ups and downs, even though they were the least amount distance-wise. However, after we finished the second day, we ended in the Valle de Boa, which is a vast valley with a river skirting the edge. The valley is at the base of La Pelona, which is the mountain you must climb before you actually reach Pico Duarte. The valley was beautiful, and we stayed there two nights, as we summated Pico Duarte and returned to the valley in one day.
Climbing Pico Duarte on the third day was great. It took us about 5 hours to get from the Valley to the statue of Juan Pablo Duarte, which looms over the peak. The view from the top of Pico was spectacular and breath taking to say the least. You stand up there, the wind blowing, the Dominican flag soaring, and you see all the mountain ranges laid out in front of you. We were lucky enough to be there on a clear day, before the clouds rolled-in in the afternoon. It was almost scary, to be that high and to know how far down the bottom actually is.
I haven’t yet mentioned our guides. Although the hike can be done without guides, we took the advice of other PCV’s and hired a guide, Tony, 50-something-years-old) from Mata Grande- the town where the hike began. Much to our demise, Tony insisted that we needed two guides (him and his 70-year-old brother) and a mule. The mule was a great idea, because it carried our bags up and down the mountain, and Remi and I only had to bring a daypack each with us for water and snacks and such. Although Remi and I really didn’t need two guides, now that it is all over with, I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
The brother, the 70-year-old, literally drank rum and smoked the ENTIRE time. Not joking you, climbing the mountain, going down the mountain, at camp, the guy always had a cigarette and a flask. And his cigarettes were not regular cigarettes. He hand rolled them all… with lined paper. Like paper you use in school, out of notebook. No filter, no nothing, just tobacco and lined paper. On the third day, he followed us up Pico Duarte on the mule, while Tony stayed back at camp with our bags. He always gave us a head start and when we were about ½ way up La Pelona, I could smell his tobacco and I knew he was coming.
Both Tony and his brother were skinny, toothless, Dominican country men. They had spent most of their lives in those mountains and knew them like the backs of their hands. Tony cooked dinner for us every night, which consisted of rice and beans or rice and lentils. We ate salami and cheese for lunch and after our day was done hiking, Tony would treat us to burnt coffee or over-sugared hot chocolate. It was great, I wouldn’t have wanted it another way.
The guides loved Remi too. As most of you know, Remi is quite handy in the great-outdoors, and he proved this to me and our guides without having to speak any Spanish. The first night he and I froze in our sleeping bags, because we didn’t have a sleeping pad or anything. The next night and all that followed, Remi made us mattresses out of pine needles and soft fern branches. Tony told me we should sell them to people.
At our second campsite, there weren’t enough chairs around the fire, so Remi built one out of three sticks, old rope he found on the ground a rock. Our guides couldn’t get enough of it, and each sat on it with amazement. The third night, Remi was bored and so he literally welded a spear out of an old tent pipe he found on the ground. The guides kept looking at him and then telling me what he was doing in Spanish. It was pretty hilarious, because even though Rem speaks no Spanish, the guides were impressed with him to say the least. The entire five-days they kept looking at him like, “what crazy thing is he going to do next?”
We finished the hike on the fifth day with flying colors. Remi and I beat Tony, his brother and the mule almost everyday. Tony told me it was rare to have people who could out-walk him in the mountains. We climbed to the top of Pico Duarte (and several other small mountains and hills along the way). I can now check it off my list of “must-dos” while living in the DR. And if you ever find yourself in the DR, looking to climb the Caribbean’s highest peak, go to Mata Grande and ask for Tony. Tell him the guy who made mattresses, a chair and spear sent you.
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