14 Noviembre 2001
6:00 PM
Somebody’s house, can’t remember name
Consuelo, San Pedro de Marcorís
I meant to get up early. By now I’ve realized that my alarm was set for five in the evening instead of five in the morning. I tossed and turned, not being able to decide whether to get up. At 6:30, I finally got up, jacked off violently while fantasizing about this one busty trainee who has flirted with me, and then took a bucket bath.
Doña Ondina served me coffee, water, juice and her version of a grilled cheese sandwich. I ate quickly. After putting the finishing touches on my formal clothing and my backpack, I left the house without a word to Ondina. I’ve not been hanging out with her or Papito like before because of a new coping strategy I’ve been employing— avoidance.
Anyway, by 7:15A, I was waiting nervously for a ride to Pantoja [site of the training center]. I ended up paying two cars, double the price. Instead of taking a car directly from KM13 to Pantoja, I got a carro to the entrance to Pantoja and then another one from the entrance to Entrena. I paid two fares in each carro: one for me and one for the backpack I carried.
The bus was waiting when I arrived. Despite my worries, I arrived one minute early instead of several minutes late. It was other people who arrived late. At 8A, the bus pulled out. Recently, I’ve been feeling at a loss for things to talk about with other trainees. I haven’t necessarily developed any friendships, at least not to the level of really having a topic to share. At first, we all talked about how strange this country is. After technical training, when we’d all spent more time in country, we talked about tech training. But now, on the bus to meet the representative of my partner agency and be whisked off to the area I’m to live for the next two years, I did not have anything to say to anyone.
The bus arrived at a Catholic retreat center in Naco. All of us walked in a line into the facility. On the way, some of us stopped to meet the people we will be working with for the next couple of years. I awkwardly greeted the persons waiting for me, whose names I have yet to commit to memory. I set my stuff down inside and got myself a merienda— a fried pastry with chicken inside.
The rest of the morning, I spent dodging people. I don’t have more to converse about with the other gringos. My Spanish is just good enough to put me in danger of having a conversation that’s engaging for my native Spanish-speaking interlocutor, but too challenging for me.
Three (or was it five?) men, a woman, E, and I sat in the courtyard of the conference center and talked about English, their surprise that E and I can get on okay in our second (E’s third, actually) language, their thoughts on American naming systems (only one apellido? They don’t get the reason correct, which is that there is no reason, but I didn’t correct them.)
Anita, the Director, was careful to start everything with a statement of regret about the American Airlines flight that crashed, killing 200+ Dominicans who were on their way to Santo Domingo. Afterwards, the first bit of programing was about Peace Corps, about Volunteer safety, and about the role of counterparts. One counterpart gave a relatively impassioned, but hard-to-follow, rap about sexual norms in the US and the DR, emphasizing that what can seem to a Dominican to be an appropriate show of interest by a host family brother could be interpreted by a US native as sexual harassment. He reminded everyone that PCVs are often willing to go along without complaint, and that host families and counterparts should be truly solicitous of information about the Volunteer’s happiness. He had apparently had a volunteer who had to change sites because of sexual harassment.
We broke up into sectors. Some people argued about how much it was appropriate to pay for the services of a host family. Those from Moca thought RD$2k/month was fine, but the people from the bateyes thought that amount was too much, while the people from Santiago thought it was too little. We also made schedules for the site visits we are now undertaking.
Lunch was tasty– rice, potato salad, baked chicken, habichuela, sweet plantain, and pastel.
E and I left with our sponsors to Consuelo [Ingenio Consuelo, San Pedro de Macorís, República Dominicana]. E didn’t seem interested in talking. Maybe she was nervous. We arrived in Consuelo and proceded to the offices of the school district (Distrito Escolar de Consuelo) after a trip in a Toyota minivan. One of the técnicos talked with me about his desire to learn English. We tried to establish how many people live in Atlanta. I thought it was more than five million, but he thought it was 2 million. I shall have to find out myself later.
Note to self: To get to Consuelo from the capital, follow these steps:
Take guagua from Parque Enriquillo (Duarte). The bus will drop off in San Pedro. From the bus stop in San Pedro, catch another bus to Consuelo.
Counterpart’s names: Julio César Zorilla from Cañada del Negro, Crecencio, Davíd
E will be in San Felipe, wherever that is.
This is a review of my personal journal from my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the Dominican Republic in 2001-2003. Even if I feel differently now or found out later that I what I wrote was factually incorrect, I haven’t changed what I wrote then. Part of the joy of reading old journals is seeing a story arc where I’ve learned new things.
Names have been shortened to initials to provide some privacy. Even though those who were there may be able to use these initials to figure out who it is I wrote about, please remember that my journaling is not about other people or their experience.
- The next entry in this series is The causes of noise
- The previous entry in this series is The beach empty, expansive, and gorgeous
- You can see the journal entries as I post them here.
- If you’re just starting, here’s the first entry.
