This weekend, I went for the first time to the interior of the country for my first glimpse into how real-live Volunteers work. I’ve now returned.
I caught a guagua at KM 9 of the Autopista Duarte. This bus took me, after a while, to another bus, which took me to Santiago. From Santiago, I caught yet another bus to the entrance of a rural road. At the entrance of the rural road, a number of motoconchos vied for my business. I got on behind a twenty-something male. We rode his somewhat older 100cc Honda along the increasingly rocky and rutted road that led to Paso de Los Burros.
I would have been scared shitless to ride that road, even on a mountain pedal bike. It went up and down at steep, muddy grades, and rocks protruded as much as a foot from the road surface.
I arrived at a house where Annette, la Americana, was sitting with her good friends from the community, along with a plethora of chickens. I spoke with everyone about children, the cost of coffee, and Annette’s Peace Corps project. Felix, Annette’s counterpart, introduced himself. The family turned out to be both Annette’s host family but also Felix’s family.
Annette and I excused ourselves and walked downhill further into town. There we came upon her house, a large wooden structure, with a tin roof, concrete floors, and electricity. Her house was fronted by a pathway on one side. The rear entrance faced the lot of another family. Annette shares the other family’s latrine.
Annette told me she had made plans for us to visit another few volunteers in the next few days. There was to be a despedida for a PCV now at the end of his term, and we were to be his guests.
Annette and I sat out outside the front door of her house, formerly the schoolhouse. Annette went and retrieved a tall Presidente beer from the colmado, and we shared it. She went and got another one and seemed surprised that I stopped at one glass.
There’s always some discomfort when I’m first meeting someone. I notice that I get quieter. I speak with more of a dry sense of humor and a deep Southern accent. When I was first with Annette, I just kept my Spanish formal. Later, I slouched in my chair and tried valiantly to look relaxed.
Annette is a beautiful woman, and friendly, but it took me some time to become comfortable with her. In fact, in the end, some tension remained. I wasn’t sure if she expected me to come on to her?
At 4ish on Thursday, I attended a meeting of a savings and loan cooperative in Moca, where the coop is based. People invest money in the form of savings and also bonds. The bond revenue is invested in local development projects. The whole thing is monitored by CONOCAPEI, an NGO.
The interesting deal about the savings and loan scheme was that in addition to simple interest, those who invested received an additional incentive. For each DR$100 invested, they got one ticket for a raffle to win a home appliance. In the US, we think of interest earnings as being a sure thing, and we’d balk if a bank started offering games of chance.
Annette’s little village, with its farmers and simple wooden houses, made me think a lot about my own people. It made me think of ancestors, real or imagined, who were small land holders in Georgia. My grandmother’s family lost their equity in their farm in the Depression, or so I’ve been told, by indebting themselves to the general store in town.
After the meeting, Annette and I bought food, ate, and sat inside listening to music. At some point, her neighbor asked if she wanted to have a place to sleep since I was going to be sleeping in her house. I thought Annette should have accepted this offer, but instead, turned it down. It appeared that Annette had previously arranged to sleep elsewhere, but now was turning down that offer. Should I have made a move?
She asked whether I wanted to sleep in her bed with her on the floor, or me on the floor with her in her bed. Should I have said “I need the mosquito net above your bed?” Should I have later said “How hard the floor is! Perhaps you could just share this bed with me!” In fact, I slept on the floor, and did not attempt any shenanigans.
I slept well. There was not noise, nor heat to keep me awake, and I slept like a babe. I woke up early.
My pattern as a houseguest is to insist that the host not do anything special for me. I protest. I say things like “If you’re having tea, I’ll have what you’re having.”
Annette asked if I wanted to have a hot bath or bathe later in the river. I said it would be fun to bathe in the river, and a lot of work for her to heat up the water. She persisted in heating the water, making me the first hot water bath I’ve had since I’ve arrived in country.
In the day, we visited with her family. They served us good food to supplement the eggs we had for breakfast. We also ate lunch– la comida— there. We played a game of basketball; I wasn’t very good.
Later, Annette had a meeting with a youth group to try to convince them to get more involved with her program of AIDS charlas. I led an icebreaker, which came off fine despite my self-consciousness and poor Spanish.
We then got on a motorbike to go to Imber, where another volunteer, Shannon, lived. The first thing that Shannon said was that the trainee, Elizabeth, who was supposed to be with her had experienced a nervous breakdown and left the country.
I was impressed by Shannon’s decorations– prayer flags, incense and a mayan calendar. She discussed her diverse faith with me. We share the same affection for the Virgin of Guadalupe. Her parents are from Sinaloa.
I went to the house of Shannon’s counterpart. There I found out more about the musical clock I’ve seen before, or at least heard. The clock was small, battery controlled, no volume control, and was labeled in English, in a large font “High Class Quartz Clock.” This is the same clock that Ondina’s neighbors have, and I’ve been told by other volunteers that this clock is infamous. Ah, mystery solved.
The next day, we travelled to Jarabacoa, mostly hitchhiking. In Jarabacoa, we picked up Brandy and Sarah, and proceeded to Manobao for the despidida of Pancho and Erin.
To make the story short, I had a great time. I lusted after a bunch of beautiful volunteers, and got to talk with them about Peace Corps. I got to see a live merengue típica band, and hear community members thank their volunteer, who had built them a municipal water system.
I felt re-energized and recommitted to finishing training because of this experience.
Note to readers: This is a review of my personal journal from my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the Dominican Republic more than a decade ago. I have done my best not to change what I wrote, even if I feel differently now. Part of the joy of reading old journals is seeing a story arc where I’ve learned new things.
- The next entry in this series is Powerless, sweaty, and moist.
- The previous entry in this series is The effect of self-loathing on the language learner.
- You can see the journal entries as I post them here.
- If you’re just starting, here’s the first entry.
