Leaving El Seibo

We leave El Seibo this week. It’s insane. Although I know so much has happened in the five weeks since we’ve been here, I feel like it’s been no time at all. Each day is a week, each week a day. We accomplished the task of putting together a documentary with youth of El Seibo, many of whom showed a genuine interest and dedication. We learned to cook empanadas and taught how to cook quesadillas. We’ve given two classroom presentations – in Spanish – and we learn at least a couple of new words every day. We’ve had dinner on the rooftops of El Seibo and traveled to its campo. We’ve been lectured and chastised about the appropriateness of our dress, how to not sit with our legs propped up, and to take at least a bucket bath in the evenings so they won’t think you’re heathen (although I don’t think anyone thinks that’s a problem since you have to take a couple showers a day just to cool off). We’ve learned to set up computer labs and how nothing we’ve learned will probably work, since nothing works in this country the way it’s supposed to. For the most part, we know what we want now, what we’d be the best at, whether its teaching teachers or teaching youth or teaching English. And now we wait, the painful last week, before they tell us where we’ll be spending the next two years.

Wednesday is our project presentation / bon voyage party in the Auntamiento (City Hall) of El Seibo. It’s a chance for our youth to be recognized for their accomplishments in a way that they rarely ever are here, as well as a time for us to say thank you to the pueblo for accommodating us. We are the first volunteer group to do this, apparently, so we’re all eagerly awaiting the outcome. Ann, our facilitator, anticipates half the town and people looking through the windows.

I’ll be a bit sad to leave my host family here. I really have grown quite attached to them. In fact, the only thing I’ll be happy to get away from is the rooster pen under my window. I think the next Nobel Prize should go to the person who genetically engineers roosters without vocal chords. Roosters and small yippy-yappy dogs. And speaking of noteworthy achievements, I’d just like to give a shout out to one of my best friends for getting into and going to Columbia’s Graduate Nursing School and her boyfriend for getting into and going to Stanford for a graduate degree in business. Amazing, guys. Of course, this means I’ll have to get a PhD to compete – but I got time

I haven’t been much in the frame of mind to write lately, which I hope will explain the rather random assortment of topics for this entry. Every time I thought of or experienced something worth noting, I told myself I’d remember it for later. Of course, I’ve forgotten most all. So those jewels of commentary have disappeared forever into the void of my mind. But never fear, I still have a small portion of that wealth of words to come.

Today I returned to a market we had once visited as a class. Last time, I must have been so preoccupied with the hisses and advances being made that I didn’t really notice the surroundings. This time, I was by myself instead of with a large group, so I’m sure that made a difference, and I found myself in a much more amicable mood. The thing that struck me the most about this market wasn’t that the tables were pilled high with an assortment of clothes, uncategorized or without any sort of order, but that those tables were situated amidst tired, rusting carnival rides. Ropes to hold up the canopies were tied to the carrousel and bamboo support poles leaned against the Farris wheel. A string of shoes hung across a line strung from the once high speed swings.

Though I returned from the market empty handed (as I’m running low on cash, could not find sandals for 100 pesos, and am too stubborn to cambiar my dollars or withdraw funds) I felt as though I left with a newfound sense of wonderment. I cannot place it. I cannot explain how I really saw those abandoned rides in the middle of piles of clothes and shoes, how I really felt being one of those people milling around, browsing, ducking under ropes and climbing over poles . But it left me with an odd sensation, like I’d been through a time warp or a Steven King novel. It wasn’t uncomfortable or unsettling, it was merely another sense of the Dominican world, a strange mix of times and technologies that I had only ever seen as obnoxiously inefficient before.

I’m sure I will remember more of my final days in El Seibo as memory is triggered by other occurrences, but for now I must seize the opportunity for a nap. The roosters seem relatively subdued. I shall return to write after the end and before the beginning. Our time in limbo, in Santo Domingo where the next step will be revealed.

Youth Group Kickoff

We had our youth group kick off this week and it was amazing. One of our biggest projects while we’re here in El Seybo is to work with a group of high school students on a technical project, guiding them through a structured process but letting them dictate the theme and giving them the opportunity to have some hands on experience, which they get so little of here. I was fortunate enough to be given my very own opportunity to head one of the three projects, and of course, we’re making a documentary. My team is awesome, they’re as excited about the project as I am. And the jovenes seem to be dedicated and genuinely interested as well. In just one meeting, we were able to give them a charla on the nature of information through the media, responsible documentary production, and how to conduct and effective interview. We were also able to decide on a topic from ideas that they pitched and voted on. It’s actually rather perfect because the topic they chose is to introduce or expose their audience to the two factories in town. This allows us to split up the project, giving them more personal experience and making production efficient at the same time. We plan to film all of next Saturday and spend the entire next week editing. I’m going to give my team an editing tutorial before I give the lesson to the kids, so that we’re all on the same page with the wonderfully advanced editing program: Windows Movie Maker.

All this also means that I’ve had the opportunity to break in my new camera! I had some issues with the quality of the image at first, but eventually figured out that I was retarded and had the gain turned on in broad daylight. It’s a good thing it happened during the training sessions and not during the real meat of the project. The kids won’t actually be using my camera, for a number of reasons, but the primary reason being that we as a PCV team hope to put together a documentary of the experience. A sort of movie within a movie, or behind the scenes, if you will. So they will be using the video functions on some of our still cameras as we look over their shoulder and try not to be too obtrusive with our slightly larger camera.

Our first planning meeting for the project was hosted at my house and I decided to splurge and order us a pizza. I figure that since I don’t spend money on alcohol and generally end up with more left over at the end of each pay period than the others, I could afford to treat them. And a few days later, since we had already borrowed the projector for our charla, I hosted a movie night. I wanted to provide food for this too, so went on an obscenely long search for chips and salsa. After bringing back the bottled salsa and explaining to my doña that I planned on adding fresh ingredients, I took a nap. When I woke up, a gigantic bowl of salsa was already made along with fried eggplant and a carrot and potato dish. The movie night ended up costing me as much as the pizza, so I don’t think that I’ll be hosting anything else while in El Seybo, but it was definitely a success and a lot of fun.

My new novio sat with us throughout most of movie night, though he couldn’t understand a word of it. He sat right by my side the whole time and had a heyday with a newly discovered treat: popcorn. I’m so in love with this boy, he’s the most adorable 2 years old ever. He’s actually being raised with manners, to cover his mouth when he coughs, to be respectful, and he’s quite intelligent too, I think. He calls me E-isa, he knows me, remembers me every day and is my ever devoted eating compañero. When I got back from the beach today, he saw me coming down the street and ran to bring me home.

Which brings me to Playa Esmerelda. Today we finished out the week with a much needed escape to an amazingly beautiful bay, which we had almost to ourselves. Ann, the best trainer ever, manipulated some funds to rent us a gua-gua and take us there for the day. However, a few of us chose to sit in the bed of her truck on the way up which was the ride of a lifetime. Not only did we have 360 degree panoramic views of the lush green mountains, but we got to experience the cool rain as we drove through them. I loved it so much that I rode in the bed of the truck on the way back, too – though this time I stood up, holding onto the railing of the cab, the whole hour and a half back. It was amazing. The beach itself was wonderful, the water was warm and for practically the whole bay it was shallow enough to stand. Palm trees and mangroves shaded the area, Sabrina brought her water-polo ball, and when the sun finally did come out, it washed our stresses away.

Semana Santa

Slammed my thumb in the car door, got bitten in the nose by a Chihuahua, sat in the backseat of a car with seven other people, visited a campo, saw the DR’s biggest cathedral, witnessed the dominant political party take over a beach, watched as floating candles marched down the street, and finally saw an embrace of African heredity – this was my weekend.

Today was the final day of Semana Santa, the week during which the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ is remembered and celebrated. For the younger generations, it’s an excuse to party.  Friday morning we left early to visit the campo where my don and dona have their roots. Everybody seemed to be part of the family in some way or another. I think we changed locations three times. We started out in what I can only assume was a yard or someone’s house, though I’m not sure the house was one building. I think the rooms were independent of each other, each room a separate building. While there, my don went in search of a horse for me to ride after hearing that I liked them. The horse he brought back was in the best shape I’ve seen a horse in a long time, with metal chains for reigns and blanket saddle with no stirrups. Each child got a little vuelta around the area and then they sent me off – though I didn’t go very far.

After, I thought a very large group how to play Uno – my suggestion for anyone who tries to do this in the future is to pretend that a rule of the game is that when you use a wild card, you have to call out a color you already have. Everyone played colors, no one matched numbers unless it was drawn to their attention, some drew cards until they got a wild, even if they had a handful of what they needed. Everyone ended up holding twenty of the same color, everyone had to keep drawing, and the game never ended. Thank god for the call of the river.

This river was a lot nicer than the others in El Seybo. It was clear and blue and warm. A three year old, one of my dona’s grandchildren, attached herself to me for the duration of our session at the river, so I didn’t actually swim, but she was the cutest thing and I was happy to be her buoy. After the river, we paid a visit to my don’s sister and I watched as everyone but the children poured from a rather large bottle of rum. We returned to the pueblo after dark, exhausted but happy.

The next morning, my dona’s daughter-in-law asked to take me back to Higuey with her and her family. Of course I agreed and when dona said yes, I piled in the back seat of their wonderfully air-conditioned car with the three-year-old on my lap and her two older siblings beside me. The central attraction of Higuey is the cathedral built in the seventies in a very modern style. They are very proud of their cathedral and it was the first stop we made once in the town. Their apartment is small but very clean and nicely kept. They have two TVs, a computer, a laptop, and they both have cell phones. She explained to me that they both work in informatica with degrees from the university in the area. She lived with her aunt as a child because her mother could not afford to send her to school.

After a short stint in their apartment and a visit to her grandparents’ home, we departed for the beach, El Macao, on the far eastern coast somewhat near Punta Cana. The water again amazed me, but what was even more impressive was the sea of purple hats and T-shirts that swarmed the beach and the purple flyers that littered the ground. If I haven’t already mentioned it, this is campaign time. And by campaign, I mean the few months before the election where the thousand plus people running splash their faces on as many billboards on flyers as they possibly can. The party in office now sports the color purple. Another is white, and I’m not sure what the others are. All I do know is that there isn’t really a distinction between liberal and conservative. There isn’t really a distinction at all. Your party is decided  by whatever member of your family happens to be running for office in that particular party. And there’s someone in every family running. Anyway, adults and children alike paraded down the beach in a stream of purple, supporting not the policies or even the promises of a candidate but simply his giant face, whitened by some editing program, looking down on the crowd.

Little Carla, the three year old who didn’t want to go too far out into the river, had no problem at all wondering into the breakers after some time on my hip. We had fun, I took sort of a nap amidst the thundering music played by giant speakers in the back of an SUV, and when we got ready to leave I was definitely ready. We got in the car and headed out, but stopped at a colmado a short way away. I thought they were refilling their water gallons, but as it turned out, her brother had bought a large beer, and her husband, the driver, had every intention of drinking on the drive home. I think she thought it was funny how concerned I was about it, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t like it too much when he had to give up his drink, but when I said I was uncomfortable, she understood, to my great relief. I’m still pretty sure he wasn’t completely sober. I really did like this family, they were so sweat to me, but I couldn’t believe that these were two educated people with their three children in the backseat of a car during the most notorious week of the year for drunk drivers. And that’s the DR.

I got home safely, though. I’d almost forgotten the joys of guagua transportation, bounding along on squeaky metal seats, men hopping on and off the bus to sell junk. Morena, one of my dona’s daugthters, and Jasmine, her sister-in-law, picked me up from the bus stop and walked me home. They were concerned about me walking by myself in the dark. Overall, from start to finish, I thought those two days were lovely, a true display of both the positives and negatives of being part of a Dominican family.

To wrap up the weekend, my host brother took me to a small gathering at what I later learned was the house of a voodoo practicing family, though the Christian influence was prolific. I watched men singing and playing the drums and people dancing. We didn’t stay very long, but it was great to see that there are Dominicans who embrace their African heritage.

And here I am in bed, hoping the dogs stop barking long enough for me to fall asleep and that I don’t dream about the presentation I have to give in Spanish on Tuesday.