A Nightmare Part 3

On Monday we present our mini-diagnostics. It will be one of only a few times when I've presented in Spanish and I've had scarcely four days to prepare. It's been only about 36 hours since I decided to Let Go Or Be Dragged. I began my reserach in a state of indecision and intimidation which I allowed to impede my progress. When my original presentation topic proved impractical, I tried to force it. Had this been college, I would have asked for an extension, but we only have five weeks for CBT and every day is carefully planned to take advantage of that time. Meanwhile, my youth group practicum, a four-week group project, was beginning in earnest.

Trash-strewn lots like this are a common sight in the DR. The sign reads,
"No Dumping, Please."

I could well have panicked had I not taken a step back and looked at how I could learn from this experience. Even to reach this stage of the assignment I was operating on a level far beyond any development work I've done in the past. I was conducting interviews with host country nationals and practicing speaches in Spanish. For the first time in my life, the time constraint was an asset instead of a barrier. And it was because I had decided to let go of my attachment to my original idea and let the process guide me. I imagine this lesson will be of vital importance when I am at last in my 2-year community. Indeed, it may be useful even beyond my time in the Peace Corps.

A Nightmare Part 2

At 1:30 am I walked out onto Daisy and Ronaldo's front patio. From there the sounds of El Seibo's strip of clubs could be heard blasting house and dembow into the night. On Friday nights, these establishments become a sort of city commons, flooding the sidewalks and islands of space created by cars parked on the Avenida, El Seibo's main drag. People even mill about in the median strip, sipping their beers and taking in the scene.

El Seibo's deserted post office


I was about to go inside when I was struck with a realization. I was staring up at the stars when it dawned on me that it was the first time I'd seem them since I arrived at the beginning of much. In Santo Domingo, the night sky had been rendered a nondescript mat of black by ambient light. In the week since I arrived at CBT, I have been too caught up in training to notice.

A Nightmare Part 1

I awoke at one in the morning from a recurring nightmare. In the nightmare, I am enrolled in college. I have signed up for only two classes, the main purpose being to remain a student and thus retain the benefits of campus life. However, I am several weeks into the term and I have yet to attend a single lecture. This is a dire situation and, try as I might, instead of making the most of the time I have left, I only panic more as I try to invent a way out. The stress mounts until stirs me awake.

US Marines Corps footsteps burn holes in the Dominican flag: I found
this gym in the "library" where we receive training.



Taking some deep breaths, I relax and remember that I have once again believed this dream and the pressure is once again off. I haven't slept well since my second night in the country. This is partly on account of bad dreams. At night I am stabbed, kidnapped, broken up with, disowned. Even on nights that I don't wake up in a sweat having endured some awful ordeal, I am awakened by some mysterious force at three or four in morning.

Dominicanisms

I've decided to write down some of the peculiarities I've discovered here in the DR in order to capture them before I forget that they ever struck me as peculiar.

Me with host sisters Lorena, Libby, and a neighbor girl

Okay - The proper response to "gracias" (thank you) is not "de nada" (it was nothing) as is the case in every other Spanish-speaking place I've visited. In fact, in the month that I've been here, I've only heard this once. Instead, everyone responds "okay". I'm not sure if this means I'm not welcome. I kind of think people aren't accustomed to being thanked for things.


Dancing salsa with neighbor Karina. Note the look of boredom on her face.
She later told me need practice.

Chin - Dominicans have a word for a small amount of something. The word is "chin" (pronounced "cheen"). I suppose this translates pretty well to "bit", but for some reason I still giggle a little inside every time I hear it. Can't quite say why.

Host sister Marilu dances with a friend

Everybody is expected to know everything - In Dominican culture, it seems it is considered poor form to have any gap in their possession of the sum-total of human knowledge. As a result, I have yet to hear anybody use the words "no sé" (I don't know). Instead, they either give some vague answer that makes it clear they don't know or they just make something up.

Community-Based Training Continues

The days continue to roll by in El Seibo as I partake of CBT and settle in. It seems my host family is bent on killing me by over-feeding me and dancing me to death. On Sunday they had over some neighbors and friends, bought liter after liter of beer, and took turns thrusting me at various partners to dance bachata, salsa, and merengue. Above all they loved to watch Felicia dance with me and collapse in laughter after getting fresh with me to the tune of humping me or grabbing my butt. (I should note that Felicia is in her 40's and not in the least viewing me as prospect.)

ICT technical trainer Ann Smyntek leads a training session in the disused
library at Liceo Sergio Augusto Beras, El Seibo's only public high school

With each progressive beer the hilarity grew along with Felicia's agressiveness until it culminated in a sandwich of me, Felicia and Daisy grinding to house music. I'm pretty sure Felicia had a minor heart attack. She smokes and has high blood presser and by the end of the night she was complaining of pain in her arm. I didn't see her for the next three days during which everyone joked that I had killed her.

Felicia and Ronaldo shake their booties

El Seibo

El Toro del Seibo statue at the town's prinicipal intersection


On Thursday the time arrived at last to say goodbye to the capital and to two-thirds of the trainees as we went our separate ways to our various sites for Community-Based Training (CBT). My group, the ICT volunteers relocated to El Seibo, a charming little town that dates back to colonial times and was home to the mother of Duarte, father of the country's independence from Haiti in 1844.

Piracy is widespread an accepted. This guy made me buy something before I could
take his picture.

Our first morning in town we were given the task of finding and taking photos of as many things as we could from a list of 30 things. Examples included an entire family on a motorcycle and someone carrying things on his/her head. While I was hesitant at first, I found I rather enjoyed the scavenger hunt and that it was a good excuse to cruise around town for a bit and get the lay of the land.

Downtown El Seibo

My host family here is quite different from in the Capital. My host father runs a trucking syndicate and is actually a consistent presence in the home. He and Doña Daisy (my host mother) have three daughters, aged 22 to 26, and a grown son who is a doctor. The older two daughters have houses elsewhere in town. One of them has a baby of perhaps two or three months. The youngest daughter attends college in Santo Domingo and returns home to work during the weekends.

This truck drives around all day blaring advertisements from its enormous PA.

I spend most of my time with Daisy and her fun-loving maid Felicia learning about Dominican culture and making them laugh at my peculiar American responses to their questions and comments. In addition, they have another boarder, a development worker with KOICA, the Korean foreign aid agency. She is interesting, but speaks very limited Spanish and only sometime understands better when I repeat myself in English. Thankfully, there are no ear-splitting shouts of toddlers or children imploring me to join them to watch WWF and Kids' Network.


Wow is El Seibo's premier disco

Shame, Blame, and Rape

The stars shone brightly over Copan Ruinas the summer night, in 2001, when we watched our colleague pee his pants. We'll call him Sam. I don't remember his name, but I do remember he was one of the first to tear the sleaves from his Amigos de las Americas shirt to show off his shoulders and impress his friends. Last week, as I sat with my peers in the training center, I remembered the strange mixture of confusion and embarassment I felt that night so many years ago.

We were assembled after lunch Tuesday for what was to be a difficult portion of our safety training. The topic was rape. Peace Corps had produced a video with interviews of three female RPCVs (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers) who were victims of rape during their time in the Peace Corps. As the women on the screen emotionally recounted their respective ordeals, I glanced around with mounting discomfort, trying to determine what response was expected of me. Moments later my suspicion was confirmed that sincerity was out of the question.

The video was stopped to give the volunteers a chance for discussion. I'll never know what impulse prevailed in the next excruciating half hour. To say that emotions ran high would be an understatement. On my own part, the response was physical. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and hear ringing in my ears. It wasn't long before we were talking over one another, some voicing contempt, others making appeals, still others desperately seeking the middle ground. One person got up and walked out in protest. Another did likewise, then another.

Now that my fog of consternation has finally cleared and I am able to reason, I am left with an overwhelming sense of disappointment at two things. Firstly, I am disappointed to find that I submitted to an atmosphere where many people spoke, but nobody could be heard. Rather than ask questions I resorted to defensiveness and platitudes. Secondly, I am disappointed that I had was concerned with winning.

The night Sam peed for us, while I had the comfort of distancing myself, my feelings were similar. We were gathered for the culmination of eight weeks of volunteer service in rural Honduras, once again enjoying hot showers and fresh fruit. The urination was intended as the physical punchline to a comedy sketch he was performing. Some reacted in outrage. Others didn't care. In the end he was shamed in front of everyone and made to clean up, retreating to his room for the remainder of the trip. All that seemed to matter in the end was which side you were on.

Unlike in the episode in Honduras, last week there was no decisive closure. No Sam was made to answer for the discomfort we all felt; for trying to share something that some of us didn't want and wouldn't take. We all still have to live with rape. As a man, I can't understand what an American woman faces in a country like the Dominican Republic where men hiss at you from street corners and you are constantly reminded that you are different and thus a potential target of sexual violence. I can only do my best to be supportive and patient with my fellow volunteers.