WOW

This is one of those times when I have so much I’m just bursting to tell and I don’t even know how to start. It’s like when I first got to country and every day was so much of an adventure and I didn’t know how to begin to write it all. I tended then to go chronologically, so perhaps that’s what I should do now.

Sunday evening I got a call. Could I please shuffle my schedule around to attend a med mission, to help interpret, just outside Santiago? These med missions are very popular, so getting invited to attend is difficult. I had petitioned the med mission committee (one of the many Peace Corps volunteer committees) to attend 2 other missions previously and been turned down both times. So I was thrilled that I was asked to come (apparently there had been a miscommunication and the committee hadn’t scheduled anyone for the mission), so not only was it not competitive to get to go, but it also wouldn’t count in the 2 med missions I’m allowed to partake in during my service because I wouldn’t be able to be there for the entire time.

I got to the mission on Tuesday. It was a bit of an adventure to find the place, but once I did I found it was beautiful. I found my way to the clinic and floundered, entering the clean areas without a face mask, hair net or booties over my shoes. Then I met some nurses who helped me get straightened out and put me to work registering patients for their surgeries. I took their personal information and then they were seen by the doctor to decide if they needed to be scheduled for this mission or for another in November. All of the patients were there because they suffered from hernias or similar problems (such as hydroceles, needing circumcisions, and cysts), and most patients were males. (Hernias are more common in males because the canal through which the testicles fall at the beginning of life sometimes doesn’t heal fully as the body develops. So the intestine is able to press through that muscle from that weakness (the definition of a hernia). They can also development when someone exerts themselves too much, such as doing too much heaving lifting.) I helped the doctor communicate with the patients a few times for some of the patient’s initial consults. If they were scheduled for the current mission they would move on to the waiting room (all patients needed to arrive at 7:00AM without having eaten anything for the previous 7 hours and wait for their turn) either that day or another day during the week. They tended to move small children up to the front of the list and completed 5 or 6 surgeries in a day in 2 rooms, so between 11 and 12 a day total.

So besides the clinic, my other role was the escort them from the pre-op to the OR. I would talk them off to sleep, and if the doctors decided to use local anesthetics I would stay by the patient to talk them through the surgery. I would periodically remind them they were doing a good job, that we were taking good care of them, that they were being strong and brave, and sometimes tell them if the doctors asked me to that a shot might sting and that it was important to hold still. If the doctors decided to give a general anesthetic then I simply had to be there to talk the patient off to sleep and be there when they started to come back. In the meantime I could circulate, watching surgeries or helping the kids in the waiting area to see their way to the coloring books that the doctors and staff had brought with them.

So Tuesday was a busy day. In the morning I worked mostly in the clinic, and then helped in a few surgeries, just with interpreting and sometimes running errands. I couldn’t get to sleep on Tuesday night because I couldn’t stop thinking about all that I had seen that day for the first time: human flesh being cut, human flesh being burned, human flesh being pinched, human flesh being tugged, human flesh being drained of its liquids, human flesh being removed, and human flesh being sewn back up. I’d never seen a surgery (or really much more than getting my own blood drawn) so close before, and even when I was so tired from being on my feet (the first time I’ve had to stand for so long probably since college) I couldn’t sit because I couldn’t peel my eyes away from what they were doing on those operating tables.

Wednesday was when the real fun began. After spending the morning in the clinic, I spent the afternoon in surgeries and found myself getting the opportunity to scrub in on a surgery, a hydrocele on an elderly gentleman. Before I even knew I’d be scrubbing in on his surgery I got to know him a little bit. He was very stoic, and then I talked him off to sleep as he muttered things I couldn’t make out.

Dr. Steve helped me to scrub in and was very cool about it. He then led the way into the OR and I followed, arms above my waste and touching nothing. In the OR I got a sterile gown on and a pair of gloves. It was really tricky to get the gloves on without letting my fingers slip out of the gown, but I had to do it to keep everything sterile. Once I was covered, I moved to the operating table and Dr. Steve told me to put my hands on the table. I left them there (terrified a bit to move them even ever-so-slightly because I don’t trust myself or my movements too much) until after the procedure had ended, he and Dr. Lora asked me to take a pair of tweezers. I held them pretty steadily. Then Dr. Lora asked me if I’d ever done any sutures before. (Earlier she’d let another non-medically trained person do a suture and I flipped! Why was he doing that, I wondered, and later felt slightly better when he told me he was pre-med. So at least he had that experience.) But where would I ever have done anything even remotely close to suturing? “No,” I told her, and I figured that was the end of that.

“Well why don’t you come around the table to my side over here.” I did as I was instructed and went to Dr. Lora’s side. She handed me another set of tweezers with a fish-hook-looking needle in them and instructed me to suture the patient. I’d seen them doing sutures for about 12 hours at that point, and to be honest, it did look pretty easy. So I decided not to defy my superior and go with the faith she’d shown in me. I picked up the instrument and looked down at the patient’s skin, which was almost completely sutured at that point. My hand didn’t shake at all, something I just realized, so I guess I actually felt confident. I pressed into the skin slightly, which was the easy part, and then the needle got stuck. Dr. Steve and Dr. Lora told me “it’s all in the wrist, just turn your wrist like you would a doorknob.” I didn’t get the instruction at first and sort of tried to jiggle the needle in (like you might on tough fabric.) Finally their instruction semi-clicked and I got the needle through. The cord they were using to suture the man was incredibly thick and sticky, as they’d said, it wasn’t what they were used to using in the US. (A lot of their working materials had been donated.) When I pulled the cord through it stuck, so I yanked a bit, but I got it. Then they handed it to me again and instructed me to suture the final one. So I took the instrument again and realized, “all I have to do is turn my right wrist,” and I did, and it went through perfectly. It felt so incredible to hear what they’d said and really get how that would work, and then get to see it work perfectly!

Then it was just such a rush to realize I’d just sewn a human beings’ skin. Wow. Me, someone with zero medical experience. Wow.

The day stayed good from there: I found out the grant I solicited to pay for the funds to my library project had gone through and I’d received the $4,999.97 that I’d asked for! The check is waiting for me in the capital right now. Then later I learned that the community service group I was a member of in college would like to donate the money they raise from the event I sort of started there to my stove project! Wow. Watching surgery, participating in surgery and then some great news about my work back in my community!

Thursday was another awesome day. I’d gotten used to the surgery aspect a little bit more as well as the flow of the center. So, I really took the opportunity to interact with patients. It didn’t hurt that the first 4 patients were all children. I felt nothing more strongly than the desire to be at their sides, reaffirming what everyone else was saying, that they’d be fine, but also wanting desperately to share with them that which I’d just come to appreciate so much: that what was about the happen to them was actually pretty interesting. The first patient was a 3 year old boy with a hernia. The doctors gave him a mask to play with and his mother stayed with him until we had to take him back. He got very scared and had a hard time once we were back there. He kept moving his head around, trying to avoid having the gas mask anywhere near his face. We all felt so bad trying to hold him still while the anesthesiology RN held the mask to the boy’s face. I tried to stroke his arm or his legs, which I found myself holding as still as I could while he kicked them. His surgery went well (as they all did) and his recovery was pretty smooth.

Next was a 14 year old. I could tell he was nervous when I first met him, so I tried to help him get his mind off of it. He was pretty hesitant to say much. The anesthesiology RN came back to start his IV. He got very scared and began to cry.

Imagine growing up in a small rural village, never going to the doctor until your abdomen hurt so badly you couldn’t take it. So the doctor says you need surgery and some American is going to do it. Perhaps you’ve never seen a white person up close before. You go to some Catholic retreat center, wait a few hours to be seen, they tell you to take off all of your clothes and then they say come back tomorrow. You don’t get to eat anything, come back the following day and wait a few more hours. People with terrible Spanish accents in ridiculous-looking outfits keep telling you that nothing is going to hurt and that you’re going to be okay. Someone comes at you with a giant needle, as she keeps insisting nothing is going to hurt. You know by now that everyone around you is lying to you and trying to get you to shut up. All you want to do is cry.

So at that point I about lost it, all internally of course, as I have learned is the most effective way to deal with Dominican ridiculousness. The Dominican woman (with a beard) who was assisting in the pre-op room told the 14 year old to stop crying because he was a man and men don’t cry. I was waiting for it, and I knew I’d hear it, and even though I was anticipating it, it still made me want to smack her in the face to hear it. It’s like when I see a mother here get frustrated with her crying baby and she hits him to get him to stop crying. And then she wonders why it doesn’t work.

Don’t tell a 14 year old boy nothing about what is about to happen to him and then tell him not to cry when he gets freaked out. Be honest with him; if he is almost a man as you say, then rationalize with him as adults. Sadly, it wasn’t just the Dominicans that held the patient to such a high standard.

I took the boy back to the OR. He walked, slowly because they’d given him a sedative, and as he was drifting in and out of consciousness, his body reacted and he tried to pull his arms up. His mother had told the doctors he couldn’t get a general anesthetic because her sister had had one a few years ago and had never woken back up. It’s a pretty typical story here. The doctors in the OR decided the boy wasn’t going to handle the local anesthetics and gave him a general one. Then one of the doctors made a comment in a frustrated tone that I couldn’t wrap my head around, “The kid’s 14 and this is such a simple surgery.”

But does the kid know this? Had anyone explained to him what was going to happen to him? Had he had a chance to have his questions answered, if he’d even learned the lesson that we in the US still haven’t even learned yet: what are you supposed to ask a doctor anyways?

I could have given the doctor some more slack if he hadn’t spent 2 years in another Latin American country, working and learning the language. Surely in those 2 years he’d been able to see what the poor experience in relations to Americans, white people in general, or other people of authority: total submission even if no one has told you what you’re submitting to.

So, if it’s not clear yet, I absolutely understood why the boy was freaked out and I wasn’t too keen on the idea to go over the mother’s head on the general anesthetic issue. But I’m not a doctor. I’m going to have to write that one down so I (and others) remember it.

He woke up slowly and was very groggy. He seemed to remember little of the moments before we went into surgery.

The next patient was a little 6 year old that I hung out with for a while before it was his turn to go back. I taught him how to give a high five, and I showed him some interesting things in the office so that he might look at the experience as an interesting one and not a frightening one. I showed him the coloring books and we talked a bit too. The doctor came back to examine the boy and realized the boy had had open heart surgery a few years ago. So he was going to be an old pro at this everyone thought. Luckily, they were all right. The doctor, the same one who’d made the comment I didn’t like about the 14 year old, won back some points with me. He asked the 6 year old if he liked planes and pilots. The boy did. “Would you like to fly a plane like one?” So he gave the boy a mask and told him later someone else would hold it so he and the boy could fly the plane. He was incredibly stoic as we walked him back the OR. And they started to fly the plane. It took a while and his body reacted to the gas, flinching a bit, but we held him and within minutes they started the procedure. I stayed and rubbed his hand and any other part of him I could get to safely. His surgery went well and his recovering was slow. I tried to stay by his side as much as possible. As he came to, he shook from the shock of the medicine and change in body temperature. After a while he began to wake up and started to cry, which is apparently quite common. He cried for a long time, and sure enough, it only took a little while for his parents, who had joined us in post-op, to start to tell him to stop crying. My tipping point was hearing the father tell him, “you’re a man, and you’re my son. Men don’t cry.”

I’m not a violent person, but if someone had set that man’s face in my left hand, and pulled my right one back, it would have been hard not to smack him in the face. Not only is it obviously very acceptable for a 6 year old boy to cry about anything, I think it is very acceptable for him to cry when it’s a reaction to the medication someone’s given him! Also, he was probably scared and cold, and being made embarrassed to be crying certainly doesn’t help a person to stop crying.

Nice thinking dad.

I attended the beginning of a woman’s hernia surgery and then had to leave to get back to my town to do some other pretty awesome things. On the drive over to my town I sat next to a small girl with crossed eyes. I’ve always thought of Dominican children as very cute, but when I looked at this girl I felt this incredible feeling to comfort her, and she wasn’t even in any pain. It was as if my medical experience made me look at the human body as something else, something that could be cut and prodded and pulled, almost like a fleshy machine, but the time working with the patients made me realize how profound we are, and how vulnerable. It’s a strange feeling, and I know I’m not expressing it well. Perhaps other people who have had a similar experience can relate.

The first thing I had back in my town was a session in the school about hand washing. (30 seconds of rubbing with soap, and use warm, running water! Count the ABCs (or Happy Birthday twice) to know when you’ve gotten to 30 seconds. Then rinse and dry with a clean, dry towel.) Saturday is International Youth Day, so in celebration of that I also decided to give out some toys to the small girls and boys! I had been supplied the bulk of the toys from my sister just about a year ago and had neglected to give them out because I couldn’t think of a fair way. At first I wanted to raffle them off to women in my women’s group classes (nutrition and first aid.) But when I had so many attendance problems, it seemed like a better idea to not reward the un-dedication with such awesome toys. Then I thought we could sell raffle tickets to the entire community on behalf of the Escojo group, but for our first run we sold less than 1/3 of what we had said we could sell (again from a lack of dedication on the part of the kids and community members) and so I decided to celebrate International Youth Day with a great hand washing session and toy prize.

I got to the school a lot later than I was hoping to because I had a really hard time pulling myself away from the mission, and ended up waiting for a bus to leave Santiago for almost an hour. I got to the school a little past 4 and ended up keeping the kids until past 6! They were supposed to get out of school at 5! The reason it went so long is because I did small group demonstrations of hand washing outside. There were 36 kids so we did 6 groups of 6. I’m not sure if they really even ended up getting the point that we have to wash with soap all over our hands for 30 seconds. Hopefully. At the end my goal was to ask them questions about the lesson and see what they remembered. Ideally the correct answers would earn the kids a prize. But, I wanted to give the cooler toys (such as the dolls and etch-a-sketches) to the younger kids so I separated the groups again. The kids who could answer a question got a toy first and then I just handed the rest of the kids their toys.

I think what prompted my sister to spend all of her Christmas money on the toys in the first place was because when I first got to my town I felt so sad to look at all of the kids here who had crappy, white, imitation Barbie dolls to play with. It made me really angry that no one was giving them (or perhaps no one was making) dolls that looked like they do. And the quality also made me angry. I think I could safely say that every single toy I ever had growing up was the utmost in quality (perhaps besides the toys inside goody bags from birthday parties) and the dolls I had always looked just like me. The boys’ situation here wasn’t much better: broken trucks, white action figures. You get the drill.

The enthusiasm definitely decreased as the age of the kids receiving the toys increased. By the end I was exhausted, trying to hand girls’ toys to the girls and boys’ toys to the boys and take pictures of the whole thing. The kids at the end (once the good toys my sister and mom had bought had already been handed out) got little games and things I’d collected over the year and were much less thrilled. That’s when I stopped taking pictures. Towards the end we also had some parents show up with their smaller children who weren’t yet school-age and I tried to scramble some stuff together.

I saved one doll for the little girl who shows up in a lot of my photos. I knew she was the main reason my sister had decided to buy the dolls, so I thought it was only fair that she get something. I gave her a stuffed doll and when she got it she was so thrilled. Her smile was so genuine and it made me so happy because I knew how happy it would make my sister.
I took a quick shower and then went to start our Escojo meeting. We’re going to try to form (another, hopefully more successful) new group, this time with kids from the community within walking distance and the kids who live here in my community who were too young last year. I had my doubts that people would actually show up, and can’t tell you how thrilled I was to see not only a huge group of kids from the original members, but also a ton of new faces. The new people were all super enthusiastic and very patient. We had no power so I lit 3 candles in the center of the room (also thanks to Julie- my sister savior) and we powered on. The 4 kids in charge of our Escojo group gave the first lesson: “What is Escojo?” At the end I talked just a little bit more. I get the feeling that this group is going to be a lot easier to start than the one last fall. The new kids all participated in the activities and helped us to quiet down the older members. It was great-there were moments when I could actually hear the person who was talking up front. What a nice change.

After a few days like these who could complain? Certainly not me.

Oh No

This happened after the med mission and toys and new group meeting, but I didn’t want to end that blog entry on a sad note, so I decided to place it in another one.

The only news today is that there’s a Haitian man sleeping in the kitchen just behind my house. When my first neighbor told me this I thought to myself I wish I had an extra blanket and pillow to put out there. But when my second neighbor also alerted me to the situation, and told me that the man is “crazy” I told him not to worry about it. He mentioned that my doors are easily opened by someone who wants to, and it is true. I’ve heard too many stories of volunteers’ homes being broken in to, so I can’t really insist that my neighbor let it go. I’ve learned time and again it’s usually wise to trust the locals. So my neighbor wants to call immigration and get the man sent back to Haiti. It of course makes me sad to be directly involved in a situation like this, but my neighbor hasn’t called immigration on any of the other illegal immigrants living here, so it makes me wonder if there just might be a real threat with this man. My heart goes out to him, especially if he does suffer from mental illness, but I suppose it is better that I let my neighbor look out for him than risk having my house entered.

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Of Rats and Me

So, we’ve known the rats have been back for some time. I was too busy/didn’t have the right equipment to take care of them before I went home, so I assumed the worst had happened while I was gone: rats had taken over my home. Luckily, my assumptions were far (ish) from the truth. There was definite evidence that they’d made themselves at home in my home, despite my absence, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it could have been.

Once back and better equipped, I was ready to take these little f**ckers on, head on, or rather, neck-on. As I prepared the traps, I noticed one had broken and when I went to fix it, the whole thing exploded on my pointer finger. It didn’t break, but the trap did, and if it hadn’t when it spontaneously combusted, then I’ll bet it did when I chucked it out the window in an angry fit. Why oh why, I wondered, doesn’t the Peace Corps equip us with ice packs? I spent the day without being able to use the finger and noticed some blood under the fingernail. (For some reason it’s an injury I see all the time among volunteers here. Are there really that many exploding rat traps out there?)

I’ve set the trap out now for a few nights and so far caught just one. I was on the phone with a friend when the trap snapped. “What was that?” he asked me. I went into the other room to see what had happened, cautioning Lina to stay away. The poor little guy looked nothing like the rats I had caught the last time. They’d been big, dark grey and dirty. This one, at least from how it was positioned in the trap, looked smaller, fluffy white and brown, and rather helpless. Still, I decided, I would not take pity on these things that chew through everything in my house and leave their droppings around to let me know just how much track they’ve covered. They were the enemy, my enemy.

It didn’t make it any better when a few nights later I caught another, well, almost. The trap snapped, and I heard the squealing. I figured the squealing would stop and I’d be able to release the dead body in the back yard the next day. But it didn’t stop. Even when I put on the light to peer into the corner where the dying rat lay, it continued to squeal, and thrash about, banging the trap into the wall, a rather disturbing sound for someone trying to go to bed. I decided to cash in on my offer to yell for help from my neighbor, having decided that I can handle the rats when they’re dead, but not when they’re dying. Almost one year I made it without having to call him to kill a mouse, rat, cockroach, snake or tarantula. (That was mostly because I didn’t have too many of those animals stop by the house, that I knew of, but the ones that did I was able to take care of.) Freddy came over and went to the corner where the trap lay, empty. “I guess he escaped,” he told me. So the thrashing had all been an attempt to release itself from the trap, and not a last dying call for mercy.

Even as I write this, I can hear them having a dance party above me, scraping their claws over the between the “ceiling” and the tin roof, and thumping their tails all over as they move.

Broken Reasoning in the Mountain

roA gay PCV friend of mine told me a story. His community members don’t know he’s gay and the other day while they were out in the hills, working on a project, one of the workers began to explain how homosexuality is the worst thing in the world. Most of the other workers just sat and listened. One rationalized that ‘while it may be the worst thing in the world, the times are changing and now if you go out to bars you’ll see male couples.’

The first man told a story about how one time he was riding in a public taxi and a male couple he suspected of being gay got in. Well, the man was so offended he demanded that the taxi driver pull over to let him out. There was so debate over whether the man should pay for the ride, and the taxi driver said, ‘you were in the car for such a short distance,’ so he let the man out without charging him. Then the man told his fellow workers, ‘I didn’t even tell the cab driver why I was getting out.’

Pity, I told my gay friend, his powerful statement just went to pot.

Back in the DR

I’m back in my town and I must say the transition back has been pretty smooth. I spent a few days in Santiago and came back here on Monday. As I drove in I felt good, looking at the window and again reminding myself of how beautiful it is here. It’s sunny (perhaps too sunny) and warm (perhaps too warm-never thought the day would come when I’d complain about the warmth-admit it, you’ve never heard/read me say it’s too hot) but very green, and green is good. I don’t want to say that I miss the clouds in Chicago, but I sorta do. But still, green is good.

So, the drive in was good, and when I got here, the first thing I did was sweep. The dust was unbelievable. I had to sweep everything after dusting all of the furniture. I also had to cut a vine down that had grown in through my window. I must say, that was a first. I was glad to see hardly any evidence of rats (perhaps they’ve moved on?) and no evidence of pigeons having entered. After cleaning I could unpack. That all took awhile and then I was very sweaty so I bathed in really old water (and tried not to think about it too much, I reasoned that it was probably cleaner than the rivers or lakes I’ve bathed in before) and then I went to get Lina. I took a video of our reunion which you can see on the photo website. It was a lovely reunion. She is usually so excited to see me that she can’t stop barking but this time she seemed so relieved to see me that she couldn’t bark. She is as cute as I remembered and getting to see her again was one of the things that helped me the most to stay positive about coming back.

I also tried to stay positive about seeing the people again and it was great to see them. After I got Lina I went to a Three King’s Day party and just about everyone was there. Everyone was very happy to see me and asked me about my trip, and my family. They wished me a happy new year and I did the same. It dawned on me that one year ago I was at this same party and I took a lot of the same pictures I took this time, of a lot of the same kids, just one year younger. It struck me because that means I’m so much closer to the end of my service than I am to the start. Sure it’s dawned on all of you already I’m sure, but this was really the first memory I have of something that I did the year prior. (That’s probably because a lot of the things I did when I first got to my site were forgettable and I missed all of the December-Christmas celebrations this time.) It’s an incredible thing to consider because after being home I realize just how great a place it is (as if I’d really forgotten) and how much I want to be there again, while also realizing that I don’t have that much time left to get a ton done. As much as I want to be home among friends and family again, I know these 10 months or so are going to go much too quickly for my work.

After the party I checked in with the new president of Escojo who filled me in on all of the wonderful, productive things she has been up to. They managed to get the land we want to put the library on down to 2/3 of the original price and she’s started to solicit donations from town residents and family as well as from the mayor and important people. I was so impressed with all that she had done, despite some obstacles, and feel confident that when I leave, Escojo will continue to be active and do a lot of great work in the community. This was like my test run for when I actually leave, and I feel pretty confident that it’ll be okay when that day comes.

But my biggest concern about coming back was that everyone would pull the very Dominican thing and ask me, “What did you bring me?” So far it’s been okay, only one person asked me it seriously and I think she’s got to realize on some level that I didn’t owe her anything, so maybe she was kidding. (I doubt it, but still.) My answers were well rehearsed. For someone who I thought was kidding I said, “What did you save me?” and for women who I thought meant it I said, “I brought back lots of things to raffle in my new health class.” That didn’t seem to appease the one woman, but I don’t care. I really don’t have as much money as they think I do, and even more relevant is the lack of space I had to bring things back. Even with 2 checked bags (both weighing in at 50lbs) and 2 carry-on bags I wasn’t able to bring as much back as I would have liked. I got some candy and other small gifts for people as well as things for 2 raffles and lots of books for the library. (I did bring back an outfit for the granddaughter of the woman who watches Lina because she asked me to bring back some old clothes if we had any, and because I felt like I should bring something back for watching Lina for almost 4 weeks.) But otherwise all of what I have is communal, so people should be okay with that. I still haven’t seen everyone so we’ll see.

That night I hung out at the fritura with Lina and some people I hadn’t yet seen. I ate fried pork and fried plantains and felt good again. I really hope that feeling lasts. It’s nice to feel appreciated and missed.

Home Sweet Home

I spent a few days in Chicago and then flew to DC for some catching up time with friends and a wedding, which was lovely. It was nice to walk around DC and be reminded, yet again that it’s a great city and definitely where I want to go when I get back to the US. Seeing my friends from college was wonderful, and I was so pleased to find out that even in this crappy economy, they are all doing well, exceptionally well in fact. I got out a lot, and then on my last day it all caught up with me (or maybe it was just a Dominican curse) and I got real sick. When I got back to Chicago my mom and I went straight to the hospital to get me checked out. 9 days after my symptoms started and 4 days after I went to the hospital I was able to find out that I’d caught an intestinal bacteria. By that time my body (I thought) was fighting it off pretty well… a few days later I found out it wasn’t, so I began taking pills and rid myself of the stupid bug once and for all.

I spent some time catching up with high school friends, and did the tiniest bit of shopping. I cooked and baked a lot of delicious food with my crafty mom and sister just before the holidays. Christmas was a blast. I got to see my older brother for a few days before it and he left on Boxing Day; it was hard to say good bye again (we’d just gone 15 months without seeing one another.) My younger brother got home a few days before Christmas so we were all able to be together for the big day. We went to my aunt and uncle’s house and ate TONS of good food, including delicious mac and cheese. Oh, and then I found out my cousin was engaged! Oh, and a few days earlier I’d found out that a friend of mine has a baby! So, yes, life moves on even when I’m not around to boss people around (and tell them to slow down a bit…) Her fiancé seems very nice, I’d never met him before. Later in the evening my older brother dressed up as Santa and made us all laugh, and then as old people tend to do, everyone got tired and we all went home.

I spent New Year’s quietly in my house with my parents and 2 aunts. The Chicago television countdown was quite a letdown but we managed to enjoy ourselves anyways… well I at least I did. Again, it was another early night.

Only 2 days later it was time to leave! Bu then guess what happened?!?! I met up with another PCDR volunteer in the waiting area (what luck, right?) and on our flight to Miami, we had some maintenance problems which led me to (correctly) predict that we’d not make it to our connection in Miami. So, I talked the flight attendant into letting me and my new friend off of the plane and onto flights for the next day, with no extra charge. I just didn’t want to get stuck in Miami, and we would have otherwise. Good work me! So now I’ll be back in my site 2 days later than predicted because my bus doesn’t run on Sundays.

I can’t tell you how nice it was to see everyone on my trip home. Obviously the nicest thing about coming home is the people (no matter how much I tend to talk about the food) and don’t get me wrong, the food was great too… and I miss these people… but I know 10 months will go fast, and then I’ll be back. Hear that? I’ll be back! See you soon Chicago!

My Kind of Town

My trip back home was a long one… it began with a bus ride from my town to the closest “city” and then another bus ride to the nearest major city. I was lucky to be accompanied by my host brother for the trip, which was nice. He said things like “good for you for having made it this long without going home,” and, “we’ll miss you, say hi to your family for us!” I went to the Hub in Santiago for the night, spent the night alone (watching Beaches and talking to my family back home.) The next morning I woke up early to get to the airport. When I reached customs and they found out I’d been living in the country illegally for a few months, they wanted me to pay a fine. (You see, PC is able to get us green cards to live in the DR but had some trouble with it right when it was time for me to go…) The man told me the fine was US $125 which I didn’t have on me. He asked how much I had and told me I could pay as much as I had. (Sound like he was going to pocket the money???) So I called a boss and VERY LUCKILY he picked up (which made me wonder, what if it hadn’t been a work day?) He told me he’d transfer the money to my account and that I should NOT pay the man, but speak to the man’s supervisor and get a receipt. So I did just that, after leaving the line to go get the money out of an ATM.

And thus began the stress of that day.

The flight from Santiago to Miami was fine. I watched Ghost Town. It was funny. I looked at Sky Mall and decided that it is the most frustrating thing for a PCV to read on their way home because it’s full of EXPENSIVE CRAP THAT NO ONE NEEDS BUT RICK PEOPLE STILL BUY. Sheesh.

When I got to Miami I found out that my flight to Chicago had been cancelled. I fought my way through a line, with people crying because their flights had been cancelled and I let them go ahead. I looked around at all of the strangers speaking English, who had light skin, and I freaked out a little, just a little. Americans looked so weird to me, and I really couldn’t figure out if it was just because I was in the US, if it was because I was in an airport, or if it was because I was in Miami. I decided it was the latter because people began to look much more normal when I got to Chicago… but it was still weird that they were speaking English.

I called home once I’d gotten myself on standby on an earlier flight to let my mom know about the change. Our agreement was that I wouldn’t call again unless I hadn’t gotten on the standby, but, luckily I did, so I didn’t call. I’d told her to watch the flight so that she would know when I’d land and wouldn’t need to talk to me directly. (You see, I didn’t have a cell phone that would work in the US.) So I landed in Chicago, early, hoping that my baggage would be on my flight. I waited for word from my family and for my baggage for one hour, walking aimlessly looking for a payphone and for some indication where my bags would be, if they’d ever get there. One hour was a long time and just as soon as my bag arrived, so did my family and I felt a great relief in the form of crying. I was tired, frustrated, and happy beyond belief to see them, and I let it out in that way… maybe it was a little weird, but my family didn’t mind.

We went for hot dogs on the way home, at my insistence. I had my favorite, a hot dog with grilled onions and BBQ sauce, cheese fries and a chocolate milk shake. Yum. I used to go to this hot dog place a lot on my way home from the airport during college and it was nice to do it again now. We caught up, ate tons, and laughed.

One Year Conference

A little over 1 year into our service us health and water volunteers got together with our bosses to discuss our first year and our year ahead. The conference, like all PC conferences, was 2 nights long. It was held in the mountains and was a bit cool, but definitely doable. We spent time giving presentations of what we’ve been up to, how it’s been going and if we’ve been successful or not so much with our health goals: 1) nutrition for women and their families (and gardens), 2) sex ed for youths, 3) reproductive health for women and their families. (I feel I’ve done pretty well with numbers 1 and 2 and haven’t started with number 3 yet.) We were able to help one another generate ideas for future projects as well.

The last day of the conference all but 1 of us headed north to a restaurant which cooks delicious Indian-Dominican food and has rooms and a pool. We rented out the whole place and had a ton of fun. The food was great (and some of it was even spicy which was great because spice is a rare find in the DR.) We took some great photos of ourselves jumping into the pool and other such nonsense.

The next day I had to be among the first to go back to my town because I was supposed to have a meeting to discuss possible places to put the library. It didn’t end up working out the way that I thought it would but we were able to decide to work together (me, the youths, and other community members) to BUY the perfect piece of land, which hopefully will work! Keep your fingers crossed! The next day I wrapped up a lot of loose ends because the day after that, I left to go home for over 3 weeks! The night before I left my town my youths threw me a huge party which was SO great! They bought me Christmas presents and made me feel incredibly appreciated and loved. A few of my youths got really choked up to see me go and made me swore I’d come back to them. I know they didn’t have to worry, and now that I’m in the airport on my way back to them, it seems like I was right! I told myself to remember how good they made me feel so that I could ease myself into the transition back south easily. It’s always a struggle to leave home, but I know there will be some happy faces when I get back!

Thanksgiving

The week leading up to the blessed holiday was a busy one. I volunteered a while back to compile the photos of volunteers from the last year into a slideshow for viewing at the Thanksgiving party. So, I had to go to the capital a bit early to put together the finishing touches for the slideshow. (I also signed up to help MC the talent show at the party.) During my time in the capital I helped some members of the baking committee with their treats, at the house where I was staying chocolate-chocolate cookies were made as well as 25 pecan pies. We were fortunate enough to be put up by some embassy and USAID families, and I got to stay at a lovely house with room for me and 4 friends. We had a lot of fun playing games, watching good DVDs, using their WIFI, eating their delicious food and taking hot showers with water pressure. It was lovely.

The finished product of the slideshow was incredibly well-received and if I do say so myself, it was pretty awesome. I spent way over 24 hours on it (not all in one sitting of course, I’d planned it for months and worked for it for a few weeks leading up to Thanksgiving week) and it was well worth it. The sound track, which is typically what can make or break these things, was incredible (each song at some point in the year prior had struck a chord with me in some way with regard to the PC experience). I got a lot of compliments on the soundtrack and people liked the way I set the music to the photos and videos. It was incredibly worth all of the effort I put it and it was a lot of fun.