How Many Times Can A Person Almost Die?

Seven? Because that’s how many times I almost died this past week.

It began Monday morning. My friend and I were traveling out of civilization (ie: where there are paved roads and cell phone signal) and in order to do this we had to cram our bodies onto the back of an over-stuffed pick-up truck. The man told us there was no more room for 2 other people (let alone room for our 2 friends who would be joining us in a town along the highway later on) and he had a point. When we got on the truck had tons of food in the form of rice sacks and giant oil cans, as well as us and all of our bags. We told the driver to go slow because we didn’t want to die. He agreed but made little effort to live up to his promise once we were on our way. Every time it got bad I yelled at my friend to grab me (I was positioned between her legs) and I reached for some stranger (who I then deemed as my boyfriend). He told me not to worry, just to grab on as much as I needed. I wondered why he wouldn’t make my job easier by moving his arm so I could hold it instead of his pant leg. Then my friend made me reconsider what it was I was even wondering. Of course the creepy Dominican man would want me to grab on to his pant leg every time I got scared.

Along the way we had two episodes which could have been much worse: my backpack (filled, luckily with fluffy items and not with my two, expensive cameras) and a shopping bag belonging to my friend (filled with granola bars and toilet paper) fell off the truck and rolled away from us down the hill. Both times we stopped and the driver sent a young man to get our stuff back. I didn’t realize it right away, but both bags took the drop and roll quite difficultly; unsurprisingly the shopping bag ripped (thank goodness for double-bagging) and my backpack got a tear in it and my water bottle, which was safely attached to the backpack with a cheap karabiner, got a few scrapes. But it could have been much worse. Thinking about the sound my backpack made as it rolled away still sort of makes me laugh. Haha.

We picked up our friends who miraculously were able to mount the truck in some fashion, and even managed to position themselves better than we’d been positioned. Figures.

We made it to the base of Pico Duarte, the point from which we would begin our ascent of the largest mountain in the Caribbean. It was cold, but I knew the worse was to come.

Tuesday morning we awoke to the same sound we’d fallen asleep: river. We ate quickly at our guides’ house and then packed the mules and began our hike. The first hour and a half went quite well. We made this part of the trek in record-breaking time. Little did we know how inaccurate the signs were in terms of their predictions about how long the trails would take, and little did we know how much harder it would get. I’d stretched before we began but I soon found out it hadn’t been enough, or maybe it’d just been the wrong parts. After just a few hours my groin muscle started screaming at me to stop so I decided there was no harm in getting up on the horse. It’d been a while since I’d ridden a horse but I found out when I mounted him without a single problem that I still had it. His name was Sebastian and he was a jerk. He couldn’t handle the downhill parts for the life of him, so after just 15 minutes I got down. I got back up on him for about an half-hour later in the day. But the last stop I was dead tired, both my lungs and my groin muscle were begging me to slow down and take some advil (which I realized I’d left at home). Luckily my friend gave me some of hers and I hit a second wind like no one has ever seen. Two of us were incredibly in shape and another friend and I were not so much. But with this second wind I was able to keep up with the faster two. It didn’t hurt that we passed the time playing movie games, during which I kicked everyone’s ass.

We got to our first cabin after an eleven and a half hour hike. We were so exhausted and I honestly thought that our guide was trying to pull our legs when he told us at dinner (our only real meal that day) that we’d be getting back on the trail at 3:30 the next morning.

Unfortunately for me, he was not joking and we had to do that very thing. Well let me just tell you know I HATED hiking in the dark. Everyone else had remembered to bring their headlamps but I had of course left my in good use at home. The idea was that we’d hike up to the top (the last 4 kilometers of ascent) before dawn to be able to watch the sunrise from the top. Me and my slower friend were never going to make it by dawn, even when she decided to get on a mule. But, it was pretty cool to watch the sun rise as we climbed. (I also did enjoy the pre-dawn hike a few times when I turned off my flashlight to look at the stars and listen to the absolute stillness. But it was freezing to stop, and so sweaty when I went, so it made more sense just to keep going.) Even though it was just 4 kilometers up on that second day, I honestly considered repeatedly not going up. I was SO sore and my lungs just hated the atmosphere up there and the fact that I’d been so busy with stoves before this trip that I did absolutely no preparation of myself for the trip.

When I made it up, I almost cried. Our other two friends were already up there and had been for some time. They were frozen to the bone, but waited for us to take some photos and enjoy the view for a little while. We’d hiked all of this with the dog of our guides’ and he amazingly came all the way up as well.

The trip down was almost worse than the trip up. This time instead of my groin muscle and lungs hating me, it was my feet, ankles and knees hating me. Oh and my fingers swelled up to at least twice their normal size. I went so slow, while my other slow party member was off on the mule. The worst part was when I could finally see our camp again. Once I realized we’d made it I slowed way down. When I got there I discovered another problem: blisters. I couldn’t move for a while, even to get the breakfast/dinner we ate more than anything on the trip: hot chocolate with oatmeal.

We leveled with the guides: it would not be possible to hike any more that day after the longest day of our lives and just 4 hours of sleep. They were hesitant but finally agreed (at which point I again almost cried): we’d set out again the next morning. So we all took naps. That night we hung out around the fire making marshmallows and pigging out.

Thursday we woke up at dawn to begin our third day of hiking. We’d been warned that this trail would be dangerous if it rained, and guess what, it rained. We had to hike up and out of a valley to hike back down into another one. My slower friend and I rode the mules all the way up and just before getting to the top, my friend got thrown off of hers. We were all so scared for her, but luckily she wasn’t hurt too bad. After that, and considering the temperature and the rain I thought everyone was insane to want to keep going away from our base. The guide had said we could get stuck down in this new valley if it continued to rain because the mules wouldn’t be able to make the hike. Still, it was supposed to be beautiful down there and I wasn’t about to lose my group so when I was outnumbered, even by my friend who’d gotten thrown from her mule, I went along. Again it was a slow day, but luckily it was mostly down hill; that is, luckily for my groin and lungs. It was rather unfortunate for my feet, ankles and knees and just disgusting for my blisters. (One even began to discharge green puss!) But we made it, and it was beautiful.

When we got there we went straight to a waterfall in a river to bathe our gross bodies. I managed to get the least submerged in the frigid water, but I was able to wash my hair, which was my biggest concern. It started to rain so we went back to camp and ate and ate and ate. I read my friend’s New Yorker (I’d forgotten what culture was like) and then slept like a baby.

Friday morning was another early one. Once again my friend and I would be mule-bound. She would again get on Moreno, the mule who threw her the day before and I would again be on Morena, the wonder-mule who could carry me, my bag, my friend’s bag and a few gallons of water. I was not using a saddle or stirrups, but had once again decided that it would be easier just to go with it and try not to picture my own death. Sitting up there was a little precarious, what with my legs just sort of dangling by the mule’s face, but we made a good pair. I know this because I never did fall off. And neither did my other friend. One of the guides never left her side and when I realized that he’d run straight into a giant mud puddle on the trail with one arm on the mule and one hand reaching for her back, it dawned on me that his entire responsibility for that day was to make sure she didn’t fall off of her mule again. It worked. We both came close, far too many times, but we didn’t fall once! Success! We did have to get down a few times where the trail was just too bad, and so we did get quite muddy. We left the mules for the last 2/3 of the trip as well. It was mostly downhill at that point (even though my main concern on the last day was simply the blisters from hell) so we were able to move faster. We continued to play movie games with the other two and before too long (much later after our guides predicted, but exactly when I’d predicted) we got back to base and were all still alive!

We showered, some drank the beer they thought they’d earned and I drank the coke I knew I’d earned. We sat around shooting the shit with our guides and their family and were entertained for a while by a neighbor who was quite drunk. He started his interaction by calling me “Hey blondie!” (Why is it, I wondered, that I am getting so much attention on this trip when I’ve never looked or felt worse!) He kept calling to me, even though I ignored him, and finally came over, offering to sell me his cabbage for just 2 pesos. I took a photo which only egged him on more. He stuck his whiskey bottle to his two teeth and begged me to keep taking his photo. He finally left us, greeting each flower as “hello mother, how is your daughter? And you daughter, how is your father?” as he walked away.

The next morning we rode the very truck we came in on out to the city, and back into civilization. Again it was driven far too fast, but again we didn’t die, although we did get a little car sick. I got back to my site on Sunday, after spending one night in Santiago. I am nearly completely physically recovered at this point. The only things left are the blisters which were a couple of layers deep so I don’t expect them to go away right away. I’ll let you know when they do though.

Today in Animals

When my friend was at my site learning how to make stoves I decided, with her help, that my rat problem had gotten out of hand and that something needed to be done immediately. So, we decided I would borrow my neighbor’s cat until November. She’s really cute and she’s NOT coming home with me! I named her months ago, Luna (moon, because she’s totally white), which I had completely forgotten, and I’m obviously smart enough to not call her Luna in a house where there live a Lina and an Eliza. So I’m calling her what I think is the only name that really fits a cat you’re unwilling to keep: Kitty. (But it’s also a really cute name.)

She and Lina do not get along and I know they never will. My friend and I tried a few things to get them to get along and they all failed. When she left I felt a bit like I wasn’t going to be able to handle the two animals on my own, but what I’ve been doing is leaving the cat in the house all day while I have Lina at stove construction, and then tying Lina up when I get home, tucking Kitty in one room, and then letting Lina have full range of the house. With stove construction, Lina and I spend very little time at home, so it works out pretty well anyways. Once Kitty is used to the house I’ll let her in and out of the back room so that she’ll still be able to come in to eat and hunt (which she will hopefully begin to do soon) but not get in Lina’s space. Lina can be a bit territorial.

But, if you can believe it, there is more news in the world of animals. At stove construction the other day I saw something quite frightening: my one neighbor’s dog came to the house where we were working and attacked one of the small dogs at the house. He really had the little guy in his jaws and he ended up only letting go when the mason smacked him in the side with a shovel. It was really scary to watch. When the dog got free he was obviously quite scared. At first I didn’t realize how badly he was hurt. He was bleeding a lot and went to hide behind the refrigerator. The mean dog’s owner ended up having to laso a rope around the little dog’s neck, right where it had been bitten to get it out of the corner. When he finally did the dog was such a mess. I did not take a step back because this felt like an emergency where I might actually be able to be of help maybe because I felt like I actually knew what needed to do, or maybe because I knew I’d take it more seriously than the Dominicans, or maybe a little of both. I got the hose and washed the dog’s neck thoroughly. The bleeding stopped and I got a look at the two areas where he’d been wounded, which were luckily not too deep and not too big. I told the owner to speak to him softly to calm him down and to make sure to wash the area with soap or alcohol (and not lemon and salt like the mean dog’s owner had said) and she mentioned she was going to get an antibiotic to give him as well. He made it through the night, which I took as a really good sign.
I was so grateful that Lina was not with me! I hadn’t been able to go to get her the night before because I’d gone straight from the bola race to a talent show in another town with my kids. Lina had been at every other day of stove construction and has been at the days since as well. She would have been tied up, so I can’t assume that the dog would have attacked her, but I’m just glad she got to avoid the whole thing.

Today at stove construction we got to see a good mixing of the animal kingdom. At one time in the house (where 13 people live, the most occupied house in the town) we had puppies from 2 litters (6), adult dogs (5), piggies (2), pigeons (2-3), hens (4), and chicks (10) all in the same 6 square foot area. I’m used to there being lots of hens and dogs, but the pigs were a new one, even for me, and I think Lina got a little scared. She’s not been enjoying the sounds that the metal used in the construction make, and with so many tiny animals around on top of that, I think she got a little stressed. She took it out on one of the animals but we got her to stop…still, it scared me and I’m nervous she’s nothing but a big bitch now. Oh and don’t ever think that she’ll share her food with you, because she won’t, and she’s all too happy to make you incredibly aware of that fact.

Bolas and Dead Things

Some of you might remember that last year I participated in a “Bola Race.” It’s a hitch-hiking race sort of like the Amazing Race in which male and female pairs form and this year we raced from Santiago to Rio San Juan on the north coast. It was an incredible time, just like last year. Our group theme this year (as me and my partner decided to go in a larger group until he ditched us/me at the last leg) was Ninjas and it wasn’t just very creative, but it was also a lot of fun. We didn’t have to explain to too many people that we were ninjas, and amazingly some people were able to identify that in an effort to be ridiculous (which is almost always a common goal among volunteers) we’d incorrectly depicted the flags of Japan and South Korea on our headbands! (Who knew Dominicans could be so culturally aware, and about Asia nonetheless!) The idea with the theme is just another chance to be, as aforementioned, ridiculous, as well as to have a reason to be needed the free lifts (in our case it was because we were ninjas and people should feel it necessary to help ninjas) and to avoid mentioning that we are with Peace Corps. Most of the time, although as aforementioned we like to be ridiculous, we don’t like to give Peace Corps a bad name.

It turned out to be quite an adventure as I’m sure you could imagine. We were doing pretty well, and might have even been among the first to arrive, but we weren’t in it to win, and we were with the planners of the event, so it would have been wrong for us to win anyways. The hotel was lovely; it overlooked the ocean with a small beach right next to it. The cold water was a nice relief from the heat of riding in the backs of trucks all afternoon but we were hungry and in need of waves, so after some food we went to Playa Grande which is said by some (who haven’t been to my beach) to be the best beach in the country. I will agree it is beautiful, the sand was soft, and the waves were quite enjoyable, but I still think my beach is better (and I’m not big on the waves.) I managed, even though I was outdoors for a good 10 hours, to avoid getting sunburned nearly everywhere. My knees were bright red at the end of the day, but thanks to a strict regimen of aloe vera gel, I was able to avoid pealing. (I’m telling those of you who burn-invest in it!)

The next day I went home, and had to pay for those rides. When I got back there was a large, black, gross, dead bug waiting for me at my front door. It dawned on me after I took a photo of it next to a ruler that this is the second time I’ve come home and found something dead at my front door. The first time I just thought it flew into the door and died, but now I’m wondering if someone is trying to tell me something…

Wholy Holy

On Holy Thursday, in preparation for Good Friday, a PCV friend of mine was going to go with some friends of hers from her town to get fish at the beach town near mine. She stopped through my town on the way to get me and her neighbors ended up knowing quite a few of my neighbors and we stopped by to say hi to quite a few people from my world. It’s always interesting and even a little bit weird for people from my life in my town to meet people from my PC life, but this topped all of that because it was Dominicans from another PCVs town who knew people in my town even before we each got to our towns. So we sat and talked a bit in English as they sat and talked in Spanish.

The fish at the beach was incredibly delicious! My favorite meal here, without a doubt is fried fish with fried sweet potatoes (but not the ones we have in the US) with a cold beer or a cold coke, depending on what time it is/sort of mood you’re in. My friend and I sat and visited with her neighbors and their friends at the beach as well as with two volunteers who live at the beach. Because it was Holy Week it was incredibly noisy with all of the traffic coming through to go to the beach.

I went back to visit with those two neighbors again the following afternoon and spent the night. I went to see the one volunteer’s library the following morning which was great because I’d been so focused on stoves for so long and realized, with her help, that I’m going to need to devote a lot of time to the library as well. I bought some materials to get more organized after my meeting with her and have been sporadically organizing the books to get them library-ready. Kids have been by to help and to read, and they mostly like books that have lots of pictures of different things like Spanish-English vocabularly books, books about the human body, and atlases. It has been really interesting to see which books they enjoy and which they leave on the shelves.
I successfully avoided eating the big Holy Week treat which is called “habicuelas con dulce,” which roughly translates to beans with sugar or sugar beans. Believe me; they are in no way jelly beans! It’s a dish a lot like a pudding, which is typically served cold consisting of beans, sweet water that cooked the beans, and little, round, soaked sweet crackers. I had it last year and a few times before and since then and decided to avoid it at all costs in the future. Anything “con dulce” is likely to be something that I don’t enjoy.

On Saturday we executed a talent show to raise money for the library. The idea was inspired in large part by a talent show which took place at the Escojo regional conference the weekend prior, which of all of the PC conference talent shows was definitely the best. It was so good that I even decided to participate in ours and formed a dance to the song “Nuna Nuna.” Me and 3 kids performed and won 3rd place (out of about 6 acts) which made me realize, you’ve got to give a prize to the PC volunteer who organized the event! Still, it was exciting. The 2 acts that placed better than mine were also dances, one consisting of one guy and 6 or 8 girls dancing appropriately, and one of 3 girls dancing quite inappropriately, even though they are all very self-respecting girls. During the time I was setting up for it (which you can probably imagine was a bit stressful) I was being introduced to a child from New York who is here visiting his dad’s family. He is eight and he lives in Brooklyn and his dad brought him over to the house to present him to me. (Dominican parents tend to be incredibly proud of their bilingual children, and rightfully so, especially at eight years!) The boy could not be cuter and talking with him about life and the talent show in particular was really fun. I forgot how many questions little American kids ask and he was full of them that night. Even though I was busy I was happy to answer them (which made me wonder yet again why I shouldn’t be an elementary teacher, and why I shouldn’t move to Nueva Yol to work with Dominican populations). He decided to perform a few jokes which he practiced with me: are you smart or are you a slave? (Then you say you’re smart.) Count to three. (And then when you do it proves you’re a slave.) I was a little bit distracted when it was his turn to go on and it took me a second to realize he was just standing there. He turned around to find me and asked me to come out on the stage. He told me he’d forgotten what it was he was supposed to say, so I reminded him, and then he told me he forgot the Spanish words, so I reminded him. The audience wasn’t perhaps as forgiving as an American audience might be so they needed a little encouragement to laugh and clap, but I think he still felt pretty good at the end. It was an interesting night to say the least.

And I haven’t even mentioned the most interesting part about it: it was also a coming-out party! I had believed an adult neighbor of mine to be homosexual just based on the fact that he was single in his 30s (which really only happens here when the guy is mentally ill or gay) and that his job was as a housekeeper, which seems like it would be the last thing a Dominican man would do. I asked him early on about his being single and his response further confirmed my belief. He’d been missing for a while, off in the “town,” and the city. He came back for Holy Week and on the night of our talent show he put on quite a performance. In some down time we had before we were able to get the music system to work, people got restless. All of the sudden he had taken the stage in nothing but a pair of shorts. He started thrusting his body around very sexually, making everyone laugh hysterically. I was glad for the distraction from the fact that we weren’t ready on time. Later on in the show, during another period of downtime he came back. This time he had on a pair of silky, purple (and even though I hate using this word, it’s really the only word to describe what they were) panties, a see-through silky robe, a long wig, and a pair of platform heels. The who ensemble, I figured, probably wasn’t procured from his mom’s closet, but even if I could convince myself that it was, there was no way his shoes came from anyone else. They fit him perfectly and he knew how to move in them. My understanding of the lives of homosexual males in this country is that they sometimes (or always) dress in drag and don’t tend to stay in the campo. I took his performance to mean that he lives a separate life outside of our town and that this was his coming out party.

Easter Sunday was a little bit sad. I bought some eggs to hard boil and a coke to spoil myself with. Later my friend came to be ready to learn how to make a stove Monday morning. The stove making went well and that afternoon we went to the beach with a number of kids who ditched school that afternoon. The beach was so much cleaner than I’d thought it would be which was such a delightful surprise. We played in the sand and took pictures with Lina and, once again, ate some fish.

STOVES

I had an incredible day a few weeks ago. I went to see the mayor in the town over from mine to see if what he’d said (that he’d let me use the truck to get the ceramic pieces that go inside the stove) would be able to work out. I had little faith, because we, as Peace Corps volunteers, have learned not to have much faith in Dominican politicians, but I was hoping to be surprised with good news. It worked out. After a little bit of a wait for a driver we were on our way to get the ceramic. The drive was about 2.5 hours and once we got there, it was all stacked into the back of the truck with only two breaks on the way home.

The real surprise was when I got back. Each stove has 12 pieces of different sizes and I picked up the pieces for 25 stoves, so there was quite a bit to unload at home. Out of nowhere appeared tons of Dominican men to help unload the stuff (which seems to be one thing that happens spontaneously here without fail that would probably never happen in the US). I was so glad to have their help, but became instantly quite embarrassed.

As I opened my door to let little Lina out of the house she’d been locked in for about 8 hours, I looked up to see some feathers on the ground. I found that she’d gotten into some trouble while I was gone. (Check out some photos online.) I was a little nervous that my neighbors would look inside to see the damage that Lina had done and think she was a ravage animal, or maybe I was more scared that they’d know about the wildlife animal problem that exists inside my home and think I was a terrible housekeeper.

But then, after a couple of very long days trying to go get hardware and tools for the stoves, we were finally able to begin construction in the first 2 days of “Holy Week” which are the days leading up to Easter. We began construction on the stove at the construction worker/mason’s house and finished it efficiently and with only a few moments of wonderment and experimentation, which we were all able to handle with patience and care. We made the first stove counter top green, and the following week made the second stove red. In that week the masons sort of flaked out on me so we were only able to finish one and one half stoves, but this week we have been working machines finishing that first half and two and a half more (and will finish two and a half more this week as well). Now that we know what we’re doing we’re able to finish one a day which is quite efficient, but I’m happy to say that the stoves are coming out incredibly well done.

The masons are a father and son team and they knew even before we began some of the basic tasks that are called for in the stove construction process such as mixing cement and laying cinderblock. Working with clay and ceramic have been things I have been able to teach, which has been really interesting. I have really enjoyed the work, though it is very dirty and wears me out more than anything I’ve done here before, mostly because I really like getting dirty and feeling like I’ve earned a good night’s sleep at the end of a long work day. I have also enjoyed getting to learn how to work with my hands on a construction project and it’s been really rewarding in such a machismo culture to hear the masons say when I give tips or correct their work, “but it’s she who knows!” (And then they even listen to me.) The dad in the team doesn’t like me to do any jobs that might make me strain myself or damage the perfect skin on my hands. (What he doesn’t realize is that my hands have been screwed for a while as a thumb-sucker-turned nail-biter. But, even though I thought he was nuts to be concerned, I’ve noticed cuts on my fingers all over the place and that I’m starting to develop calluses, let alone the dirt which is constantly under my fingernails.)

I’ve been getting a lot of attention for my wonderful work outfit (which you can see on my photo website.) I purchased a pair of work boots (just like the men wear!) because the job is just dirty! I also have found in this country that it makes sense to get my hair out of my face when I’m working on something (or traveling with the windows open). The ensemble gets a lot of notice from my neighbors who comment such things as “Oh, but Eliza is going to work!”, and “oh but Eliza is a campesina now!” Understand that I don’t believe that I look awesome in the outfit, especially at the end of a long, dirty work day. But it just makes good sense!

We start at 8:00AM and work until between 11:00 and 12:00 finishing a stove. After lunch we begin another stove and are done with that between 3:00 and 4:00. If we continue at this rate we should be done with construction sometime in June. I am usually showered and briefly recuperated by 5:00 which gives me a few hours of sunlight to be social and work on some other things like Escojo and the library. This is one of the more busy times I’ve had in the DR which feels nice, but it sort of also makes me feel like I’m neglecting some other duties, principally Escojo. The good news there is that the kids have taken over a lot of the tasks that I used to do and are doing a great job with them. We had a regional conference a few weeks ago and I brought one member from the new group and one from the original group and they seemed to have a great time. They are both very intelligent, like so many of the kids in my town, which is always so fascinating to realize.