Close calls with Cholera and other Tourist Hazards

Not sure if I’m in the right mood for writing anything entertaining right now. I’ve been a bit overwhelmed lately by the following series of events. Not sure exactly how many weeks ago this all started but life is approximate at best.

A number of Wednesday’s ago:
My community and I are preparing to start the 5 day uninterrupted process of building a 10,000 gallon water tank.

All the usual – will it rain? Who has a donkey without a lame foot for transporting materials? (No – one – ok, we’ll carry cement on our backs). Can the mayor buy the cement? Oh, it is raining.

The next day we began the uninterruptable process and were initially stalled by the rain. This was OK, since Dominicans are slowly learning thanks to the US Peace Corps, that they won’t actually melt like witches if they get wet while working. Peace Corps then calls me. really they couldn’t call me but I found out through gossip – I am to be ‘consolidated’ in the Capital with all other volunteers on Friday for a training on Cholera awareness and prevention.

I rushed off to the capital Thursday night, drank a few beers, and learned that I really should wash my hands. I returned to my community Friday night. The masons and work brigades had successfully ‘poured’ the tank floor without me – Gracias a Dios.

For the next four days I didn’t really have time to contemplate or discuss much how someday soon Cholera would probably be on the Dominican side of the Island making things less fun. We mixed sixty 100 pound bags of cement with the other ingredients (sand, gravel…) all by hand, yelled at each other a lot, and drank at least a gallon of rum on Sunday to keep the workers happy about losing their day off.

Was it Tuesday?:
Then the Peace Corps decided that Americans might actually melt if we get rained on. (Peace Corps volunteers are generally a bit ‘colder’ than the average Dominican and also make people work a lot, so we could be easily taken for witches.) For fear that we might get stuck in our villages working in the rain as we should, the Peace Corps ordered volunteers in the region to head to a hotel in Santiago to wait out ‘Hurricane (what’s his/her name?)’. Obligated to be in Santiago by 3pm and also obligated to finish the roof on the tank, the community and I said the hell with it and made a great last stand to finish the roof. It was beautiful and chaotic. Women were carrying materials up the muddy hill after five days of rain. A small underestimate of sand and required us to borrow the donkey once again from it’s now drunken but complacent owner at 6 in the evening as night approached. Feeling sort of silly about not having people bring more sand up earlier in the day when it was easy to do, I decided to help remediate by making two trips up the slippery slope with a bag of cement on my back. As I raced the donkey up the hill (I won), the drunk men at the bottom pondered my chances of success – “He’ll never make it!”…. “Hombre!.. Of course he will, he’s a horse”

The masons and I finished the tank as the last light of day disappeared. We headed down the hill covered in mud in near silence – a mixture of outrage and elation in the air. To amend things, I ate a third plated of rice and spaghetti for the day. At home, I packed my bag in 5 minutes and threw a couple buckets of rainwater over me to get rid of the worst of the mud and cement. I got into Santiago on the last bus of the night. Walking into the hotel six hours late, I was surprised that the other volunteers in the lobby were not overly surprised at my nighttime arrival. Not much surprises us though, and the condition of my hair probably explained that I had been working. A hot shower made a good end of the day.

As we waited out the hurricane, I waited for my mom to arrive. She got into the beach town of Puerto Plata Thursday morning as planned. I took the bus from Santiago, picked her up and as the sun shown on a pleasant day explained that we had to head straight back to lockdown in the hotel in Santiago on the interior of the country – There’s a hurricane don’t ya know. We spent a couple nice days in Santiago at the hotel eating more vegetables than I usually get in Dominican dishes. I think my mom liked talking to all the interesting Americans, even if one did intentionally fart for her, thinking that she was just a new volunteer (that would make it ok?).

On Saturday when we finally escaped back to my community, we went out to the street at night to my host brother’s birthday party. The traditional birthday party involved really loud music, beer, and a stew called Asopao prepared at 11pm. We walked about and my mom met my neighbor’s as well as she could without understanding a single word. Just as the stew was about ready, it started to rain – and rain – and rain. We waited out the storm at the general store. The stream by the store is known for flooding. We were moated in by water sitting at the Domino table with the guys. The rain had also caught a crab and a rat by surprised. Washed down the stream, we saw them crawl their way out of the water before being swept into the culvert. We caught the crab and contemplated eating it. I don’t think mom was interested. It was really a great introduction to my life for Mom, especially when three hours later; we decided to just walk home in the rain. When she realized how close we were to my house, Mom just about lost it. She didn’t realize that we had been waiting out the rain simply for fear of getting wet.

After a few marvelous days in the ‘campo’ (think Eckerman) eating bananas and salami while painting my house blue and yellow with a professional crew of 5 to 17 year olds who were happy to work for a glass or two of coca cola (beer for the big people), we were ready to see the real Dominican Republic. We got on motorcycles (yes, she did ride a motorcycle taxi not once but twice), and headed for the beach. We checked into a random All-Inclusive outside of Puerto Plata. This was my first time at an All-Inclusive. For those of you familiar with the movie (or the concept) of Sanky Panky, it was pretty much exactly like that – even a dude in a chicken suit.

Fortunately, I was saved from my righteous self, by a group of girls from Toronto that I initially mistook for Dominicans. I was really only sure they were Canadian and not Dominican when one asked for gravy on her french fries. Spent a couple nights dancing to music in English that I am far too detached from to know the words to. On Friday, my Mom and I went on a Catamaran Snorkeling cruise, complete with 15 German couples, American style ground beef tacos, and no wind. We had a good time, I think my Mom and I out-snorkeled the Germans without contest. I’m glad I don’t have an open-bar on my own sailboat – I would have drowned in Lake Superior long ago. During a long walk on the beach Saturday, a realtor offered to sell us property on the only undeveloped stretch of beach around (this was why we wanted to walk there). Not interested in purchasing the Sheldrake River mouth (a close resemblance – Don’t sell it Grandpa), we bought some jewelry from the realtor instead. Yes, he sold beachfront property and fishing line necklaces.

After dropping off my mom at the airport and chilling on the beach some more, I crashed at a volunteer’s house in the city of Puerto Plata. Arriving in my community, I was a bit hung-over from the general excessiveness of two days at an all-inclusive (how does one spend a week there?). I missed my Mom, felt an urge to visit Toronto, and still felt uncomfortable about Germans, but I had work to do.

Monday morning I spent staking out pipeline with my trusty neighbors while the remaining ‘boys’ dug trench. With one day of work at site complete, it was time to leave again. Tuesday morning I headed for the cold mountains of Constanza for a one year in service training with other volunteers. It was cold, which was amazing. We had a fireplace, marshmallows, and pine trees. I was very happy to have long underwear with me (I might freeze solid when I arrive in Detroit on December 18th). We gave each other advice on our projects and did some ‘research and development’ on improved cook stoves. The Peace Corps helps families build stoves that use less firewood and don’t coat your lungs and cookhouse with black soot. The one we were building at the training didn’t get past a lump of clay (see photo album) but I really hope I can work more on this project in my remaining year here.

Anyways, it is Saturday, and I am just happy to have a few days back in Rio Grande. Today’s work was pretty standard – ditch digging and me running around getting tools and materials to cross a small stream. Hopefully I’ll be caught up enough with my job as ‘Engineer’ to go back to digging the trench with pick and shovel along with everyone else (if I don’t get back to manual labor my biceps won’t fill out my Dominican t-shirts).

While writing this, I’ve run out of time to get into town to post this on the Internet – it’ll have to wait till Monday. Until then it’s breathing smoke in the kitchen, a sip of rum, Mass in Spanish, Sunday pork rinds, and catching up on gossip.