In which Tim eats something nasty...

On Sundays I like to go down to the cock fighting ring to see what's going on. Men come from miles around to fight their respective roosters against each other, so it is a good way to get news from outlying communities without having to walk too far. The fights can also be entertaining. Not so much the birds themselves. A couple roosters slashing at each other with plastic claws is a little bit disturbing. No, the entertaining part is the people. The scene is one of men of all ages (sometimes a woman or two) crowded around a pair of chickens, jumping up and down, yelling vulgarities at the top of your lungs. I am told that the louder you yell, the better it is for your birds chances of winning. I have not tested this hypothesis.

So last week I was down there, and my friend was eating his lunch. Dominicans are very sharing people, and often get offended if you don't consent to taking a few bites off of their plate if you don't happen to be eating at the time. It is a nice custom. On this day, my friend was eating something I did not recognize. I could tell it was part of a pig. I hesitated, due to my preference for the meaty parts of the animal that are NOT usually used in the making of sausage. He told me it was really good and had a lot of vitamins. So I took a bite.

I can unequivocally say that it was the most disgusting thing I have ever put in my mouth. After biting through the outer membrane, I came to a mass that was neither liquid nor solid, and completely black. It tasted like poop. I stifled my gag reflex, and asked my friend what it was. He laughed and told me it was the pig intestine filled with blood and then boiled. Disgusting. I thought I would throw up, so I grabbed his drink to wash the taste out.

I thought I was grabbing a glass of orange juice. One gulp, however, made me feel like I was levitating. My friend laughed even louder, almost falling out of his chair. He could tell from my wide eyes that I had not expected the orange juice to be quite so strongly "flavored." I asked him what was in the glass. "Claren!" he laughed "Haitian Moonshine!"

Lesson of the day: No matter how long you have been in a given country, find out what you are eating (or drinking) before digging in.

Regarding local politics...

A friend of mine is running to be mayor of the big town in my area. My sources tell me that he might have a shot. We are still in primary season, so the individual parties are working on picking the candidates they will back in the coming year. Painted signs and bright colored posters have sprouted along side the highway like dandelions during the last month. This seems to be the main way of carrying out political dialog around here. A sign will say something like "Vote for Juan! He is YOUR Mayor!!" There is not much talk about issues.

I was getting a ride on the back of my friend the candidate's motorcycle last week, and he asked if I wanted to go with him to an important event for his campaign. He said they were putting up their first road sign (incidentally, this is the same guy with whom I killed chickens a few blog entries back). I said sure. We zipped up the highway, and stopped where a crowd of men were waiting by a pick up truck. They cheered when the candidate came into sight.

They started digging a whole in the pavement with a pick axe, to mount the sign. I asked the digger if they had had to ask the city for permission to post a their sign board there. He gave me a funny look, as if to ask why on earth they would need permission. I should know better by now. Why would a country where the post office is almost never opened have laws about what to put by the roadside?

Every drop of the axe was accompanied by a cheer. We got the sign up, to more cheering. The candidate gave an impromptu speech, which got a cheer. Someone pulled out a two liter bottle of orange soda and a bunch of glasses. That really got a cheer. Ten minutes after it started the event was over, and my curiosity was piqued as to how these local elections work.

That afternoon I asked my neighbor who he would be voting for. He said something to the effect of "I will be voting for candidate A. He's a real (expletive), but I have to vote for him." I asked why he would choose to vote for someone to whom he had assigned the colorful term that I have omitted. "Because he gave me money once. So I HAVE to vote for him." Turns out this a pretty common occurrence. Candidates for public office will go around to poor families, giving them cash handouts. The family then feels obligated to vote for the guy, whether or not he agrees with him on any issues or think he's a qualified leader.

It's one more way that the poor are stuck. Poverty is not just about not having much money in your pocket. It is about all of your choices being limited. In this case, the political power of rural farmers is limited by the fact that they are made dependent on political machines to help pay the bills. Their lack of education doesn't help them engage in the process either.

It is a very political time in America, with the health care debate getting very hot. Everyone has their opinions. Many of us like to accuse the other side of the worst sort of lying, corruption and unpleasantness. Before we get too hot and bothered, we should reflect on how fortunate we are to be part of a system that supports dialog and allows for civil disagreement. There are places where politics really IS exclusively about lying and corruption. So let's be nice to each other.

In which Tim goes to work...

Most of my days are spent in the pleasant pursuit of leisure. I get up around 9 AM, cook a nice breakfast, read for a bit, make some phone calls, swim in the river, eat a tasty lunch, munch on some fruit, and maybe spend some time writing. I do occasionally work, but in recent months I have been between projects, without much to occupy my time. My project partner and I have been working for a while to get funding that will allow us to build some improved wood burning cook stoves, but we have been playing the waiting game for a while.

That all changed on Friday. A motorcyclist arrived at my house bearing a note written in all capital letters. It said: "TIMO. COME TO TOWN IMMEDIATELY. WE HAVE TO BUY MATERIALS FOR STOVES!" This was the first I had heard about buying materials (I thought we were still waiting for approval), but I got on the motorcycle, and went to town.

I found my project partner waiting for me in a state of panic. He told me that we had received approval, but that the project expired TODAY, so TODAY was the very last day that we could buy materials for our stoves. Tomorrow the money would be gone. He was pretty worked up about it.

So, we pulled out a piece of paper and did some calculations. We had about $3000 to buy materials, and figured we could build about fifty stoves with that. We ordered the materials we needed, payed the man, and were all set. Not quite.

The money may be spent, but now we have the job of choosing the fifty families and building the darn things. It will not be easy. Every one wants a stove, so picking the fifty people that will get them could become very political. Also, a lot of these houses are at the end of tiny little mountain paths, not very close to the highway. We will have to figure out ways to haul the 41 cinder blocks, half meter of sand, and two sacks of cement that are necessary for the construction.

In conclusion, my leisure time will be significantly less for the next few months. I am glad of this. I am ready to spend some time working hard. But hopefully I will finish soon enough to get a bit of beach time before I finish. Only eight months to go!