Regarding good writing...

My lovely girlfriend, Kimberly, also has a blog. It is very good, and she has just updated it for the first time in a long time.

Please read, and enjoy.

It can be found here.

In which Tim returns...

Hello, faithful readers! Sorry about the long silence. Life has been quite busy lately. Highlights include the following:

The completion of 26 stoves (24 to go).

The complete funding of my library project. Thanks so much to all who donated!

The moving of my girlfriend to a site only half an hour away from me.

Travel, busyness, and many other things as well!

The following are three blog entries on amusing/educational experiences I've had lately. Enjoy!

Regarding the Network...

This is one of those countries where the expression “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know” rings true. In order to get things done efficiently, you just have to have the right relationships set up. Just last week I was in a situation in which this “network” of people ended up being extremely helpful.

It was Wednesday morning, and we were leaving Kim’s community. We had a mountain of luggage, and the plan was to take a pick up truck to the big town near her, and then buy as many seats as necessary to fit her stuff on the bus that would get us to the Capital. We would arrive around midday. I was scheduled to take to the GRE the next day, so we had planned enough time into the schedule to be able to relax in the 24 hours before I took the test.

Everything went much more smoothly than expected. The pick up truck arrived on time, the bus driver was friendly and cooperative, and we got into the Peace Corps office feeling pretty good about life. I logged into my email to double check everything I needed for the test the next day. Everything seemed to be in order...except for one little thing. There was a tiny note at the bottom of the page saying that people taking the test outside their country of origin ABSOLUTELY MUST present an original copy of their passport in order to take it. My passport was sitting in my house, a couple hundred miles away.

At first I thought it was no big deal. I’ve gotten used to living in a place where just about everything can be negotiated. I had three forms of photo ID with me, plus a photo copy of my passport. I called up the 800 number to make sure I would be alright without the passport. They informed me in the cold, semi-polite way of American customer service that no, there was absolutely no way that I would be able to take the test without my passport. And no, I could not postpone my appointment in the last 24 hours. I asked if there was anything at all that anyone could do for me. They said no. We argued for half an hour, then I hung up.

Now I was worried. The money I paid to be able to take this test is roughly equivalent to what I make in a month here. What was I going to do? There was only one thing I could do. I ran for the bus, hoping to get the passport and be back before the test started. Then I got on the phone. This is the part where the “network” kicks in.

First I called my project partner at his office, in the town down the mountain from my house. I explained the situation to him, and he said he would send someone up to my house to get the passport, to save me time. “DON’T WORRY!” he yelled. “We will take care of you.”

Then I called my host mother, to tell her that some random guy would be showing up asking to get into my house to look for my passport, and also to tell her that this was okay. Fortunately she had cell phone signal. We had to shout a little bit to hear each other, but the basic gist of the message got across. Before I hung up she said “I don’t exactly understand what is going on, but I can tell from your voice, Timo, that this is important. So I will do everything I can to make it happen.”

Now I hide my passport very well so that any potential burglar would not be able to find it and make a pretty penny selling it on the black market. It took my host mother an hour of meticulously sorting through my things to find it, but find it she did. She handed it to the motorcycle driver, and he took off for the bus station (an hour away).

They had told me that the guy would be waiting for me at the bus, so that I could just turn around and ride back that same night. I had my doubts, but hoped for the best. Yet when my bus pulled in, after the three hour ride, there the guy was. He handed me the passport, and I gave him a big hug (even though I’d never met him before). Then I bought another ticket, and got back on the bus for another three hour ride back to Santo Domingo.

It was a long day and I was very tired at the end of it. Fortunately I got plenty of sleep and did alright on the test. But none of it would have happened had it not been for my Dominican friends and family who were perfectly willing to drop what they were doing and help me out. Some Americans say that this country is inefficient, because not everything has American quality standards of service. I don’t know about that. I dealt with both “American customer service” and the Dominican system on that day, and the Dominicans were the ones who helped me. It’s probably because they know me, and care about me. That’s why they were willing to make sacrifices. The lady I talked to for half an hour on the 800 number didn’t care two hoots about what happened to me, because she didn’t know me. I was just another caller. Which system is better?

Regarding gratitude...

A frequent frustration for Peace Corps volunteers here on the island is that Dominicans are usually not raised to say “thank you” in the same way that Americans are. We are taught from birth to say it on every imaginable occasion to everyone who does anything for us. This kind of persistent gratitude strikes a lot of Dominicans as very formal and overly polite. Especially in our rural communities, working with people who are not at all formal about anything, we don’t hear the word “gracias” (thank you) very often at all. This gets frustrating because we often exert considerable effort building stoves, starting libraries, teaching classes or whatever. We start to wonder if we are appreciated at all, because all we get in return is a grunt of approval, or more often a question as to why we didn’t do whatever we’ve just done in a slightly different way. This brings us to sometimes question why we are doing what we are doing, and sometimes even to become bitter. I have just recently learned, though, that Dominicans have their own way of saying thanks.

Kim finished her two years in her community last week (and has now moved to a site much closer to me). She’s spent the last 24 months shedding blood, sweat and tears to do all kinds of amazing things for this community. She’s taught health classes to women and children. She started gardens. She built stoves. She started the most beautiful community library I’ve ever seen. She worked extremely hard, often with little help, and seldom complained about anything (except for lamenting the fact that she couldn’t do more!).

We figured the community would have some kind of goodbye party for her, since we know that Dominicans of all ages love a good party. About a month ahead of time I was contacted by one of the youth she has worked a lot with, who told me that some of them were planning a surprise party for her. They wanted me to know so that I could help them cover it up. I did my best, but Kim ended up figuring it out because Dominicans are not very good at pretending nothing is up when something is up. The cover was that the youth wanted to have a meeting, to discuss the future of the work Kim had done. She got wise when all kinds of people (who had never been interested in meetings before) started asking her if she was going to the meeting, and then giggling like hyenas when she said yes.

So we knew there would be a party, but we figured it would just be a get together with maybe a dozen people, some cookies to eat, and some music to dance to. Boy, were we wrong. We showed up at the appointed time to find at least 60 adults and probably twice as many kids, all yelling “SORPRESA!!” and waiting to hug Kim to death. They had made banners, and covered the house with streamers.

Kim and I were seated at a table in front of everyone, with a massive cake in front of us. Then the program started. Speeches were made, praising Kim for all of the work she had done. The kid who had told me about the party sang a song about friendship. The women from her class sung a song they had WRITTEN themselves all about her work. There was even a verse about stoves! Then some teenagers performed a choreographed dance that was pretty cool. In fact, the audience loved it so much that they made them perform it twice!

And then (since we are still in the DR after all) the electricity went off so the party was plunged into darkness. Fortunately I (since I am still a PCV, after all) had a flashlight in my pocket. So the remaining speeches were made with me shining my flashlight on the speaker, so everyone could see. Then we ate delicious food, and danced and laughed the night away.

It is tradition at these things that the cake is not eaten. It is given to the person who is being celebrated (Kim) to take home, and share with who she likes. So I ended up walking home in the moonlight, carrying a giant chocolate cake. We had it for breakfast the next morning, and dinner that night, and several meals over the next few days. We also shared it with all the last minute visitors who were dropping by.

I don’t think Kim’s eyes were dry from the moment we heard the shout of “SORPRESA!!” I think she realized that despite all the stress, doubt and frustration she had felt over the last two years that these folks really did love and appreciate her deeply. They just saved up the gratitude to pour it out all at once. Leaving was very hard, but we can’t wait to see what kind of party they put on when we come back to visit!

Regarding something smelly...

Disclaimer: Some may find this story gross. But when one spends so much time hanging out where not much happens, sometimes they have to stretch to get a good story.

It was a quiet afternoon in Kim’s community and we were just lounging around her house and doing a little bit of packing. A cool, soft breeze was wafting across the pineapple fields and through the window. Normally a breeze provides a pleasant respite from the hot, beating sun. Not this one, though. It brought with it the strong, unmistakable smell of something that belongs in the bathroom.

Now, in the Peace Corps there are many common situations that cause such a smell. It could be a nearby pig or cow. Perhaps a chicken wandered into the house and left a present. Maybe you yourself carelessly stepped in something on your way back from bathing in the river. We began to investigate each of these options in turn, hoping to be rid of the suffocating odor. There were no pigs. We couldn’t see any chicken poop. The bottoms of our shoes were all clean. We went so far as to accuse one another of having eaten too many beans for lunch and not keeping it to ourselves.

Then I peeked out the window and found the culprit. There, right outside the window was a paint can full of fecal matter. It looked like it had been produced by a human. We quickly removed it, laughing at the sheer randomness of such an occurrence. Who produced it and why they put it behind Kim’s house we never discovered. It just goes to show that you never know what you’ll encounter in this line of work.