regarding unexpected food poisoning...

Part of life in the Peace Corps is that you get diarrhea a lot. Usually a few times a month. Sometimes it is predictable, and sometimes it is a big surprise. Here is a case in point...

I spent the last few weeks doing a bunch of travelling. I was in Kim's old site, teaching them how to build a new model of stove. We were in the deep country side for about five days, and there was no sanitized water around. Oh well. I had to drink what was there, so I drank the well water expecting something bad to happen, but nothing did.

A few days later I returned home. I had to spend a day tromping around the very high hills way far away from my community where there are no amenities of any kind. Usually on day trips like this I bring my water bottle along, but I forgot. Uh oh. I was hiking hills, and I had to stay hydrated. I drank the river water, expecting to be up in the middle of the night running for the bathroom. But nothing happened.

A few days later I went to a Peace Corps conference at a luxury hotel next to the airport. We had three whole days of swimming pool, AC, cable, wireless, and best of all, an all you could eat buffet with the most amazing food I have seen in the last two years. I was stoked! But what happened? You guessed it. Two days into the conference I was curled up in the fetal position with crippling stomach cramps, nausea, and diarrhea. Four or five of my friends had it too. Apparently some of that good food was not very good.

So what is the lesson? I guess it's that no matter how long you spend in country you never know when the stomach monster will strike. Stuff just happens.

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 just another afternoon...

Things happen differently around here than they do back home. Take the example of a late afternoon a few weeks ago. I was sitting on my porch, thinking about what to cook for dinner. A friend of mine pulled up to the house on a motorcycle, and asked if I would be interested in traveling waaaaay up the mountain to a community I'd never visited to meet a group of American volunteers who were there for the week. I told him sure, and asked when we would be going (figuring it would be tomorrow). He said "right now."



So I went and threw an extra tshirt, a sweatshirt, a blanket, pocket knife, and flashlight into a bag and hopped on the motorcycle. I called the peace corps and my girlfriend, to let them know where I was disappearing to, then off we went.



About half a mile up the road my friend turned back to me and asked if the chickens were still there. I wasn't sure what chickens he meant, but I quickly figured out why there was a cardboard box hanging off the back bumper. I peaked inside and reported that yes, there were three live chickens in the box. He brought the bike to a quick stop, telling me that there were supposed to be four. We had lost one.



I got off, and waited by the road for him to go back and find our lost friend. He returned after about fifteen minutes with the chicken, and a sack to stow them in (since the cardboard was at the point of falling apart). It is also important to mention that night is starting to fall, and we have another hour to go on this motorcycle trip.

We took to the road again, with the chickens tightly bound in the sack. Just as we were getting to the steepest part of the road, the chickens decided they were not going to take any more. They started squawking and flapping violently, almost dislodging the sack from the back of the motorcycle. My friend stopped the bike, swore a couple times, and wondered out loud how on earth we were going to to finish the journey with these chickens. I suggested, part jokingly, that I did have my pocket knife with me, and that we could use it to shut the chickens up permanently. He said that was as good an idea as he could think of.

So there, on the side of the road in the middle of the woods, we quickly slaughtered four chickens with a pocket knife and shoved them back in their sack. Now all we had to worry about was blood dripping, which is actually a much less annoying problem than flapping and squawking. We figured the chickens only had a couple hours of life left anyway before they hit the frying pan, so what´s the big deal?

We had to travel the last several miles in the dark, which was a shame given how neat the view is up there. We arrived at the camp, and I gave this group of Americans the surprise of their life. They had been on this mountain top for three days, building a school. Only one out of the twelve spoke Spanish. I think the last thing they expected to see emerging from the darkened wood was a tall white man in an MSU tshirt, speaking with a Dominican accent, all splattered with chicken blood. But all told, I had a very pleasant visit with them.

Regarding small ironies...

I have found that in living outside of America, I have gained a little bit of outside perspective that causes me to notice things I might not have before. Some things appear funnier, sadder, or more confusing than they would have before. I saw something in the airport the other day that was a little funny, and a little sad.

I was waiting on a lay over in Washington DC, and wandering around the terminal a little bit. I couldn't believe how much food was available there! Burgers, burritos, pizza, sandwiches, icecream and all sorts of other greasy calorie filled products were available for my consumption.

Then I walked around around a corner, and noticed something on the wall next to the fire extinguisher. It was a small door, with a sign on it that read "Defibrilator." Apparently they have defibrilators available in American airports now! This is comforting, because when I have a heart attack from all the terrible food I just ate, I won't have to go very far to find help. This thing was literally on the wall RIGHT NEXT TO the burger stand. I thought it was funny.