In which Tim announces the big news...

This will be a whirlwind entry due to lack of time. Today we received our project site assignments, so I know where I will be living the for the next two years. I will be in a very small community in the mountains above a town called Paraiso, in the South of the country. Do a google search for images, and I guarantee you will want to visit.

I have to run now, but expect a longer entry next week because I will be visiting my site for the remainder of the week.

In which Tim checks in...

Yes, I live. I am reporting to you literally from the top of a mountain where I have discovered a wireless connection at training center for coffee growers. For you history buffs out there, this training center is located in a large country house that used to belong to the dictator Trujillo.

I am living with a family in the town that is quite different from the family I stayed with in the city. They make a living off of farming, so economically they are not quite as well off. There are ten kids in the family, most of whom have grown up and moved on. A few of the brothers still live at home, owing to the fact that they are deaf. So my Spanish is not getting much work, but I am becoming not-that-bad at sign language!

The biggest change in moving from country to city has been the interconnectedness of the community. Everyone knows EVERYONE here, and everyone always knows exactly what everyone else is up to. And I am sure you can imagine the kind of attention that a group of Americans moving into the middle of a small town is getting...we're pretty much rock stars.

There are about eight of us who live within a mile of each other, and it's a little unnerving but often hilarious to see how gossip travels. For example, my friend Claire who lives up the road from me is often told by her host mother what Tim had for breakfast and what time he got up that day. Last week Claire entered the kitchen and found her host mother laughing very hard at something. She asked what was funny, and was told "Tim got up early to do his homework, but the power is out so he has to use a flash light! HA HA HA HA HA!" Apparently it was very funny. I will let you draw your own conclusions.

On that note, a normal part of life here is that the lights go out often, with no warning. So I will stop writing here, and post the blog lest it be lost to a power outage.

Please keep sending the emails. I enjoy reading them, and I will probably be able to keep checking a couple times a week.

In which Tim signs off (temporarily)...

The first stage of our training is complete. On Monday we leave the capital city, and move to the countryside for five weeks of community based technical training. The family I am living with does not have a telephone, and I doubt there will be readily available internet access. If possible, I will try to get to a city every few weeks to read email and possibly post on the blog.

I assure you that I will continue to collect stories, and probably have a deluge of posts as soon as I get regular internet back.

Please feel free to continue sending emails, or even snail mail (there's a possibility that will get to me faster than email). My address is:

Tim Brown, PCT
Cuerpo de Paz
APDO 1412
Santo Domingo,
Republica Dominicana

Send that mail, and cheer for Sparty in the tourny!!

In which Tim bathes...

*WARNING: The following story contains nudity.*

Last week I traveled out to the countryside to visit a Peace Corps Volunteer who's been on the job for a few months already. The purpose of the trip was to learn first hand what a volunteers living situation is like, and how they spend their time. Getting to my assigned volunteer was an adventure in and of itself. It required a bus ride to another large city (pretty straightforward), followed by a two hour ride up a mountain spent hanging off the rear bumper of a pickup truck that was loaded down with people, sacks of rice, and live chickens (less straight forward, but mission accomplished). My first thought was that this experience was starting to feel a little bit more like what I expected from the peace corps.

Patrick, the volunteer I visited, lives virtually on top of a mountain. His house is built right next to a very steep slope that drops down about 500 ft. into a lush and picturesque valley. The view is westward, so you can only imagine how gorgeous the sunsets are. Definitely a cool place to live.

On my first night there, I was shown where I could bathe to get myself a little cleaned up from the road. The "shower" is a barrel of water out back with a bucket used to pour the water over oneself. There are no walls or curtains to conceal the process from the outside world. This isn't much of an issue since there aren't really that many passersby, and everyone in the house would know you were bathing so they would be courteous enough to not come and start a conversation. Or so I thought.

I very much enjoyed my first outdoor bathing experience. The cool water was very welcome after the heat of the dusty road. It was a little strange to be buck naked in the open air, but it didn't bother me that much. In fact, as I looked out at the sun setting over the tropical valley, heard the crickets chirp, and felt the cool breeze, I truly began to feel at one with nature. I felt like Adam at the beginning of time, surveying the purity of creation, unspoiled and unashamed.

The poetic gears were just beginning to spin in my head when it suddenly all came to a very awkward stop. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed that I was not alone. There was an elderly gentleman sitting about ten feet away from me, chowing down on his dinner of yucca and salami. We made eye contact, and he wished me a good evening before continuing with his food. It was as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I began to think that nudity might not represent the same taboo in this culture that it does back home. This conclusion was confirmed later in the evening when another member of the household on his way to bathe came walking through the area where myself and others were sitting, wearing nothing but his birthday suit.

So my moment of intimacy with nature may have been interrupted, but I learned a little bit more about what may or may not be taboo here. But I can assure you that this is not a social norm that I intend to conduct experimentation with. That is a promise.

In which Tim cooks...

Within a few days of moving in, I made it clear to my host mother that I was very interested in learning how to cook Dominican food. At first she didn't really believe me (this is a very "macho" culture, with some pretty strict expectations for what men and women choose to take interest in), but after repeated expression of interest by me, she caved. I was told on Tuesday that on Sunday I would be taught to cook. What ensued was a day by day countdown during which more and more people became interested in what would happen on Sunday. Each day it was "three more days until you learn how to cook...", "only two more days...", "Timo, are you really going to learn how to cook tomorrow...?". Grandma Maria was so excited that for the last several days she has been confused about what day it is, thinking that tomorrow was the big day.

The day dawned, and I stepped up to the stove. We cooked a dish called "Lokria" which is really quite tasty. We employed a few techniques that I've not used before. The following is a step by step description of what we did. Feel free to try it out and let me know how it tastes...

1. We took a full chicken, cut it into it's various pieces (legs, thighs, wings, etc.) and cleaned it using freshly squeezed orange juice and a little bit of water.

2. With a mortor and pestle I crushed up a handful of rock salt, about two spoonfulls of oregano, and six full garlic cloves. It came out as a nice pungent smelling paste that we rubbed on the chicken along with some chicken bouillon. We put it in a pot, and added onion (quartered), a green pepper (uncut), and a splash of red wine. We let it sit for about fifteen minutes.

3. We got some oil heated up in a large pan, and put a lump of sugar in to cook (I was told that it would give color to the chicken). When the oil was bubbling nicely we added the chicken/veggie mix, stirred it around a bit, and covered it to cook.

4. When the chicken is almost finished, we added corn, peas, a can of tomato paste, and some full stalks of cilantro, and enough water to make it look like a soup or stew. We let it sit until it came to a boil and tasted it to see that the seasoning was right. At this point, we fished out the cilantro stalks and added a ton of rice.

5. The trick seems to be to make sure you have the exact right rice to water ratio, because when it had cooked up completely it no longer looked like a soup. It was a red colored rice based dish with chicken and veggies in it. Almost like a paella. Absolutely delicious and very easy to make.

It was a very satisfying and filling lunch. The best part was that the many neighbors who had heard about my foray into the culinary arts decided to swing by for a taste. The agreement seemed to be that I was a decent cook, and might just be able to survive when I move to the country side on my own in a few months.

In which Tim discovers that some of his skills translate better than others...

Last week we had a session on "acculturation" in which we were taught first to play dominoes, and then to dance the Merengue. Apparently this is a critical element of training, as Dominicans spend much of their free time either playing dominoes or dancing. The dominoes lesson was uneventful and fun. Game play is pretty simple (you just match numbers), but the strategy gets pretty elaborate. The most skilled players will know instinctually who has which piece, and how they are going to play them. Apparently it can be a very intense game.

The dance lesson was much more amusing. Let me preface the following by stating that my ancestry has not equipped me with the necessary hardware or software to be an amazing dancer. Half of my ancestors were New England puritans who were not allowed to dance, and the other half were stalwart midwestern farmers who had no reason to dance...

Merengue is a fast and rhythmic style of dance that requires a lot of swing in the hips while the feet barely shuffle across the floor. When done well it is really a beautiful dance. Those who know me well understand that I do not often have trouble finding the words that I need to describe a situation. But I cannot for the life of me begin to describe what I looked like trying to get my butt to move more than my feet. Please let your imagination do the work. It was downright embarassing, especially when I discovered that a friend had decided to spend her time taking video of others rather than practicing the dance...(this video will NOT be made available for main-stream consumption)...

Of course, the embarassment was mildly relieved by the fact that most of my comrades looked just as ridiculous, if not more so, than myself. And fortunately the day did not end with humiliation. When I got home that evening I told my host mother that I had learned dominoes that day, and would very much like to play sometime. Later that night she took me over to the neigbors where I have noticed that they play very spirited games every night (lots of slamming pieces down on the table and yelling at each other). I was a little intimidated to have my skills tested so early on so competitive a crowd, but I sucked up my fear, sat down at the table, and picked up my pieces.

I won the first few hands, and they laughed it off as beginners luck. But then I won the game, and they decided to play a little harder. After winning the next two games in a row they acknowledged that I possessed no small amount of skill, and told me that I was welcome at their table any time.

So while my dance skills may leave something to be desired, at least I can hold my own at the dominoes table. All in all, not too bad for a day's worth of learning.

In which Tim rides a bus...

Last Monday our training schedule informed me that the entire afternoon would be given over to learning how to navigate the local bus system. We were to spend an hour in a classroom learning about how things worked, and then be sent out (accompanied by staff) to practice our newly acquired knowledge. Naturally, I rolled my eyes. I mean, come on. How hard could it possibly be to catch a bus and ride it across town? Give me a map, show me which way is North, and I am good. Teach me something IMPORTANT that I haven't already done in plenty of other countries. As the dear reader can probably imagine, my pride was about to have the wind knocked out of it.

We walked out to the street to find a bus (here called "guaguas"). We did not go to a bus stop, because there is no such thing here. You more or less stand by the road looking for a bus that is going in the right direction, and has the markings that tell you what it's ultimate destination is. I have yet to see a poster or pamphlet that explains the bus routes or how they are organized. Everyone just sort of knows what bus goes where. The 10 B bus goes from Pantoja to Maximo Gomez Blvd and back again. Everyone just knows that. And there is no 9 A bus, or 11 C bus. The names are arbitrary.

This is the part of the story that involved my friends and I waiting by the side of the road without really knowing what the plan was. Apparently one chooses a spot along the route and waits for the bus to come along, at which point it is advisable to stick out ones thumb or wave exuberantly so that the bus actually stops. There is no schedule, so the wait could take a while. It's possible to wait half an hour without seeing a bus, and then have three come by within five minutes of each other. It is advisable, especially in the middle of the day, to pick a spot with a lot of shade.

When the bus came we found seats in the "cocina" (lit. translation = "kitchen"), or the very back row. The music was blasting, I was getting a nice lung-full of exhaust, and there were quite a few more people on that vehicle than would have been legal back home. But we were on the bus, and we were learning the route. It still seemed pretty basic, with the greatest ordeal being that of fitting my not-so-short legs into a not-so-large amount of space.

After about half an hour we made it to our destination in the heart of the city, got our bearings by looking at a map, and got ready to cross the street and pick up the same bus route going in the opposite direction to get home. At this point I stole a glance at the horizon, and couldn't help but notice a great, dark mass quickly blocking the sun and bearing down on us. I was momentarily nostalgic about the fact that I was about to experience my first rain storm in the country that is now my home for the next few years, but I quickly remembered a similar incident in Bangladesh, and my nostalgia melted away like ice cream on a hot summer day. The rain came fast, and it came hard. It was not as torrential as other down pours I have experienced, but I was pretty wet. My small group sprinted a few blocks to find shelter under a marquee in a spot where our teacher assured us we could catch a bus back to the training center. Great.

The buses started coming by, and my first response was "I guess we will have to wait, these buses are way too full". Little did I understand of what was to come. The rain was coming harder, and we wanted to get home. A bus came that appeared to have enough standing room for our group. We ran to get on, but it appeared that we were not the only pedestrians seeking shelter and transportation. There were legions of people evacuating the sidewalks for vehicles. We joined the squeeze to get on, and somehow I was the last one. I suddenly found myself hanging out the open door of a bus that was moving at no low speed through very tight traffic. Over the next few blocks I managed to pull myself further in, and got wedged between two of my female colleagues who had also found standing room. At this point I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking "well, we are on the bus, and there is absolutely no way they are going to put more people on this thing". Once again, little did I know. The people kept coming, and coming, AND COMING. I got shoved further in, to the middle of the aisle directly in front of the door. The only solid thing for me to hold on to was the door of the bus. I latched on like a limpit. The two girls on either side of me could not reach anything either, so I had one clawing on to my left arm to keep from falling over, and the other squeezing the life out of my right shoulder. And still they kept shoving people onto that bus. There was definitely a person riding in my armpit for a little while. I think I might have been sitting on someones shoulder. I lost track of the number of people that I was in close physical contact with. I wondered for a moment if I wouldn't be sucked into the vortex-like crowd and be permanently stuck on this Santo Domingo bus.

But eventually we came to our stop, and I was able to somehow pry myself from the midst of the forest of limbs with which I was entangled. It would be a lie to say that I wasn't frustrated, irritated, and just plain grumpy. I was ready to never ride a bus again. But after a tasty dinner and a good night's sleep I felt significantly better. And I got on a bus again the next day, and had a better experience. I've learned how the system works, what routes go where, and how to be more comfortable. I realize now that what I perceive as disorganization and chaos may really be a form of order with which I am not yet familiar. I see that comfort and convenience are culturally relative, and that it seldom pays off to come into a situation assuming that I am an expert before I know what's really involved. I have learned a little bit about humility. And I am sure that the next two years will have many more such lessons for me...