The transition to my new site has been…awkward. Last Thursday was a landmark day in my Peace Corps service. As I sipped coffee with my host mother, Mathilde, she made me promise that I would still sell her my new bed at the end of my service, even though I was moving anyway. I felt both disheartened to be leaving such a loving host mother and excited about the change. Mathilde was visibly upset that her self-proclaimed whitest daughter was not going to be living up the street anymore. As the cloudy morning turned to drizzle I could not help but think that the weather was a direct reflection of my mood. Knowing that Mathilde really enjoys my religious metaphors, I comforted her by remarking that even God was crying, in the form of rain, because of my departure.
I am a rather indecisive person who suffers from buyer’s remorse and an irritating tendency to mull over things that cannot be changed; therefore, I was plagued with the thought that I was making a horrible decision. The decision being that I wanted a site change; I thought, ‘what if my new site proved to be “worse” than my current situation?’, ‘what if I had not given my current site enough of a chance, and what if my neighbor Popi was right when he said the reason I felt bored in my old site was because I was lazy and read books all day?’ Goodness gracious. However, when the Peace Corps driver Pedro rumbled down my dirt road in an out-of-place looking Land Rover, I knew the only thing left to do was embrace the change I had set in motion. He was followed by a gaggle of 8-10 neighborhood children wondering if I would gift them any of my possessions before parting from town. There was lots of Clara, ¿pero tu te vas de verdad? Followed by lots of, Si, mi amor. Pedro proved himself to be a proficient mover and had all of my things loaded into the Land Rover within minutes. Meanwhile I flailed around trying to be a good hostess and find something for Pedro to eat for breakfast after he told me he was hungry and inquired about what I had for him.
Driving out of my campo we passed through Capotillo, a small border town with a monument to the “Restauracion” from Espana en 1863. I mentioned to Pedro that there was a monument there and he felt the need that we check it out because he had never been. I felt very much like Pedro and I were on a date as I took pictures of him in the rain at the deserted monument. Priceless. We then proceeded to make our way to my new site in the northwestern province of Monte Christi. Leaving behind the rolling green hills laden with grapefruit, café, oranges, and cacao, less than an hour and a half later we had arrived in the salt marshes of Monte Christi. My new home is a rice and banana growing region: flat, hot, lots of cacti, with mosquitoes that are bolder than most. Pedro and I arrived in the rain. I had visited this pueblo once before, the week prior in order to meet with the “movers and the shakers” of the community, but still did not know if I was supposed to be moving into the home of Josefa or if they had found me a different family to live with. Of course, Josefa was not home when I arrived and her husband looked at me as though this was the first time he had heard that an American was going to be sharing his living quarters. Calling ahead the day before to let them now I was coming should have sufficed, but somehow my arrival failed to come up over dinner the night before between husband and wife. Anyway, I let Carlos know that in fact yes I would be moving into his home. After moving my bed, stove, gas tank, mini-fridge, and suitcase, I put my condiments in the fridge, gave away lots of grapefruits to the gawking children who might never have seen a pale person before, Pedro and I said our goodbyes and left for the capital. It was off to cholera training.
According to Dominican health authorities, cholera has not yet crossed the border into the DR but so far there are at least 300 recorded Haitian deaths due to the outbreak. And in a country such as Haiti where statistical records are not always reliable, one can only assume that that is a low estimate. Both countries share a river, share the same watershed, and neither has any form of water treatment plant. So I think unfortunately it is only a matter of time before cholera rears its ugly head on Dominican soil. The two major Haitian/Dominican markets held twice weekly in Dajabon and Jimani respectively have been closed down. Dominicans are still selling produce but the Haitians are no longer permitted to cross in order to sell or buy. I have also noticed an increase in racial tensions as Haitians are thrown off buses in the ignorant assumption that they are contagious. Referred to as “Haitian diarrhea,” cholera appears to be the newest ammunition in the overt racist banter that I have the misfortune to overhear daily. Learning all about the signs and symptoms of cholera, how to prevent it, and how to treat it, I returned back to my pueblito ready to dole out some truths.
I arrived Saturday night. I walked down my little street and felt the blatant stares and questioning looks of my neighbors imparting the air with certain heaviness. I whiffed the familiar odor of being new and different and smiled to myself at how being a Peace Corps volunteer proffers unlimited opportunities to feel out of place. Much like in the Sesame Street jingle about one of these kids is doing the wrong thing, one of these kids just doesn’t belong, I reveled in my new out-of-place-ness.
Turning down fried cheese and fried salami (a typical Dominican dinner) I requested the safest meal I know that Dominicans can always make for me, a hard-boiled egg. That evening I walked around the streets in order to meet the local colmado owner (a 7-11 type establishment which sells beer and liquor, basically serves as the pueblo/campo grocery store) and Josefa’s sister. We watched part of one of the World Series games at the sister’s home where I was blown away by how large and nice the television was. Not only that, but the family had cable! Having grown up without cable, I don’t think I did a very convincing job hiding my excitement at the prospect of flipping through 300 plus channels of pure Latino/American entertainment. However, in my first three days of observations, I have found that many of the families have satellite tv, multiple cell phones (still have not figured out why more than one per person is needed) and more fly looking shoes than should be legal, but they are also without potable water, use varying levels of hygienic latrines, have electricity about half the day, and have no waste management system so trash is piled in the streets. Welcome to the developing world.
On the walk back to my new home that evening Josefa bought me a soda, flavor: red. Not wanting to be rude but also wanting to make it known that red drink is not my beverage of choice at 10 pm, I politely told Josefa that I mainly just drink water, coffee, and the occasional juice. Big mistake. Juice in my new town equals Tang. Josefa must have told the neighbors because the next day after Josefa left to teach school in a neighboring pueblo, I was offered more Tang than could possibly be normal from various neighbors. Drink up I thought, it is time to integrate and attempt to fit in, even if my stomach and health has to pay the price.
The differences between my last campo and my new pueblito have been pretty stark. My older rural area was definitely easier on the eyes, greener and much cleaner (mainly owing to the sparse population) but my new pueblo exudes youthful energy, not to mention lots of blaring sub-woofers and tricked-out mopeds, motorcycles, and scooters. I finally feel like I am in the Dominican Republic.
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